Reaper's Legacy
Page 20
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I said. Marie scowled and shook her head, but Maggs grinned at me.
“I’ll introduce you to the manager tomorrow,” she said. “He’ll be at the party. And you’re coming—no negotiation. If you don’t figure things out with Ruger, maybe you’ll come home with a job.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
RUGER
“Huge f**kin’ mistake,” Deke declared. He stood in the center of the Armory’s second-story game room, surrounded by officers from almost every Reapers charter. Usually they had church downstairs, but there wasn’t enough space for all the visiting brothers below. This group included both national and local chapter officers, and whatever decisions they made would be binding on the whole club.
“We can’t trust them, we all know that,” Deke continued. “What kind of dumbfuck sticks his head in a noose? We do this, we deserve everything we get.”
Picnic sighed and shook his head. Ruger leaned against the wall behind him, wondering how much longer they’d be going over the same points. He wanted this over with, because he’d been wound up tighter than hell since yesterday morning.
Sophie tied him in f**kin’ knots.
Not even a blow job from one of the club whores had helped. She’d barely gotten his pants open when he’d started thinking about Sophie and Noah, and it was all over. Last night he’d been surrounded by thirty of his best friends and brothers, more booze than he could drink, and free pu**y on tap, and he was still f**kin’ bored. All he really wanted was to go home, read Noah a bedtime story, and then f**k Sophie’s brains out.
Picnic shifted, the sound of his chair scraping pulling Ruger out of his thoughts.
They’d been at it for nearly two hours, and so far nobody had changed their positions on the truce. Most of the men wanted to give it a shot. Ruger agreed. He thought the Jacks were walking, talking bags of shit, but at least they were a known quantity. They understood the lifestyle, and all other issues aside, they were still bikers. He wasn’t ready to throw down for a Devil’s Jack, but backing off for the duration? That made sense.
Deke disagreed.
Strongly.
“Anyone else want to talk?” asked Shade. The big man with spiky blond hair and a nasty scar across his face was the national president, a position he’d held for less than a year. Ruger didn’t know him well, but what he’d heard was good. Shade lived in Boise, although he’d made noises about moving farther north.
“I got somethin’ to say,” Duck announced, boosting his big body up off the couch. In his late sixties, Duck was the oldest member in Coeur d’Alene. One of the oldest members in the entire club, actually. He wasn’t an officer, but nobody was stupid enough to tell him he couldn’t talk. Ruger knew whatever he said could be the tipping point.
“I hate the Jacks. They’re cocksuckers and ass**les, we all know it. That’s why it hurts me so much to admit this, but I think we should give the truce a shot.”
Ruger cocked his head—hadn’t seen that coming. A Vietnam vet and fighter from day one, Duck had never been the voice of peace.
“Here’s the thing,” Duck continued. “That little prick Hunter is onto something. We’re the same kind of men where it counts. We know what life is really about, and that’s the freedom to ride and live on our own terms. We joined this club because we don’t give a shit about citizens and their rules. I’ve always taken what I wanted when I wanted it, no apologies. I live free. Any laws broken along the way are just collateral.”
Brothers around the room murmured in agreement—even Deke.
“These kids moving in, though, they’re not like us,” Duck said, looking around, pinning each man with his eyes in turn. “They’re. Not. Like. Us. They got no freedom and no reason to live, aside from making money. They wake up every morning plannin’ to break the law, which means the law rules their lives. I’m not scared to fight, you all know that, but why fight when we can let the Jacks do it for us? Live to ride, ride to live. Not just words, brothers. Anything gets in the way of living and riding is a waste of my time, and that includes fighting the cartel.”
Men all over the room voiced their approval. Deke shook his head, and Ruger knew him well enough to realize he was pissed. He’d been beat, and Deke wasn’t used to losing. And Toke? He was practically vibrating, he was so pissed off. At least he kept his mouth shut—kid like that had no business speaking here.
“We’re all gonna pay for this,” the Portland president said. “But we’ve hashed it out. No reason to keep talking at this point. Let’s vote and get it over with.”
“Anyone got a problem with that?” Shade asked. Ruger shot a look at Toke, concerned. Nobody spoke up. “Okay, then. All in favor?”
A chorus of “ayes” echoed around the room, which held close to forty men.
“Opposed?”
Only six guys disagreed, four from Portland and two from Idaho Falls. No surprise, Toke was one of them. That was unfortunate, Ruger thought, given Hunter’s location. Not that he gave two f**ks about the man, but he liked him better than any other Jack he’d met. What he’d told them about the cartel added up—it was a big problem, one they’d have to deal with sooner or later. Ruger didn’t want their shit in his territory, and neither did his brothers. Might as well let the Jacks be their cannon fodder.
“We gonna have a problem here?” Shade asked Deke bluntly.
“They keep out of our way, we won’t have a problem,” Deke said after a pause. “Right or wrong, we’re Reapers. We stand together.”
“Gonna hold you to that, brother,” Shade replied.
“The girls have been workin’ hard, putting together food for us,” Picnic said, rising to address the room. “Pig won’t be ready for another hour, but the kegs are tapped. Thanks to everyone for comin’ up here. We always appreciate the company. Reapers forever, forever Reapers!”
“Reapers forever, forever Reapers!” echoed through the room, rattling the windows. Toke didn’t look happy, but Ruger knew he’d do his part. Men stood to talk, some heading downstairs to the party, others standing in clumps.
“A word?” Picnic asked Ruger before he could escape. He stopped, turning to his president.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Em’s pretty hungover this morning,” Pic said, eyes speculative. “How about your girl?”
“Not my girl,” Ruger grunted. “And no idea—didn’t go home last night.”
“Really?” Pic asked, raising a brow. “That ’cause you had business here or ’cause things are f**ked up at the house? Em seems to think they’re f**ked up. That gonna be a problem for the club?”
“Em sure talks a lot,” Ruger said, narrowing his eyes.
“Em still hasn’t figured out she can’t fool her daddy when she’s drunk,” Picnic said. “It’s useful to me. She seems to think you’re claiming this girl for your property. Says you told her she can’t talk to any other guys. What’s the story?”
“Not sure that’s any of your business,” Ruger replied, his tension growing. “Sophie knows the situation and so do I. That’s enough.”
“That’s great, so long as we don’t have any misunderstandings,” Picnic said. “If she’s yours, fine. She’s not? Lot of guys here today, guys who aren’t usually around. You can’t explain the situation to me, how do you plan on explainin’ it to them?”
“Won’t be a problem,” Ruger replied, his voice firm. “Made things clear to her and she knows what she needs to do.”
Picnic eyed him thoughtfully.
“Send her home,” he said. “Bring her around for a family party, start small. See how it goes. This is throwing her into the deep end and that’s gonna backfire on you.”
“Scare her off, you mean?” Ruger asked. “That might be best. I don’t know what the hell I want with her—”
“You want to f**k her,” Picnic said bluntly. “You can tell when your dick gets hard, did you know that? Probably tough for you to understand, seeing as most of the time you’re just jacking off, but most men like to stick their cocks—”
“Shut the f**k up,” Ruger said, wondering whether it’d be a bad move to punch out his president in front of so many witnesses. Probably. Might be worth it.
Picnic laughed.
“So you gonna send her home?” he asked. Ruger shook his head.
“I send her home, she wins,” he said. Picnic raised a brow.
“What is this, junior high? You’re the man, lay it out for her.”
Ruger took a deep breath, forcing himself to think instead of just lashing out. He needed a good fight or something, some way to blow off the tension. There’d be boxing later. That would do it … hopefully.
“I lay it out, she wins,” he admitted finally, scowling and running a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. She called me on my bullshit and I can’t talk my way out of it. I make her leave, it’s like I’m saying she was right about the club being dangerous and a bad influence for Noah. Not to mention making me look like a f**kin’ pussy in the process, because I can’t handle having her around.”
“One, you’re a dumbass,” Picnic said. “Two, she’s right. Club is dangerous for an unclaimed woman, particularly tonight.”
“I get that,” Ruger said. “That’s why I’m gonna protect her. You got a cure for the dumbass thing? That part’s kickin’ my butt, gotta admit.”
“Nope,” Pic said, clapping a hand to Ruger’s shoulder. “But I know something that’ll make you feel better about the situation.”
“What’s that?”
“Pulled pork sandwich,” Pic replied. “Beer. Then—if you’re smart, which I’ll admit is a stretch—you’ll take your girl somewhere and f**k her ’til she can’t walk straight. She may win, but who gives a damn, ’cause she’ll be suckin’ your c**k for the foreseeable future. I find that works wonders.”
“You’re a f**kin’ asshole.”
“I get that a lot.”
SOPHIE
I wasn’t horribly hungover the next day, but I wasn’t eager to start drinking again, either. This was probably just as well. Despite my alcohol-fueled tough talk, I really didn’t want to make trouble at the party. I Googled the address, then drove out to the Armory early that evening, after I dropped off Noah with Kimber. She’d ended up spending the night on my couch, waking up more than a little worse for the wear.
I suspected she’d be in bed about five minutes after she got the kids down.
I was nervous driving out to the party. The Reapers’ clubhouse was a couple miles off the highway, toward the end of an old state road. I passed a group of four motorcycles headed for the highway, ridden by men dressed a lot like Ruger. Tattoos, jeans, boots, and black leather jackets. Loaded saddlebags.
They didn’t appear to be happy campers.
The building itself surprised me. I guess I hadn’t expected the Armory description to be so literal, because this was an honest-to-God converted National Guard building. Three stories tall, walls built to withstand tanks, and an enclosed courtyard with a gate big enough to drive a large truck through.
There were quite a few people there already. Lots of guys, all of them wearing their distinctive colors. They had different states or towns on their lower patches, but the Reapers’ symbol and name were the same.
Unsurprisingly, there were lots of motorcycles, but also quite a few cars, most of which had been parked in a gravel lot off to the side. A younger guy wearing a cut without very many patches waved me over in that direction, so I pulled in next to a little red Honda. Four girls who’d clearly been drinking for a while poured out. They were young, slutted up, and ready to party. Last night I’d noticed that the club women weren’t afraid to show off their bodies—Dancer rocked a pair of jeans and backless top in a big way—but the Reapers’ old ladies looked somehow more classy and confident than this bunch.
Maybe it was about the attitude? I got the impression these girls were on the prowl, and that they weren’t necessarily planning to be too picky.
They ignored me entirely, giggling and taking shots of each other with their phones. I guess I didn’t rate their attention, which was both depressing and a bit of a relief. Not that I cared how I looked—I’d gone with a basic T-shirt, my standard cutoffs and a pair of flip-flops. Despite my fight with Ruger yesterday morning (not to mention my margarita-fueled belligerence last night), I really did want to keep things low-key.
I wasn’t sure what to expect at a Reapers party but I figured I’d be fine if I stuck with my girls.
I’d sent a text to Ruger letting him know I was coming. He’d replied with a reminder about our conversation, which almost convinced me to change into something sluttier just to spite him. Then I pulled my head out of my ass. Ruger losing his shit was not something I wanted see, no matter how satisfying it would be to defy him.
Defy him? Christ, how old was I?
I also texted Maggs, Em, Dancer, and Marie. They said to come straight through to the back, where they were setting up the food outside. They’d asked me to stop off and buy a bunch of extra chips, so I’d hit Walmart on the way.
Now I trailed behind the slut brigade, their big hair, loud makeup, and microscopic clothing providing plenty of cover as we walked toward the big gate in the courtyard. A couple of guys stood outside, obviously monitoring the entrance. The gaggle flirted with them and then passed on through. They probably thought I was a total hag in comparison, I realized glumly. A little lip gloss wouldn’t have killed me. Apparently giant shopping bags full of chips counted for something, though, because the men welcomed me enthusiastically enough.
“I’ll introduce you to the manager tomorrow,” she said. “He’ll be at the party. And you’re coming—no negotiation. If you don’t figure things out with Ruger, maybe you’ll come home with a job.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
RUGER
“Huge f**kin’ mistake,” Deke declared. He stood in the center of the Armory’s second-story game room, surrounded by officers from almost every Reapers charter. Usually they had church downstairs, but there wasn’t enough space for all the visiting brothers below. This group included both national and local chapter officers, and whatever decisions they made would be binding on the whole club.
“We can’t trust them, we all know that,” Deke continued. “What kind of dumbfuck sticks his head in a noose? We do this, we deserve everything we get.”
Picnic sighed and shook his head. Ruger leaned against the wall behind him, wondering how much longer they’d be going over the same points. He wanted this over with, because he’d been wound up tighter than hell since yesterday morning.
Sophie tied him in f**kin’ knots.
Not even a blow job from one of the club whores had helped. She’d barely gotten his pants open when he’d started thinking about Sophie and Noah, and it was all over. Last night he’d been surrounded by thirty of his best friends and brothers, more booze than he could drink, and free pu**y on tap, and he was still f**kin’ bored. All he really wanted was to go home, read Noah a bedtime story, and then f**k Sophie’s brains out.
Picnic shifted, the sound of his chair scraping pulling Ruger out of his thoughts.
They’d been at it for nearly two hours, and so far nobody had changed their positions on the truce. Most of the men wanted to give it a shot. Ruger agreed. He thought the Jacks were walking, talking bags of shit, but at least they were a known quantity. They understood the lifestyle, and all other issues aside, they were still bikers. He wasn’t ready to throw down for a Devil’s Jack, but backing off for the duration? That made sense.
Deke disagreed.
Strongly.
“Anyone else want to talk?” asked Shade. The big man with spiky blond hair and a nasty scar across his face was the national president, a position he’d held for less than a year. Ruger didn’t know him well, but what he’d heard was good. Shade lived in Boise, although he’d made noises about moving farther north.
“I got somethin’ to say,” Duck announced, boosting his big body up off the couch. In his late sixties, Duck was the oldest member in Coeur d’Alene. One of the oldest members in the entire club, actually. He wasn’t an officer, but nobody was stupid enough to tell him he couldn’t talk. Ruger knew whatever he said could be the tipping point.
“I hate the Jacks. They’re cocksuckers and ass**les, we all know it. That’s why it hurts me so much to admit this, but I think we should give the truce a shot.”
Ruger cocked his head—hadn’t seen that coming. A Vietnam vet and fighter from day one, Duck had never been the voice of peace.
“Here’s the thing,” Duck continued. “That little prick Hunter is onto something. We’re the same kind of men where it counts. We know what life is really about, and that’s the freedom to ride and live on our own terms. We joined this club because we don’t give a shit about citizens and their rules. I’ve always taken what I wanted when I wanted it, no apologies. I live free. Any laws broken along the way are just collateral.”
Brothers around the room murmured in agreement—even Deke.
“These kids moving in, though, they’re not like us,” Duck said, looking around, pinning each man with his eyes in turn. “They’re. Not. Like. Us. They got no freedom and no reason to live, aside from making money. They wake up every morning plannin’ to break the law, which means the law rules their lives. I’m not scared to fight, you all know that, but why fight when we can let the Jacks do it for us? Live to ride, ride to live. Not just words, brothers. Anything gets in the way of living and riding is a waste of my time, and that includes fighting the cartel.”
Men all over the room voiced their approval. Deke shook his head, and Ruger knew him well enough to realize he was pissed. He’d been beat, and Deke wasn’t used to losing. And Toke? He was practically vibrating, he was so pissed off. At least he kept his mouth shut—kid like that had no business speaking here.
“We’re all gonna pay for this,” the Portland president said. “But we’ve hashed it out. No reason to keep talking at this point. Let’s vote and get it over with.”
“Anyone got a problem with that?” Shade asked. Ruger shot a look at Toke, concerned. Nobody spoke up. “Okay, then. All in favor?”
A chorus of “ayes” echoed around the room, which held close to forty men.
“Opposed?”
Only six guys disagreed, four from Portland and two from Idaho Falls. No surprise, Toke was one of them. That was unfortunate, Ruger thought, given Hunter’s location. Not that he gave two f**ks about the man, but he liked him better than any other Jack he’d met. What he’d told them about the cartel added up—it was a big problem, one they’d have to deal with sooner or later. Ruger didn’t want their shit in his territory, and neither did his brothers. Might as well let the Jacks be their cannon fodder.
“We gonna have a problem here?” Shade asked Deke bluntly.
“They keep out of our way, we won’t have a problem,” Deke said after a pause. “Right or wrong, we’re Reapers. We stand together.”
“Gonna hold you to that, brother,” Shade replied.
“The girls have been workin’ hard, putting together food for us,” Picnic said, rising to address the room. “Pig won’t be ready for another hour, but the kegs are tapped. Thanks to everyone for comin’ up here. We always appreciate the company. Reapers forever, forever Reapers!”
“Reapers forever, forever Reapers!” echoed through the room, rattling the windows. Toke didn’t look happy, but Ruger knew he’d do his part. Men stood to talk, some heading downstairs to the party, others standing in clumps.
“A word?” Picnic asked Ruger before he could escape. He stopped, turning to his president.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Em’s pretty hungover this morning,” Pic said, eyes speculative. “How about your girl?”
“Not my girl,” Ruger grunted. “And no idea—didn’t go home last night.”
“Really?” Pic asked, raising a brow. “That ’cause you had business here or ’cause things are f**ked up at the house? Em seems to think they’re f**ked up. That gonna be a problem for the club?”
“Em sure talks a lot,” Ruger said, narrowing his eyes.
“Em still hasn’t figured out she can’t fool her daddy when she’s drunk,” Picnic said. “It’s useful to me. She seems to think you’re claiming this girl for your property. Says you told her she can’t talk to any other guys. What’s the story?”
“Not sure that’s any of your business,” Ruger replied, his tension growing. “Sophie knows the situation and so do I. That’s enough.”
“That’s great, so long as we don’t have any misunderstandings,” Picnic said. “If she’s yours, fine. She’s not? Lot of guys here today, guys who aren’t usually around. You can’t explain the situation to me, how do you plan on explainin’ it to them?”
“Won’t be a problem,” Ruger replied, his voice firm. “Made things clear to her and she knows what she needs to do.”
Picnic eyed him thoughtfully.
“Send her home,” he said. “Bring her around for a family party, start small. See how it goes. This is throwing her into the deep end and that’s gonna backfire on you.”
“Scare her off, you mean?” Ruger asked. “That might be best. I don’t know what the hell I want with her—”
“You want to f**k her,” Picnic said bluntly. “You can tell when your dick gets hard, did you know that? Probably tough for you to understand, seeing as most of the time you’re just jacking off, but most men like to stick their cocks—”
“Shut the f**k up,” Ruger said, wondering whether it’d be a bad move to punch out his president in front of so many witnesses. Probably. Might be worth it.
Picnic laughed.
“So you gonna send her home?” he asked. Ruger shook his head.
“I send her home, she wins,” he said. Picnic raised a brow.
“What is this, junior high? You’re the man, lay it out for her.”
Ruger took a deep breath, forcing himself to think instead of just lashing out. He needed a good fight or something, some way to blow off the tension. There’d be boxing later. That would do it … hopefully.
“I lay it out, she wins,” he admitted finally, scowling and running a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. She called me on my bullshit and I can’t talk my way out of it. I make her leave, it’s like I’m saying she was right about the club being dangerous and a bad influence for Noah. Not to mention making me look like a f**kin’ pussy in the process, because I can’t handle having her around.”
“One, you’re a dumbass,” Picnic said. “Two, she’s right. Club is dangerous for an unclaimed woman, particularly tonight.”
“I get that,” Ruger said. “That’s why I’m gonna protect her. You got a cure for the dumbass thing? That part’s kickin’ my butt, gotta admit.”
“Nope,” Pic said, clapping a hand to Ruger’s shoulder. “But I know something that’ll make you feel better about the situation.”
“What’s that?”
“Pulled pork sandwich,” Pic replied. “Beer. Then—if you’re smart, which I’ll admit is a stretch—you’ll take your girl somewhere and f**k her ’til she can’t walk straight. She may win, but who gives a damn, ’cause she’ll be suckin’ your c**k for the foreseeable future. I find that works wonders.”
“You’re a f**kin’ asshole.”
“I get that a lot.”
SOPHIE
I wasn’t horribly hungover the next day, but I wasn’t eager to start drinking again, either. This was probably just as well. Despite my alcohol-fueled tough talk, I really didn’t want to make trouble at the party. I Googled the address, then drove out to the Armory early that evening, after I dropped off Noah with Kimber. She’d ended up spending the night on my couch, waking up more than a little worse for the wear.
I suspected she’d be in bed about five minutes after she got the kids down.
I was nervous driving out to the party. The Reapers’ clubhouse was a couple miles off the highway, toward the end of an old state road. I passed a group of four motorcycles headed for the highway, ridden by men dressed a lot like Ruger. Tattoos, jeans, boots, and black leather jackets. Loaded saddlebags.
They didn’t appear to be happy campers.
The building itself surprised me. I guess I hadn’t expected the Armory description to be so literal, because this was an honest-to-God converted National Guard building. Three stories tall, walls built to withstand tanks, and an enclosed courtyard with a gate big enough to drive a large truck through.
There were quite a few people there already. Lots of guys, all of them wearing their distinctive colors. They had different states or towns on their lower patches, but the Reapers’ symbol and name were the same.
Unsurprisingly, there were lots of motorcycles, but also quite a few cars, most of which had been parked in a gravel lot off to the side. A younger guy wearing a cut without very many patches waved me over in that direction, so I pulled in next to a little red Honda. Four girls who’d clearly been drinking for a while poured out. They were young, slutted up, and ready to party. Last night I’d noticed that the club women weren’t afraid to show off their bodies—Dancer rocked a pair of jeans and backless top in a big way—but the Reapers’ old ladies looked somehow more classy and confident than this bunch.
Maybe it was about the attitude? I got the impression these girls were on the prowl, and that they weren’t necessarily planning to be too picky.
They ignored me entirely, giggling and taking shots of each other with their phones. I guess I didn’t rate their attention, which was both depressing and a bit of a relief. Not that I cared how I looked—I’d gone with a basic T-shirt, my standard cutoffs and a pair of flip-flops. Despite my fight with Ruger yesterday morning (not to mention my margarita-fueled belligerence last night), I really did want to keep things low-key.
I wasn’t sure what to expect at a Reapers party but I figured I’d be fine if I stuck with my girls.
I’d sent a text to Ruger letting him know I was coming. He’d replied with a reminder about our conversation, which almost convinced me to change into something sluttier just to spite him. Then I pulled my head out of my ass. Ruger losing his shit was not something I wanted see, no matter how satisfying it would be to defy him.
Defy him? Christ, how old was I?
I also texted Maggs, Em, Dancer, and Marie. They said to come straight through to the back, where they were setting up the food outside. They’d asked me to stop off and buy a bunch of extra chips, so I’d hit Walmart on the way.
Now I trailed behind the slut brigade, their big hair, loud makeup, and microscopic clothing providing plenty of cover as we walked toward the big gate in the courtyard. A couple of guys stood outside, obviously monitoring the entrance. The gaggle flirted with them and then passed on through. They probably thought I was a total hag in comparison, I realized glumly. A little lip gloss wouldn’t have killed me. Apparently giant shopping bags full of chips counted for something, though, because the men welcomed me enthusiastically enough.
