Reaper's Stand (Reapers MC, #4)(58)

With those words I scowled at Painter for emphasis. He held his hands up in surrender, a look of blatantly fake empathy taking over his features.

“Wow, guess I’m not wanted here. I’ll go. You bring Melanie with you? I’d love to show her the clubhouse.”

I growled and he burst out laughing again before swaggering off.

“I see . . .” Darcy said slowly. “Well, you must be something special, because Pic doesn’t date women. He f*cks ’em and dumps ’em. I should know. Enough of his leftovers have shown up at my place crying over the years.”

“Well, that’s very interesting,” I replied, because what else could you say? Darcy shook her head, frowning.

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking—that was so rude and I didn’t mean it that way. We must seem like the strangest people you’ve ever met.”

I didn’t respond to that, and she shrugged sheepishly.

“Don’t worry. Painter”—she paused to glare at him across the courtyard—“just has a strange sense of humor, and I’m sure he didn’t mean to offend you. And I know all the other old ladies will be thrilled to meet you. This is a special party, because we’ve got people coming in from five different states. Montana, Idaho, Oregon, California, and Washington. Three different clubs. You’ll have a great time, although you might want to stick close to either Pic or one of us, seeing as you don’t have a property patch.”

“What’s a property patch?”

“Wow, you really are new,” she said, eyes widening. “It’s when a man marks you as his, so the others know to keep their hands off. See mine?”

She turned around and for the first time I noticed she was wearing a leather vest, just like one of the guys. On the back it read “Property of Silver Bastards. Boonie.”

Once again, I had no idea what to say. She seemed proud and pleased with it, although I couldn’t quite imagine calling myself property. Of course, I couldn’t imagine my house blowing up, either. Sometimes life throws you a curve. Darcy turned back toward me, eyes assessing my face carefully.

“In club culture, being a man’s property is like being married to him,” she said. “It means he’s my old man, and that’s a special bond. The others respect it.”

“I see . . .”

She laughed.

“No, you don’t, but you’re being polite and I like that,” she told me. “More polite than I was. Here, come on over and meet some of the other girls. You’ll like them, and while you may not be Pic’s old lady, you’re obviously someone special. Otherwise you wouldn’t be sleeping over at his place. Don’t listen to Painter—he’s just f*ckin’ with your head, okay?”

I shrugged, because I hadn’t planned on listening to Painter anyway. I liked Darcy, though. She was a little different, but she seemed genuine and kind. That went a long way in my book.

She started walking across the cracked concrete, and I followed her, studying the scene. There was a largish group of women arranging food on long tables back against the building. They all worked together smoothly to put together the meal, and I got the impression that every movement was well rehearsed—they must do this a lot.

That sort of surprised me, although I’m not sure why. I guess I’d pegged the parties as one hundred percent debauchery, but even sex fiends have to eat. At least my baked beans and fruit salad fit right in, because this spread wouldn’t be out of place at a church social. Apparently some things are universal, and potlucks are one of them.

Off to the right was a big fire pit built out of curved concrete landscaping blocks. The blackened smoke streaks and enormous pile of firewood stacked behind it made it clear the club used it often and well. Past that was a long patch of grass that I wouldn’t call lush, but it seemed to be holding its own despite the presence of a big wooden play structure complete with swings, slide, and rope bridge to a treehouse. The latter had been built into the branches of an enormous tree with a trunk that had to be nearly six feet wide. Old growth. Probably predated the building.

“Ladies, this is London Armstrong,” Darcy said as we reached the tables, which was surrounded by bustling women wearing property patches like Darcy’s. “She’s with Picnic.”

Several of the women stilled, studying me with sudden intensity. I glanced around, wondering what I’d done. A small brunette with riotously curling hair stepped forward, grinning at me. I’d met her before . . . What was her name? Marie. That was it. She’d shown me around Pawns the first night my crew had come in.

“Hey, London,” she said brightly. “Good to see you again! Sorry if it looks like we’re acting weird, but Picnic doesn’t usually bring women around here. Well, not the kind of women who bring fruit salad with them.”

I rolled my eyes, because I knew exactly what kind of women he liked to hang out with, and I’d be willing to bet some of them weren’t old enough to know how to make baked beans. You didn’t make the beans, either, my brain pointed out caustically. Jealous much?

Well, I could have made them if I wanted to, I insisted right back.

“Um, London? You okay?”

Oh, crap. I’d zoned out in the middle of a conversation again. I really, really needed to stop doing that. I smiled brightly and pretended I wasn’t a giant dork.