Reaper's Stand (Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 4)(5)

More silence, and I cringed. I’d insulted him, I realized. Implied things about the parties at his clubhouse that we all knew were true but nobody liked to talk about or admit. That they weren’t safe for young women. That the club couldn’t be trusted.

“Is she an adult?”

“She’s eighteen, but she just graduated two weeks ago and she’s young for her age.”

Bolt snorted.

“Hate to tell you this, sweetheart, but she’s old enough to make her own decisions about where to party.”

Now it was my turn to fall silent. I could say plenty—that she might be old enough to party, but she wasn’t old enough to drink legally. That they could find themselves in a heap of trouble for providing her with booze. Of course, for all I knew the cops were out there partying with them . . . But I kept my mouth shut, because I’d learned a long time ago that if you give someone enough silence, eventually they’ll fill it.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I get where you’re coming from. I’m not out there tonight, but Pic is.”

Darn. “Pic” was short for “Picnic,” and that was Reese’s nickname. I had no idea why they called him that and I sure as heck hadn’t asked. He was the least picnicky person I’d ever met in my life.

“Go out to the Armory and ask for him. Tell him I sent you, tell him it’s a personal favor. Maybe he’ll track her down for you, maybe not. Like I said, the girl’s an adult. You know how to get there?”

“Of course.”

He laughed. Everyone in Coeur d’Alene knew where the Armory was.

“Thank you, Mr. Harrison,” I said quickly, hanging up before he could change his mind. Then I turned the keys in the ignition and my van roared to life, along with the check engine light that had been haunting me for the last week. I chose to ignore it, because even if I had someone look at it for me, I couldn’t afford to fix the stupid thing.

If it could still drive places, it wasn’t really broken. At least, that was the theory.

I shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway. Oh, Jessie was going to hate this. Auntie London riding to the rescue in a minivan with the cleaning service logo on the side.

Ha. Not like it was the first time.

? ? ?

The Reapers clubhouse was about ten miles northeast of Coeur d’Alene, back on a private road twisting through the heavily forested hills. I’d never been there, although they’d invited me to a couple of parties when I first started cleaning Pawns.

I’d politely refused, preferring to maintain my wall of privacy. I’d cut back on socializing after my ex-husband, Joe, left. Not that I blamed him for ending it—he’d been clear from the start that he didn’t want kids in the house. When Amber OD’d and nearly died six years ago it came down to him or Jessie, because I couldn’t stand the situation any longer. The choice had been clear and the divorce had been amicable enough.

Still, I’d needed to lick my wounds for a while. Between building my business and raising my cousin, I hadn’t even tried dating until I met Nate a few months back. On nights like this, I wondered if those years alone had been worth it. It wasn’t that Jess was bad. It’s just that she never quite figured out the whole cause-and-effect thing, and probably never would.

By the time I pulled up to the Armory it was nearly three in the morning. I don’t know what I’d expected from the Reapers clubhouse. I knew it was an old National Guard building, but somehow that hadn’t translated into “fort” in my head. But that’s essentially what this was. Big, solid building, at least three stories tall. Narrow windows, parapets on the roof. There was a gate through a side wall leading to what looked like a courtyard behind the building.

Directly in front of the building was a line of bikes, watched over by a couple of younger men wearing the signature leather vests I’d seen around town over the years. Off to the right was a gravel parking lot with a good number of cars in it. I pulled into the end of the line and turned off the ignition.

It occurred to me that I’d be crashing a party right after cleaning for six hours. Great. I probably looked like an escapee from an insane asylum. I flipped down my mirror—sure enough, my blonde hair was ratty and my makeup had long since disappeared. Oh well . . . Wouldn’t be the first time chasing down Jess had dragged me out when I needed a shower and bed.

Although she’d never dragged me anywhere quite as intimidating at this place.