Reaper's Fall (Reapers MC, #5)(119)

Maybe a little bit.

Crap.

Reaching for the wine bottle, I refilled my glass. Should I evict him? It seemed like common sense to get rid of a potential troublemaker, but one of the main reasons I’d left Hallies Falls all of ten minutes after my high school graduation was to get away from the gossips. This town was full of small-minded, judgmental people who wouldn’t hesitate to brand someone for life for one stupid mistake.

No, I wouldn’t evict him.

Cooper had been arrested, but he hadn’t been convicted. Innocent until proven guilty—that’s how I’d approach this. I’d give him the same respect that I wished people had given me.

? ? ?

It was just after ten that night. I leaned forward into my mirror, rubbing moisturizer on my face and wondering if the tiny lines at the edges of my eyes were bigger than they were yesterday. Of course not, that was ridiculous . . . but I was definitely getting older, no question.

Thirty-six.

Only four years from forty, which meant I’d be officially middle-aged soon. I wasn’t ready to be middle-aged—half the time I hardly felt like an adult. It wasn’t fair. The roar of a motorcycle outside caught my attention, and I walked over to my bedroom’s second-story window to look outside.

There he was—Cooper.

I watched as he backed the bike into the curb, then swung his leg over, glancing toward my house. The outdoor lights he’d installed for me less than a week earlier cast long shadows in the darkness, and I cocked my head. Something was different. I studied him, trying to figure out what it was. He wore his usual leather boots and faded jeans. Dark hair pulled back in a braid, leather vest with . . . Wait. This wasn’t the one he’d been wearing every other time I’d seen him. That one had a Harley Davidson patch on the back, but this looked more like what the Nighthawk Raiders MC wore. Not the same as theirs, but the same style.

I waited for him to walk over to his apartment entrance, a small doorway off the ground floor not far from where he’d parked. Instead he started around the side of the building toward my porch. Crap, he was obviously coming to talk to me, and here I was without any makeup, my hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wearing jammies. Not sexy jammies, either, just a pair of boy shorts and an old T-shirt that’d been washed so many times I’d forgotten its original design.

Downstairs, my doorbell rang.

For an instant, I considered pretending I wasn’t home. Brilliant, Tinker. Your car is parked outside and your lights are on, but I’m sure he won’t notice that you’re hiding. Instead, I grabbed a long, flowing satin robe and pulled it on over my jammies before tying the belt around my waist—it’d always reminded me of something a 1940s movie star would wear. Hopefully it would give me confidence as I faced him.

Would he mention the arrest? Should I? God, how awkward. The bell rang again, and I ran down the stairs, opening the door in a rush.

“Sorry,” I said breathlessly. “I was upstairs, and . . .”

My voice trailed off as I realized something was wrong. Really wrong. Cooper’s face was hard, and his eyes burned with strange intensity. He also seemed bigger somehow, like I was seeing him stand up straight for the first time. This was the man I knew, only different. Still sexy as hell, but with an edge of danger I’d never felt before.

I stared at him, wondering why he was here and hoping to hell he wouldn’t notice that my nipples had just gotten hard. I’d had to start investing in a whole new set of padded T-shirt bras since he’d moved in . . . too bad I wasn’t wearing one right now.

“Hi, it’s a little late—”

“Time to talk, Tinker,” he said bluntly, pushing into the house. He caught my arm, jerking me away from the door before he slammed it shut and locked it with a decisive click. Then he walked across my mother’s prized front parlor like he owned the place, stopping next to her antique mahogany credenza.

“What’s going on?” I asked. He ignored the question, reaching back behind his vest to pull out a handgun, which he set down on one of Grandma Garrett’s hand-knitted doilies. Then he caught the end of his belt, unhooking the buckle. Wait. Why was he doing that? Talking doesn’t require taking off your belt. Oh, and there was the whole gun thing. That wasn’t exactly comforting either.

I thought about what Carrie had told me. This was a mistake, a huge mistake. I should’ve listened to her, kept my doors locked. So what if he thought I was hiding?

“Cooper, I think—”

“Gage,” he said shortly, whipping the belt out of its loops, freeing a big knife I’d never noticed him wearing before today. He dropped it next to his other weapon.

“Gage?” I asked hesitantly, swallowing. My instincts were screaming at me to make a run for it, except that was crazy. Maybe I didn’t know him very well, but if Cooper wanted to hurt me, he’d had plenty of opportunities before tonight. The back of his vest caught my attention—there was a patch in the center with a skull on it. Above it was another patch that read “Reapers,” and below a third that said “Idaho.”

I knew jack shit about motorcycle clubs, but even I’d heard of the Reapers MC. Fucking hell, what was going on here?

“My name is Gage,” he said, turning and stalking toward me.

“Your name is Gage?” I parroted weakly, taking a step back. “But I saw your ID, with your rental application.”