Reaper's Stand (Reapers MC, #4)(6)

I looked up to see a tall man with shoulder-length, wavy hair and so much scruff on his face he’d entered beard territory. He wore another of those vests. The name on his was “Gage,” and below it was a smaller patch that said “Sgt at Arms.” I’d never seen him at the shop, but that wasn’t saying much—we came in after hours for a reason.

“Says she’s here to see Pic,” BB said. “Bolt sent her.”

“That right?” he asked, eyes speculative. He swept them down my figure and I forced myself to smile at him.

“I’m looking for my cousin’s daughter,” I said. “She came out here for the party with some friends, apparently. Mr. Harrison suggested that Mr. Hayes might be able to help me.”

The man smirked.

“Did he? Imagine that.”

I wasn’t sure how to interpret his words, so I chose to take them at face value, forcing myself to wait for him to continue.

“Back outside, BB,” the man said. “I’ve got her from here. You’re the cleaner, aren’t you?”

I glanced down at my filthy clothing.

“How could you tell?” I asked, my tone dry. He laughed, and I felt some of my tension break.

“I’m Gage,” he said. “Let’s see if we can find Pic.”

“I hate to bother him,” I said quickly. “I mean, if he’s busy right now. I see you’re one of the club officers. Maybe you can help me?”

He raised a brow.

“Bolt sent you to talk to Picnic, right?”

I nodded, wondering if I’d made a mistake. Well played, London. Alienate the one guy who stepped up to help you.

“Then you should talk to Picnic.”

I offered another smile, wondering if he could see how close my face was to cracking from the effort. He turned and I followed him across the room, avoiding catching anyone’s eyes. Some seemed interested in me, but most were too busy drinking, talking, and doing more intimate things to pay attention to one grubby woman. In the center of the back wall was an open hallway leading farther into the building. He passed through it and I followed, growing even more nervous. Walking into the building had been bad enough, but somehow this felt worse. Like I’d hit the point of no return.

Certainly the point of no witnesses.

A door opened up ahead and two girls stumbled out, giggling. Jessica? No, but I recognized one.

“Kimberly Jordan, does your mother know where you are right now?” I asked, my voice cracking like a whip.

Everyone in the hallway froze, including Gage.

Kim stared at me, her eyes wide.

“N-no,” she said. She peered around me, as if wondering if her mother might jump out at her next. Good. Maybe that would make her think.

“You wanna talk to the prez or not?” Gage asked, his voice cool. “Pick your battles, babe. You want this one or your cousin’s kid?”

I swallowed, realizing that the Parental Voice of Authority might not be so welcome here. Oops.

“I’m here for Jessica,” I told him. He smiled at me, his teeth bright and shiny in the dim light.

“Great, so let’s leave them alone, all right? Girls, get out of here.”

They brushed past us quickly, whispering with thrilled and excited eyes.

“Do you always have underage girls out here drinking?” I asked him, unable to just let it go completely.

“We’re not serving anyone underage,” he said flatly. I raised a brow, wordlessly calling him on his bullshit. He grinned. “You wanna look me in the eye and tell me you never had a drink until after you were twenty-one?”

I sighed. Of course I had. Not only that, I’d had lots of them and I hadn’t turned into an alcoholic or gotten pregnant or anything horrible.

Nancy Reagan had been wrong—at least in my case. Amber probably should’ve just said no.

“Can we just get on with it?”

Gage shook his head, not even bothering to hide his amusement, then stepped forward and knocked on the unmarked door to our left.

“Pic? You busy?”



REESE

I sat on my office couch, wondering why the hell I didn’t give a shit that a beautiful girl was currently sucking my cock. Sure, I enjoy a good blow job as much as the next guy. But tonight I wasn’t engaged, just couldn’t bring myself to care. This was unfortunate, because the babe kneeling between my legs had a mouth like a Hoover and a very loose sense of morals. She was the new headliner over at The Line—the boys had brought her out tonight just for me.

Birthday present.

Forty-three f*cking years old.

Her fingers dropped low, running under my balls with a light touch as her tongue swirled around my dickhead. I reached over and grabbed my beer, taking a long, slow pull. The cold liquid slid down my throat and I decided I didn’t give a f*ck if she finished or not.

I want you happy, baby, but you can do better . . . Heather seemed to whisper in my ear.

I’d been hearing her voice since the day she died. Christ, I missed that woman, and I wished to hell those little whispers were more than my own sick subconscious. But I knew they weren’t, because if Heather’s spirit was really beside me offering advice, I wouldn’t have f*cked up so bad with my daughters.

I glanced across the room to the black metal filing cabinet. A picture sat on top of it, in a tarnished silver frame. My old lady. The shot was from one of the last family parties we’d had—right after she recovered from the mastectomy, but before that final round of chemo. Her arms wrapped tight around our two beautiful girls, all three of them laughing at something just out of the frame.