by Joanna Wylde
Reaper’s Property
Joanna Wylde
Fat Robin Press
Contents
Reaper’s Property
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Bonus: Reaper’s Fire Excerpt
Bonus: Sticky Sweet
Also by Joanna Wylde
About the Author
Reaper’s Property
Joanna Wylde
Copyright © 2012 by Joanna Wylde
Cover art by Hang Le
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN: 0-9977239-0-4
Created with Vellum
For Margarita Coale, who worked tirelessly to make independent publication of this book possible.
Acknowledgments
There are many people who helped launch this book, both the first edition and also this second, independently published version. I’m always terrified that I’ll forget someone important. Please be kind if I did! Remember, I have the memory of a lady bug…
Thanks to Raelene Gorlinsky, who read Reaper’s Property the same night I sent it to her. It was the day before Thanksgiving, November 2012, and to say I was shocked and thrilled to get her email later that night is something of an understatement. Thanks also to Paige, who was the first one to share the book with Maryse, the woman who truly launched my career.
Maryse, you kick ass.
Thanks also to everyone on Maryse’s Book Blog page. You were my reading community and you inspired me to start writing again. You read this book and shared it with your friends, and you seemed to take building my success very personally. Thank you for believing in me and supporting me.
Finally, thanks to those who made publication of this edition possible. Margarita, Danielle, Kandace, Jessica, Hang Le, Tina Gephart and the queen of squirrels herself, Cara Carnes. You ladies are incredible and amazing, and I’m so thankful to have you in my posse. Oh, and Jessica? There will be beer.
Foreword
When Reaper’s Property was originally published in January, 2013, it was one of the first motorcycle club romances to reach a widespread romance reader audience. At the time, few readers were familiar with MC culture. More than one person questioned whether I’d made up the elements of MC cultures portrayed in the book up. Some even wrote to tell me that the words used were ridiculous, and that it was over the top and crazy. At the time I wished that I’d included an author’s note explaining my research, so that people would understand why I’d written the book and how it’d come about.
Times have changed now, and MC romance has become a popular subgenre. Most readers are familiar with basic MC culture at this point, although as someone who has researched extensively, I think there are still significant misconceptions. Still, I no longer get angry letters (and yes, I really did in the beginning) accusing me of making things up, and people no longer seem shocked by my work. Even so, now that I have the opportunity, I’ve decided to answer some of the most frequently asked questions:
Q: Are you a member of a club?
A: Historically, MCs only have male members, so no woman would be a “member” of a traditional club. Having said that, there are now some MCs that have female members, and it seems to be a topic of debate. To answer the question, though, I don’t live the MC life and never have. I wrote Reaper’s Property because I had an idea for a story, did the research and decided to run with it. Somehow it turned into a career along the way. Still haven’t figured that one out.
Q: How do you research your books?
A: I’m a former journalist, so I’ve spent a lot of my life researching. I started out by reading books and articles, then moved on to talking to real bikers. I think it helped that I was only interested in learning about club life, not specific club politics, but I found them to be fairly helpful. Now I know many people throughout the MC community, and have sources I can call whenever I have questions.
Q: Why did you give your characters such weird names? “Horse” and “Picnic” aren’t very badass.
A: In retrospect, I would probably try to name them something sexier, because that seems to be what the audience expects. In real life, road names are often whimsical. Very few bikers seem to be named “Killer” or “Hammer of Thor,” but the name “Picnic” came from a real man (actually, his name was “Picnic Table”). Since the book has been published, I’ve heard from at least three different “Bam Bams,” and several of the other names are real, too. In selecting the names that I did, I tried to go for ones that felt authentic. Was this smart marketing? Probably not. But to be honest, I never really expected much from this book anyway. Its success took me completely by surprise.
Q: Do bikers really use the word “Sweetbutt”?
A: It’s a real term that I learned from more than one source across a broad geographical area. Having said that, I stopped using it in my books because I’ve heard from quite a few bikers who’d never heard it before, and thought it was weird. My conclusion is that it was only ever used by a fairly small group. I didn’t make it up, however.
Q: What does the MC community think of your writing?
A: I’m not sure that the MC community at large is particularly aware of my writing. I do hear from quite a few women (and sometimes men or even couples) who are affiliated with clubs. These letters are extremely supportive, and I’ve been hosted by clubs for research purposes. Nobody in the biker community has ever been anything less than kind and welcoming to me. These days I have many women associated with clubs who read my books, and when I have questions, I go to them first.
Chapter One
Yakima Valley, Eastern Washington
September 17—Present Day
Marie
Crap, there were bikes outside the trailer.
Three Harleys and a big maroon truck I didn’t recognize.
Good thing I’d stopped by the grocery store on the way home. It’d already been a long day and the last thing I wanted to do was to run out and buy even more food, but the guys always wanted to eat. Jeff hadn’t given me any extra beer money and I didn’t want to ask him—not with his money troubles. And it wasn’t like I paid rent. For a guy whose entire mission in life was to smoke pot and play video games, my brother Jeff had done a lot for me over the past three months. I owed him and I knew it.
I’d already grabbed some beer and ground beef that’d been on sale. I’d planned on burgers, buns and chips for the two of us, but I always made extra, for leftovers. Gabby had given me a watermelon she’d picked up in Hermiston that weekend. I even had a big potato salad all made up for the potluck after work tomorrow. I’d have to stay up late making another one, but I could handle that.
I smiled, thankful that something in my life was going right. Less than a minute to plan and I’d figured out a meal—might not be gourmet, but it wouldn’t embarrass Jeff, either.
&nbs
p; I pulled up next to the bikes, careful to leave them plenty of room. I’d been terrified of the Reapers the first time they’d come over. Anyone would be. They looked like criminals, all tattooed and wearing black leather vests covered in patches. They cussed and drank and could be rude and demanding, but they’d never stolen or broken anything. Jeff had warned me about them lots of times but he also considered them friends. I’d decided he was exaggerating about the danger, for the most part. I mean Horse was dangerous, but not because of any criminal activity…
Anyway, I think Jeff did some web design for them or something. Some kind of business. Why a motorcycle club needed a website I had no idea, and the one time I’d asked him about it he told me not to ask.
Then he’d scuttled off to the casino for two days.
I got out of the car and went around back to grab the groceries, almost scared to see whether Horse’s bike was in the lineup. I wanted to see him so bad it hurt, but wasn’t sure what I’d say if I did. It’s not like he’d answered my text messages. I couldn’t help myself, I had to check for him, so I grabbed my groceries and walked over to the bikes to scope them out before going inside.
I don’t know much about bikes, but I knew enough to recognize his. It’s big and sleek and black. Not all bright and decorated the way you sometimes see bikes on the freeway. Just big and fast, with giant, fat tailpipes off the back and more testosterone than should be legal.
The motorcycle was almost as beautiful as the man who rode it.
Almost.
My heart stopped when I saw that bike, parked right on the end. I wanted to touch it, see if the leather of the seat was as smooth as I remembered, but I wasn’t stupid enough to do that. I didn’t have the right. I really shouldn’t even be excited to see him, but I felt a rush knowing he was already inside my trailer. Things weren’t smooth between us and I honestly didn’t know if he’d even acknowledge me. For a while he’d seemed almost like my boyfriend. The last time I’d seen him, he’d scared the crap out of me.
Even scary, the man made my panties wet.
Tall, built, with shoulder-length hair he kept pulled back in a ponytail, and thick black stubble on his face. Stark, tribal cuffs ringed his wrists and upper arms. And what a face… Horse was handsome, like movie star handsome. I’d bet he had women coming out his ears, and the fact that he’d spent more than one night in my bed made me all too aware that his beauty wasn’t just above the belt. The thought of his below-belt assets led to a brief but intense fantasy about him, me, my bed and some chocolate syrup.
Yum.
Shit. Dessert. I needed dessert for tonight. Horse loved sweets. Were there any chocolate chips? I could do cookies, so long as there was enough butter. Please don’t let him be pissed at me, I prayed silently, even though I was pretty sure God wasn’t interested in prayers where the promise of fornication played such a prominent role. I reached the door and juggled the bags, sliding most of them onto my right arm so I could turn the handle. I walked in and looked around the living room.
Then I screamed.
My baby brother knelt in the center of the room, beaten raw and dripping blood all over the carpet. Four men wearing Reapers’ cuts stood around him. Picnic, Horse and two I didn’t know—a big, built hunk of a man with a mohawk, and about a thousand piercings, and another who was tall and cut, with light-blond hair in short spikes. Horse studied me with the same cool, almost blank expression he wore when we first met. Detached.
Picnic studied me, too. He was tall with short, dark hair that looked far too stylish to be on a biker and bright blue eyes that pierced right through a girl—I’d met him at least five times. He was the club president. He had a great sense of humor, carried pictures of his two daughters to flash whenever he got the slightest opportunity and had helped me shuck corn the last time he’d come to visit.
Oh, and he also stood right behind my brother with a gun pointed at the back of his head.
June 16 — Twelve Weeks Earlier
“Marie, you did the right thing,” Jeff said, holding an ice pack to my cheek. “That cocksucker deserves to die. You will never, ever regret leaving him.”
“I know,” I replied, miserable. He was right—why hadn’t I left Gary earlier? We’d been high school sweethearts, married at nineteen and by the time I hit twenty I already knew I’d made a terrible mistake. It took until now, five years later, to realize just how terrible.
Today he’d backhanded me right across the face.
After that, it only took another ten minutes to do what I hadn’t managed in all our time together. I threw my clothes in my suitcase and left his abusive, cheating ass.
“I’m kind of glad he did it,” I said, looking down at the scarred Formica table in my mom’s trailer. She was taking a little vacation at the moment… in jail. Mom’s life has always been complicated.
“What the fuck, Marie?” Jeff asked, shaking his head. “You’re fucked in the head, talking like that.”
My brother loved me, but he wasn’t exactly a poet. I offered him a wan smile.
“I stayed with him for way too long, just taking it. I think I might have stayed forever. But when he hit me, it’s like it woke me up. I went from being terrified of leaving to just not caring anymore. Honestly, I don’t care, Jeff. He can keep everything—the furniture, the stereo, all that shit. I’m just glad to get out.”
“Well, you can stay here as long as you need to,” he said, gesturing around the singlewide. It was small and dank and smelled kind of like pot and dirty laundry, but I felt safe here. This had been my home for most of my life. It might not have been a picture-perfect childhood, but it hadn’t been too bad for a couple of white-trash kids whose dad took off before they hit grade school.
Well, good until Mom blew out her back and started drinking. Things went downhill after that. I looked around the trailer, trying to think. How was this going to work?
“I don’t have any money,” I said. “I can’t pay you rent. Not until I get a job. Gary never put my name on the bank account.”
“What the fuck, Marie? Rent?” Jeff asked again, shaking his head. “This is your house too. I mean, it’s a shithole, but it’s our shithole. You don’t pay rent here.”
I smiled at him, a real smile this time. Jeff might be a bit of a slacker, but he had a heart. Suddenly I felt such incredible love for him that I couldn’t keep it in. I dropped the ice and launched myself at him, giving him a fierce hug. He wrapped his arms around me awkwardly, returning it even though I could tell it confused and frightened him a little.
We’ve never been a touchy-feely kind of family.
“I love you, Jeff,” I said.
“Um, yeah,” he muttered, pulling away from me nervously, but he wore a little smile. He walked over to the counter, opened a drawer and pulled out a little glass pipe and a baggie of weed.
“You want some?” he asked. Yup, Jeff loved me. He didn’t share with just anyone. I laughed and shook my head.
“Pass. I’ve gotta start job hunting tomorrow morning. Don’t want to flunk a drug test.”
He shrugged and walked into the living room—which was also the dining room, the entryway and the hallway—to sit on the couch. A second later his ginormous big-screen TV flickered to life. He clicked through the channels until he hit wrestling, not the sport but the kind where they wear funny costumes and it’s like a soap opera. Gary was probably watching the same thing back at our house. Jeff took a couple hits and then set down the pipe and his favorite death’s-head Zippo on the coffee table. Then he grabbed his laptop and flipped it open.
I grinned.
Jeff had always been the shit when it came to computers. I had no idea what he did to earn money—although I suspected he did as little of it as he could get away with and not starve. Most people, Gary included, thought he was a loser. Maybe he was. But I didn’t care, because whenever I’d needed him, he’d been there for me. And I’ll always be here for him, I promised myself. Starting by getting the place cleaned up
and buying some real food. So far as I could tell, the man lived on pizza, Cheetos and peanut butter.
Some things never changed.
It took a lot of work to get the trailer clean but I enjoyed every minute of it. I missed Mom, of course, but I have to admit (if only to myself) that the place was a lot more comfortable without her around. She’s a terrible cook, she keeps the shades closed and she never flushes the toilet.
Oh, and everything she touches turns to utter chaos and drama.
Jeff doesn’t flush the toilet either, but for some reason it didn’t bother me as much. Probably because he’d not only given me the bigger bedroom, he’d also shoved a surprisingly large wad of bills into my purse that first morning and kissed me on the forehead for luck when I went out job hunting. I needed to find work despite sporting a nasty bruise on my face from Gary’s little love tap.
“You’re gonna kick ass, sis,” Jeff said, rubbing his eyes. I was touched he’d gotten out of bed to see me off. He wasn’t exactly a morning person. “Buy me some beer on the way home? And some of those coffee filter thingies… I ran out, and now I’m outta paper towels too. I don’t know if TP will cut it and I need my caffeine.”
I winced.
“I’ll take care of the shopping,” I said quickly. “And the cooking,” I added, glancing toward the kitchen sink, which was piled high with dishes. And pots. And something green that might just hold the cure for cancer…
“Great,” he muttered, then turned and stumbled back toward his room.
Now it was two weeks later and things were looking up. For one, I’d made enough progress in the house that I wasn’t afraid to sit on the toilet any longer, or use the shower. My next project was the yard, which hadn’t been mowed in at least two years. I’d also gotten a job at the Little Britches Daycare, which was run by my old friend Cara’s mom, Denise. Cara and I had fallen out of touch when she’d gone to college, but I’d seen her mom around occasionally and always asked after her. Cara had worked her way through law school and got a job in New York at some hot-shit firm. Her mom showed me pictures sometimes. Cara looked like a TV lawyer to me, all designer suits and fancy shoes.