Reaper's Stand (Reapers MC, #4)(69)

In the end, I decided to do what he told me, because Jessica’s life was at stake. End of story. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do to save her. I’d beg, borrow, steal, kill . . . I’d give every one of those men the best blow job they’d ever had, if I thought it would make a difference.

But they didn’t want me—they wanted Reese’s papers, and I’d find them if it killed me.

I’d do it because I was Jessica’s mother. The only real one she’d ever had. Fuck you, Amber. Fuck you all the way to hell. I’d become Jessie’s mother the hard way, cradling her tiny body in my arms in the NICU, holding her as she cried after her first boyfriend dumped her.

Dragging her out of the Reapers clubhouse in the middle of the night.

Jessica was a pain in my ass and she’d screwed up plenty, but this? This was all on Amber. Beyond that first burst of involuntary pain, I refused to let myself grieve for her. That bitch was lucky she was already dead, and that’s the f*cking truth.

Because life is surreal, I still had to work that afternoon or people would’ve gotten suspicious. This turned out to be a good thing. There’s nothing like hard, physical labor to clear your mind. One of my crew leads had the day off, so I found myself cleaning a local attorney’s office downtown. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the assassin who worked for the club. I’d bet there were all sorts of interesting papers in that guy’s office, ones that might buy Jessica some time.

We also cleaned Pawns that night.

Usually Bolt was in the back room—so far as I could tell he slept on a cot in the storeroom half the time. I’d assumed he was just crashing there out of convenience, but based on our conversation at the mall, Maggs had thrown him out.

He wasn’t actually at the store that night, but I decided it would be stupid to break into his office and search for papers. The whole place was probably wired up with cameras—it was a pawn shop, for God’s sake, which meant it was full of valuable, portable merchandise. The real question wasn’t whether the cameras were there, but whether they would still work if the power was cut.

Something to think about, because if I f*cked up, they’d chop off another piece of Jessica.

Reese had asked me to come back out to the Armory that evening after I finished my jobs, but conveniently I didn’t get done until after ten. That meant I wasn’t lying when I told him I was too exhausted. I drove out to his house instead, fingering the black smart phone thoughtfully. If I got lucky, I’d have most of the night to search. I couldn’t imagine he’d be home any time soon—maybe he’d even crash at the Armory. God, I hoped so. I wasn’t sure I could look him in the face without giving anything away.

We’d slept on the couch last night, the same couch where—

Shit. If he slept at the Armory, who would he be sleeping with? Could I really trust him not to cheat on me with so many willing, available women running around all the time? A wave of jealousy hit me, but I squashed it because that was f*cking crazy. I was doing my best to betray him and the people he loved most to an evil stranger who liked to cut fingers off young women.

So far as I could tell, that sort of trumped the jealous-girlfriend bit.

God, I would miss him . . .

If we both lived through this, I’d be lucky if he didn’t kill me himself. Not an idle concern, either. I’d heard the rumors—I knew what the Reapers were capable of. But I’d also heard that they didn’t take out anyone who didn’t deserve it.

Unfortunately, from their perspective I’d probably deserve it. They wouldn’t be entirely wrong about that, either.

Shitty to be me.

? ? ?

The Hayes house blazed with light when I pulled in the driveway, and two bikes were parked out front. One looked familiar. The other I’d never seen before. Neither belonged to Reese.

I let myself in the front door to find Melanie sitting next to Painter, his arm draped loosely across the back of the couch over her shoulders. She was buried in a quilt with only her eyes showing. They were glued to the TV screen, where a chainsaw-wielding man was about to cut a woman’s hand off.

I threw up a little in the back of my throat, grasping the door frame for support.

Another young man leaned back in the lounge chair, feet propped casually on the end of the coffee table. He had short dark hair, heavy stubble, and eyes so cold and dead he could’ve been holding the chainsaw. It was hard to see in the dim light, but it looked like tattoos completely covered his arms. Handsome and unnerving—a very dangerous boy, I decided.

Painter paused the movie, standing up slowly. I glanced between him and Melanie, shaking my head. Couldn’t believe I’d fallen for his shit—apparently this was International Fuck Over London Armstrong Day.

“London,” he said quietly.

“Painter,” I replied, wondering if we were starting some kind of standoff. I guess we were, because he’d promised to stay away from her, yet here he was. Although to be honest, my perspective on that whole issue had changed in the past twelve hours, what with watching Jessica’s finger get cut off. Somehow Melanie’s virtue wasn’t seeming quite as important in comparison.

“We’ll talk in the kitchen,” he told me, then jerked his chin toward the scary young man. “This is Puck. He’s a prospect with the Silver Bastards. Pic asked him to stay out here tonight. Said it wouldn’t hurt to have some extra security, given how many people are in town right now.”