by Joanna Wylde
“I agree,” Marie said. “Get it out in the open. If you’re in front of the club, he’ll have to claim you as his property or let you go. That’s how it works.”
“You don’t find it even a little bit creepy to be called property?” I asked. They all burst out laughing again.
“It’s a different world, Sophie,” Marie said finally. “Trust me, I get how weird it sounds. When Horse first asked me to be his property, I dumped his ass. I didn’t get it back then—it’s like their own language. To bikers, being property means you’re important, special. Being an old lady is an honor and they treat it with huge respect.”
“Here’s what I wonder,” Kimber broke in. “I know a little about club life from working at The Line, but I’ve never figured this one out. If your whole identity depends on your relationship to a man, isn’t that a little fucked up?”
Pretty good question.
“Maybe,” Dancer admitted. “But I’m not too worried about it. My identity is all my own. Always has been, always will be. It’s true that the club is for men and they usually call the shots when they’re playing with their friends. At home, though? Not so much. Bam pisses me off, I’m not suffering from a shortage of ways to make him pay.”
“Like what?”
Dancer smirked and raised a knowing brow.
“You really have to ask? Even the virgin girlie gets that.”
“Shut up,” Em groaned. “Don’t you ever get tired of discussing my sex life?”
“No,” the Reaper women chorused, and we all burst out laughing yet again.
“Here’s the thing—it’s up to you to decide what works and what’s a deal breaker,” Maggs said when the fit of giggles died down. “You lay it out for Ruger, Sophie. Either he’s on board or not, but the most important part is that you stick to your guns. If it’s a deal breaker, you’re done with him. Do whatever it takes to draw the line. I’m serious. You may have to find somewhere else to live if that happens, but don’t let him convince you there aren’t options. There’s always options.”
“No, what she really needs to do is screw him and dump his ass,” Em said, shivering with delicious glee. “He’s hot, she should just nail him. Is he any good, Kimber?”
“Don’t you dare,” I warned my friend, holding up a hand to her face. “Mouth. Shut.”
“Wait a minute! Party planning aside, we’re forgetting an important part of why we’re here,” Marie said suddenly. She turned to me. “I can’t believe we haven’t talked about work, Sophie. Sex is just way more interesting. Has Ruger mentioned a job?”
“No,” I said, more than ready for a change of subject. “I’m going to start looking on Monday. He said something about working for the club, but it seems a little weird to bring it up after this morning.”
“I manage a coffee shop for a friend,” Marie told me. Maggs, Em, and Dancer sobered, exchanging glances I couldn’t quite read. “I could really use some help in the mornings, if you have a way to get Noah to school. You’d be done by the afternoon when he gets home.”
“Um, I can look into it,” I said, wondering if my neighbor would help get Noah on the bus for me. Or maybe they had one of those morning drop-off programs?
“I think she should be a stripper at The Line,” Kimber piped up. Marie’s eyes widened.
“No way,” she said, her distaste visible. “That place is disgusting.”
“It’s a good way to earn money,” Kimber insisted. “Perfect for a single mom. She could work two nights a week and be with Noah every day. How is that a bad thing?”
“Um, the part where she sucks some stranger’s cock?” Marie asked. “I’ll bet Ruger would just looove that.”
“What?” I demanded. “I thought we were talking about dancing. No sucking cocks. Deal breaker!”
“We are talking about dancing,” Kimber said, rolling her eyes. “Nobody makes you work the VIP rooms. Totally your choice. Or you could waitress. They don’t make as much money, but they still do pretty well. Especially if you’re nice to the dancers. They’ll tip out if you treat them right.”
“You do not want to work there,” Marie insisted. “Seriously, most of those girls are whores. Not talking about you, Kimber, but the rest of them? You can’t trust that place for shit.”
“No, I was a whore,” Kimber announced blithely. “If by ‘whore’ you mean I got guys off for money. Mostly hand jobs, but if he’d pay enough I’d go down on him. Now I own a gorgeous house, I have a degree, and I even started a college fund for my kid. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
We all looked at her.
“Oh, seriously?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “You girls live in a fucking motorcycle gang. You really think you should judge me?”
“Club,” Em said. “It’s a motorcycle club. Being part of a club isn’t a crime, you know.”
“Whatever,” Kimber replied, waving her hand. “I own my body. It’s totally mine, and what I do with it is my business. I danced for guys, I touched them sometimes, and they gave me lots of money. How many women get groped every day by strangers? At least I got paid up front for it. I’d do it again, and I think Sophie should, too, if she really wants to provide for Noah.”
“No way,” I said, shaking my head.
“Working at The Line isn’t a bad idea,” Maggs said, surprising me. “I tended bar there and did pretty well. That’s how I met Bolt.”
“And did anyone bother you?” I asked. She shook her head.
“It’s a controlled environment,” she said. “Nobody gets in without security knowing. They keep an eye on everything. Even in the VIP rooms, security’s always right outside the door. I was probably safer there than I am at home.”
“Did you … I can’t think of a better way to ask this, so I guess I’ll just spit it out. Did you have to walk around naked?”
“No,” she said, smirking. “Servers at The Line are like furniture from IKEA. Okay to look at, but not what you want to draw attention to. I wore a black bustier, a short black skirt, and dark tights. Blended right in.”
“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 fuckin’ 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 fuckin’ 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 pussy on tap, and he was still fuckin’ bored. All he really wanted was to go home, read Noah a bedtime story, and then fuck 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 assholes, 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 fucks 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 fucked up at the house? Em seems to think they’re fucked 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 fuck 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 fuck 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 fuckin’ 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 fuck her ’til she can’t walk straight. She may win, but who gives a damn, ’cause she’ll be suckin’ your cock for the foreseeable future. I find that works wonders.”
“You’re a fuckin’ asshole.”
“I get that a lot.”
&nb
sp; 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.