Reaper's Stand (Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 4)(34)

But Horse’s message wasn’t what really caught my attention.

Nope.

The fact that London Armstrong had called three times and left two voice mails stopped me dead in my tracks. I hit the button.

“Hello, Mr. Hayes,” she said, voice strained but still full of that strange formality she used to distance herself. Fuckin’ ridiculous—I’d sucked on her lips and dug my fingers into her ass. Time to start using first names. Instead of pissing me off, though, it kind of turned me on. ’Course everything she did turned me on.

“It’s London. I have a favor to ask—do you think you could ask around about Jessica? See if maybe she’s gotten in touch with anyone in your club? She was pretty angry Friday night after you left. In fact, she took off. I thought she’d come back by now, but she hasn’t.”

She hesitated, then spoke again, her voice shaking. “I’m starting to get worried.”

Fucking great. Not enough that the little brat got herself into constant trouble—now she had to go running off, too? I seriously doubted that she’d talked to anyone at the club. They all knew she was hands off, not than anyone gave a shit. Girls like her came and went, and nobody paid much attention. If one disappeared, there was always another to take her place.

London was in a different class and I didn’t like the idea of her worrying. Woman had enough shit to deal with already. I hit play on the second message, which she’d only left about half an hour ago. This time she dropped the pretense of formality.

“Reese, I’m really worried about Jess. Can you call or message me? I know things are . . . awkward . . . between us, but I’d like to rule out whether she’s with someone from the club. Nobody has seen her.”

“Fuck,” I muttered, then glanced over at Bolt. “Give me a sec?”

He nodded and I stepped out of the truck, hitting the callback button. She answered on the fourth ring.

“Reese?”

Her voice was tense, but I still liked the sound of my name on her tongue. Of course, it’d sound sweeter if she was screaming it into a pillow while I pounded her from behind. Funny how that worked.

“Got your messages, sweetheart,” I said. “I’ll check with the brothers, but if she’d shown up at the Armory, they would’ve told me. They know she’s not supposed to be out there.”

“You don’t think she could’ve gone to someone’s house?” she asked, her voice tentative. “Maybe one of those men we found her with the other night?”

“No way. Painter and Banks wouldn’t touch her, not after I put her off-limits. Hate to break it to you, but she’s nothing special. Not worth a fight at the club.”

“I see,” she said, although she probably didn’t. Outsiders never did.

“What does Deputy Dick have to say? He helpin’ you out?”

She made a strange, strangled noise, which she tried to cover with a cough.

“Nate told me kids her age take off all the time and not to worry about it. And no, he’s not around. I’ve only talked to him once—he didn’t return my calls yesterday, and he’s working this morning. I guess they’ve got a lot going on this weekend. Mandatory overtime.”

Lying *. What kind of game was he playing with her? My inner caveman decided it didn’t matter. Fuck safety, and f*ck picket fences. London Armstrong obviously couldn’t take care of herself, which meant someone needed to step in and fix this shit. If that meant claiming her, so be it. As for Evans, I’d put that f*cker in the ground a hundred miles from the nearest town with a clear conscience the next time he decided to play games.

Proud of you, baby, Heather murmured.

I growled, because my dead wife didn’t get a vote. If she really cared about me, she wouldn’t have died. And London? I’d had enough of her shit, too. That bitch was gonna be mine and I didn’t share.

You do realize you’re crazy, right?

At least crazy worked for me. Always had.

“Reese? Are you okay?”

Shit. Poor woman was scared and alone, and now I was growling at her because I’d lost my f*cking mind, apparently. I rubbed my chin, thinking quickly. I needed to play things smart, nudge her in the right direction if I wanted to do this right. All Evans really needed was enough rope to hang himself. He’d do the rest for me . . .

“There’s some truth to what he said,” I said, trying to sound somewhat sane and sympathetic. “Although it’s not exactly a comfort. Is there anything I can do to help?”