Reaper's Stand (Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 4)(120)

We also had no idea why she’d had the seizure. Of course, we’d never really understood why she had them as a child, either—or why she’d stopped having them. One thing I’ve learned over the years spent with her in hospitals and doctors’ offices is that medicine is an art, not just a science.

They don’t know nearly as much as they want you to think.

Mentally, things were going to be a lot harder for her. She didn’t want to talk about the rape or what had happened to her mother, but she flinched every time a man came near her. That was answer enough for me. Maybe she’d be ready to open up as time went on—not like a cargo plane full of bruised and bloodied bikers was the best spot for a heart-to-heart anyway.

Wasn’t my place to push her.

We finally reached Em and Hunter’s house in Portland early in the morning, less than forty-eight hours after we’d left it. Crazy, right? Reese pointed us toward a guest bedroom before taking off, saying he needed to visit Em. They’d talked by phone, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to see her for himself, make sure she really was going to be okay.

I felt the same way about Jessica. I tucked her in like a child and then lay down next to her, counting her breaths like I had when she was in the NICU. I should probably go downstairs, make sure everyone else was okay . . . But I was so tired. Instead I drifted off, wondering what our next step should be.

The pinging sound of a text woke me. This seemed odd, considering I hadn’t seen my phone (or purse) since before I tried to shoot Reese. I rolled over, blinking quickly, trying to figure out what was going on.

“Turn it off,” Jess mumbled, flopping over onto her side. “Too tired for school . . .”

Guess some things didn’t change.

I looked across the room to see the purse in question sitting on top of a plain wooden dresser, next to two neat stacks of folded clothing. Who could be texting me?

Pushing myself to my feet was painful at best. Every single part of my body hurt, including my fingernails and hair. I was sore, scratched, cut, and shot. Astoundingly, none of these things had been fatal, or even particularly serious. I stumbled across the room and unzipped my leather bag, digging around for my phone. The battery was low, but it showed a missed call and a message from my neighbor.


DANICA: How are you doing? Still can’t believe what happened. Wanted to let you know that Hugh’s dad read about your house in the paper. They’ve got that cabin out on Kidd Island Bay road and not using it this year—was rented but the tenant fell thru. You can have if you want. Nothing special but decent. 2 bedrooms 1 bath, friends & family rate. Sitting empty and want to help.

I stared down at the text, considering the opportunity. I’d been out there a couple of summers ago with Danica and her sister for a girls’ weekend. She was right—it wasn’t anything special. But it would give me, Jess, and Melanie some space. Things were still up in the air with Reese, although I was starting to believe him when he said I was safe. The guys had been friendly enough on the plane, too. Well, as friendly as a bunch of exhausted men who’d just lost three of their brothers in a battle against a drug cartel could be.

That didn’t change the fact that Jess flinched whenever one of those big, scary men looked at her, or that I had no idea what kind of relationship Reese and I would have moving forward.

Sure, he’d offered us rooms at his house until I figured something out . . . before I tried to shoot him. Not only that, no matter how happy the two of us might be together, if he scared Jessie, his house wasn’t a good place for her.

Okay, then. Cabin it was.


ME: I’m interested. Call you later tonight?

DANICA: Sounds good. I’ll tell him. He says you can move in any time, he knows your good for the money. I have the keys and its furnished.

So. That was solved. We had a place to live.

? ? ?

Someone had scrounged up some clean clothing for us, including jeans that were a little too long and tight for me and a Reapers MC T-shirt. A plain sports bra and elaborately decorative thong completed the ensemble—dead giveaway that they’d been digging through the back of a closet. Probably Em’s.

Stepping quietly out of the room, I found the bathroom across the hall and got myself cleaned up, brushing my teeth with my finger and some toothpaste left on the counter. I looked like hell, which wasn’t exactly a surprise. Few women come through shootings looking fresh and energetic, and that wasn’t even taking my plunge through the shrubbery into consideration.