Reaper's Stand (Reapers MC, #4)(2)

Things started going wrong as soon as I walked into the dining room. Reese wasn’t sitting at the head of the table, where I’d left him. Damn. I could’ve shot him in the back without warning if he’d just stayed put. Now he sat facing me, leaning casually in his chair, beer in hand. The magazine lay open before him and he looked up, offering me that mocking smile of his. God, I loved that smile, despite the fact that it could be cruel as all f*ck.

“Something you want to talk about?” he asked, cocking his head.

“No,” I murmured, wondering what he’d say if I shared my thoughts. Gee, Reese, I’m so sorry I’m about to kill you, but if it makes you feel any better I hate myself for doing it—not a hundred percent sure I won’t shoot myself next.

I wouldn’t, though. Not yet. Not until I saw Jessica for myself, made sure they’d kept their promises and she was safe and sound. After that?

Well. We’d just have to see.

He sighed, eyes flicking to my pocket, where my hand shifted nervously on the gun.

Paranoia hit yet again.

He knew. He knew all about it, I could see it in his face. Fuck. I’d failed her . . . Don’t be ridiculous. How could he possibly know?

“Babe, you look like you could use a day off,” he said finally. “Have you considered hitting the spa? Maybe get a massage?”

“That costs too much,” I said automatically, biting back a hysterical laugh. Because money mattered now, right?

“I wasn’t suggesting that you pay for it,” he said, frowning at me.

“I don’t want your money—”

“Yeah, I know, you’re totally independent and you like it that way. Blah, blah. Just let me do something for you, for once. Fuck’s sake.”

Shit. Why did he have to be so nice?

I felt my eyes start to water and I looked away, forcing myself to detach again and focus. I needed to kill him, and I couldn’t give him any warning. But he was facing me and all the way across the room, which was a bigger problem than it sounds. Pistols aren’t exactly known for accuracy, and it’s not like I had much in the way of experience.

I needed to get closer.

If I came up behind him, rubbed his shoulders . . . That would be close enough. God, I was a shitty human being.

“The food won’t be ready for another ten minutes,” I said. “You look sort of tense. Want a neck rub?”

He raised a brow as I circled the table.

“I think you should stay back,” he said slowly. I paused.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’d hate to make it too easy for you, sweetheart.”

My chest tightened. I offered a weak smile, because like I said—I’m a shit liar.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m assuming you’re planning to shoot me in the back of the head,” he said quietly, and that’s when I realized he wasn’t relaxed at all. He might be leaning back casually, but every one of those solid muscles roping his body had drawn tight, poised to attack. “That’s a bad idea. You shoot that close, you’ll be all covered in blood spatter. Means you’ll have to risk tracking more evidence out of the house or taking time to clean up. Either way, complicates things.”

Well. At least it was all finally out in the open. Almost a relief. I pulled out the gun and held it up, using my left hand to brace my right as I carefully sighted on him. I expected him to explode up at me, to fight back. Instead he just sat, waiting.

“Go ahead, do it,” he said, a sad smile toying with the corners of his mouth. “Show me what you’re made of.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “You’ll never know how much I wish this weren’t happening.”

“Then don’t do it. Whatever it is, we can work through it. I’ll help you.”

“You can’t.”

He sighed, then looked past me and jerked his chin.

“It’s over, babe,” I heard a man say from behind. Huh. I guess it was. Fortunately, I had just enough time to pull the trigger before he hit me.





CHAPTER ONE




EIGHTEEN DAYS EARLIER

LONDON

My back was killing me.

It was nearly two in the morning, and I’d just finished up the late-night cleaning shift at the pawn shop. I’d been letting myself get soft the past couple of months. Too much time spent managing the business, not enough time scouring bathrooms, because I’d forgotten just how much work scrubbing a toilet really is.

Well, scrubbing toilets, floors, dusting, vacuuming. London’s Cleaning Service did it all, and while we might not be the cheapest crew in town, we were the best. I knew this because I turned down more accounts than I took these days. Thanks to my hard-earned reputation, finding new clients was easy. Workers? Not so much. Most people aren’t fans of spending their nights wiping up after others, and even with my higher-than-average starting pay, people flaked on me.

Tonight, for example.

I’d gotten a call from Anna—one of my crew leads—to say she had two no-shows. Because the life of a cleaning lady is nonstop glamour, that meant I got to spend my Friday evening scraping dried pee off the floor in a men’s bathroom.

Charmed existence, I know.

At least my aching back and I could crawl into bed soon.