Down to my Bones (Reapers MC: Ellsberg Chapter Book 1)

by Bijou Hunter

  “Why Rando?” he asks, hurrying to his point like a man disinterested in melting in the heat.

  My gaze remains on the hogs now rolling in the mud. “I’ve seen a whole lot of shit in my life. People are capable of the kind of evil that doesn’t seem real until you witness it yourself. I’ve traveled all over the world and seen wild cultural shit. Eaten nasty shit. Done nasty shit. Not much affects me anymore. I’d been sleepwalking through my life until the day I saw Miranda feeding geese. I hadn’t planned on falling for the top guy’s daughter. My goal was to keep my head down and settle into life in Shasta. No fuss or muss, but never in my life could I imagine a grown woman trying to talk geese into eating potato salad out of a spoon.”

  Probably not expecting my answer, he wipes at the back of his neck. “You know she isn’t all there, don’t you?”

  “She’s there enough to get out of doing shit she doesn’t want to do. She’s there enough to convince people to do what she wants. She’s there enough to handle a man like me. Don’t underestimate what Miranda’s capable of when she puts her very stubborn mind to something.”

  “She once spent two hours working her ass off to avoid helping with a ten-minute errand. I’ve never seen someone work so hard to get out of such a small amount of work.”

  “Miranda has the luxury of living outside the norm. You’ve ensured that much,” I say and then dive headfirst into something he won’t want to hear. “We both know if you force me to leave Ellsberg that Miranda will follow me back to Shasta. I think we also know she’ll hate it there.”

  “How are you two supposed to be together then?” he asks as if he hasn’t been working shit out in his head since the moment he heard about Miranda and me.

  “I don’t know the inner workings of the Reapers. You can transfer me or kick me out of Shasta and beat my ass into Ellsberg. We’ll do what needs to be done because Miranda doesn’t belong in Shasta. She has plans for a yurt on your land, and I can’t imagine stealing that dream from her. This place is where she thrives. Her comfort level here isn’t something she’ll have anywhere else. Why pretend otherwise?”

  “Nice loyalty, Quaid,” he growls, refusing to give me an inch.

  “Look, man, I’ll kill for the club. Die for it too. I’ll do a long stretch in prison to protect the club. What I won’t do is give up a chance to feel something I’d long given up on finding.”

  “Decent answer, but fuck, it’s too fucking hot to think out here. Is their house open?”

  “No, but I have a key.”

  “Good. Open it up. I need a beer and to sit in front of a fucking fan. I feel like an old lady dying from fucking hot flashes.”

  Standing from the porch chair, I dig around in my pockets to find the key Vaughn gave me a few days back. I open the door and step into a house twenty degrees cooler than outside. Cooper walks to the fridge to find something to drink. He brings me a beer, and we sit across from each other in the living room.

  “I knew it was bound to happen,” Cooper says while wiping his forehead with the bottle. “Miranda looks a lot like her mom. All my girls do, and Farah’s a beautiful woman. I logically understand how men would be interested in my girls. That doesn’t mean I’m okay with it on a gut level.”

  “Understood, but know I’m not in Ellsberg looking for a fling. No sane man would think she’s a quickie,” I say, refraining from sharing how Miranda’s last two lovers were, in fact, quickies. “She’s under my skin, so I’ll jump through some hoops for you. I’ll do what needs to be done to make River happy too, but I’m not a kid, and I won’t beg. As long as Miranda wants me around, I’ll be around. You’ll need to put a bullet in me to change how this plays out.”

  Rubbing the cold beer against his sweaty forehead, Cooper nods. “As beautiful as she is, I guess a part of me never thought Miranda would find anyone. She never even seemed interested in men. Or women. Trust me, we wondered for a while. She’s a hard person to read, and I know her probably better than anyone except her mom. So, in a way, it’s a relief to learn she wants to be with someone, and I admit her interest in a club guy is a relief rather than her dating an outsider I can’t trust,” Cooper says and takes a deep breath. “And if I were real fucking honest I would say I like the idea of her being with a man who hasn’t fucked everyone in town. Someone with real-life experience is better than a fucking college kid thinking he knows how the world works. I also like how you don’t call her Rando because I fucking hate that name, even if I have to call her that because she won’t respond to anything else.”

  Cooper takes a long swig from the bottle, and I wait for the upcoming “but.”

  “With all that rosy shit out of the way, let’s be square here,” he continues. “I am not okay with you fucking my daughter. I won’t pretend otherwise. I’ll likely talk all kinds of shit to you and about you. I’ll growl and make threats. None of that can be helped because I’m a man and she’s my kid, and I don’t see her as a woman. I can’t especially with Miranda because she’s essentially the same person as when she was a kid. That’s who she’ll always be for me, a child. And I’m already fucking pissed my youngest girl ran off with an asshole from Tennessee.”

  “Miranda mentioned how you set her up with the asshole.”

  Cooper shoots me a dark glare. “That doesn’t mean I’m happy they’re playing house in another state. See, don’t waste time by throwing logic at me. I’m not a rational man when it comes to my kids. I can’t be. I’ve spent every day of their lives worrying something bad will happen to them. It kept me up nights because the world is fucking ugly and they’re fragile. Even now, when they’re adults and capable of protecting themselves, I can’t shake the feeling that I need to be watching over them to keep trouble away. So you might be a good man, and I might want you with Miranda, but I will still do everything in my power to make sure you think I wish you were dead. Understand?”

  “Yeah, I get it,” I say, enjoying my beer.

  “Think you can talk her into letting people call her Miranda again?”

  “Doubtful. She said some girl ruined the name for her.”

  Cooper sighs. “I miss when she was Randi. I tried talking her into Mandi once, but she lost the ability to understand English until I let the subject drop.”

  I laugh at the thought of Miranda pulling such a move on a man like Cooper. Of course, she doesn’t think of him as a badass killer. He’s just her pop. I doubt she views him as scary at all. Not that I believe Miranda fears much in the world.

  Not much scares me either. Overseas, I was pushed harder than I’d thought I could stand. These days with the Reapers, I feel retired. Nothing can shake my confidence. Not Cooper’s growling threats, which he throws at me again before leaving.

  “If you make my baby cry, I will end you,” he says before riding away on his Harley.

  Of course, his words might be more intimidating if he hadn’t told me two minutes earlier to sleep in Vaughn’s guest room so I wouldn’t die of heat stroke. He’s playing my pop with one breath and making threats with his next. The guy needs to work on his terror tactics.

  Taking his advice, I remain in the house until Vaughn, Raven, and their kids return. They offer for me to sleep in the guest room, but I don’t feel comfortable bunking in a room with a quilt on the bed. The family pictures in there wig me out too.

  Instead of sleeping inside, I return to my tent where I strip down to my boxers. I play music quietly and think about Miranda. My mind examines our conversation today. I analyze her reaction, searching for ways to make her smile and how to avoid making her frown. I view winning Miranda’s heart in the same way I would examine a mission report. Even the most seemingly insignificant detail could seal the deal or break the spell I currently have her under.

  THE CHAPTER WHERE SHIT GETS REAL

  THE ODDBALL

  Iwake to find a message from Quaid asking if I dreamed about him last night. Though I consider pretending I enjoyed a romantic or sexy fantasy, lying feels wrong with him.
Plus, I get the very distinct feeling he’ll see through any lies I tell. So I admit I dreamed of cleaning the garage and finding baby Colton stuck in the trunk.

  “Sorry. Nothing about you.”

  “I dreamed you were riding a mechanical bull,” he texts later. “You went longer than anyone ever did before. People started to boo that you wouldn’t stop and get off the bull so someone else could have a turn. That’s when you screamed how you didn’t share, and I realized the bull was me! Dun, dun, dun. ☺”

  I send him a selfie of my stomach because face selfies seem impersonal. He responds with a picture of what I suspect are his toes. I don’t think I’ve ever found a man even half as sexy as Quaid and his toe-selfie seals the deal for me. I plan to ride the sexy bastard like a mechanical bull tonight!

  My breakfast is a granola bar and leftover spiked lemonade. Though I’m far from wasted when heading to work, I’m not a hundred percent sober either.

  The buzz steadies my nerves when I find the box. A call came into the shelter overnight, claiming someone ditched a box filled with kittens by the river. I arrive expecting to deal with pissed cats needing food and water. People often ditch animals on these rural roads.

  I park my moped near a cardboard box. Farther down the road, a man works on his truck. He doesn’t pay attention to me. I suspect his vehicle broke down, but I’m not AAA, and I don’t know how to fix anything. Pop and Audrey bonded over fixing up her El Camino while I never had a bit of interest in learning how things work.

  I walk to the box, expecting to hear the pissed cries of hungry kittens. The oppressively hot day remains silent, though. Opening the box, I quickly realize these kittens weren’t left overnight. Someone trapped the four babies inside the box without water for much longer than a warm evening. I run my fingers over the claw marks on the sides of the box where the kittens fought to escape.

  My tears would likely seem silly to other people, but I can’t control my sorrow. The kittens were so little, and someone left them to die. Why couldn’t the asshole have let them loose so they might find shelter, water, and food? Why sentence them to death unless the person was a sick fuck?

  I hate crying in front of people especially strangers. The man at the truck is too far to hear me, but I still don’t want him seeing. I carry the cardboard box down the small embankment and into the woods where I might find a bit of privacy while dealing with my feelings.

  I sit against a tree, resting the box next to me. My tears burn against the heat of my flushed skin. I know I need to take the kittens to the shelter to be cremated, but I’m not ready. They deserve for someone to care they’re gone, so I sit in the woods and give them time to be remembered.

  I consider texting Mom to ask for love, but she’s volunteering at a summer function at school today. Pop sucks in these situations, resorting to cussing about evil people rotting in hell. His rage won’t quiet my tears or give my guidance.

  Nothing Quaid could say will help either, but I miss him. Yesterday was the most fun I’d had since I was a kid. His texts this morning made me smile in a silly way I don’t usually smile. I never trusted happy faces, and I especially don’t trust them on me. With Quaid—like with my family—I make an exception.

  I don’t know what to say to Quaid. Words won’t explain how I feel. Finding dead kittens might seem like such a minor problem to Quaid anyway. He spent time in war zones while I was safe in my hometown with my protective pop and doting mom. My current problem will no doubt bore the retired warrior, but I still crave him.

  “Having a bad day. Wish we were already at dinner,” I text because I don’t trust my voice.

  As if he was staring at the phone just waiting for my message, Quaid replies almost immediately, “Bad how?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I miss the way you make me feel.”

  “Where are you?”

  I smile at the possessive demand behind his question. Just like my pop, Quaid views every problem as fixable. In times like these, nothing can be done except to let time pass.

  The crack of a branch underfoot removes my smile. Dogs run loose in this area. I’ve spotted a few over the years, but they’re fast and feral. Hidden partially behind a tree, I lean far enough around the trunk to scan the area.

  Despite seeing nothing through my tear-filled eyes, I listen to my gut warning me to remain very still. Animals aren’t the only dangers in the woods.

  “Got a weird feeling,” I text to Quaid. “Single man was on the road. Blue truck. Older model. Ford maybe. Man wore a hat. Red maybe. I couldn’t see his hair or face. His shirt was white.”

  My phone nearly falls out of my hand when I hear another crack of branches and leaves under a man’s foot. Knowing a dog isn’t creeping closer, I reach for my gun. My fingers flip the snap on the holster, careful to mask the noise. I don’t think I’m breathing. My heart beats faster, but my hand remains steady as I slide the weapon from its holster.

  I feel movement before catching sight of someone through my tear-filled eyes. His face is covered with a black bandana. He trains his rifle, searching for his target. I spot him only seconds before he fires a shot.

  Shocked by the jolt and burn of a bullet tearing through my right arm, I drop my gun. The world spins. Pain, fear, and rage swirl in my mind. I’m certain I’ll die. No more Mom, Pop, Quaid, RV, spiked lemonade, and granola bars. My life ends here.

  Fueled now by pure emotion, I grab my weapon with my left hand and fire in his direction. I can’t aim. I can’t even see past my tears and the sweat and the shock. I might die today, but I want to hurt the asshole too.

  I fire until my gun is empty. My shaking hands struggle to reload. My right arm is all but numb by the time I get the new magazine shoved into my handgun. The man is gone, I think, but I still point the gun in the direction I last saw him. Is he hiding? Waiting for another chance?

  Breathing so heavily, I nearly miss the sound of a truck’s tires squealing as he speeds off.

  “Chickenshit,” I hiss while fumbling with my phone with the hand of the arm gushing blood. “Not gushing,” I tell myself. “It’s a trickle. Nothing a Band-Aid won’t fix up.”

  I finally manage to dial Pop and put him on speakerphone. My left hand holds the gun at the ready in case the coward changes his mind and wants a second round with this Johansson.

  “I’m off Route 72, just past the Wicker’s old driveway,” I say as soon as he answers. “A guy shot my arm. I don’t think I got him with my shots. Could you come to pick me up?”

  “Yeah, baby,” Pop says in the calmest voice in the world. I swear he sounds half asleep and I smile at how relaxed his calm makes me. “Is the asshole around?”

  “He ran, and I’ve reloaded. Don’t let Mom worry. I’m fine.”

  I hang up, knowing he’ll want to remain on the line despite needing to ride his Harley as if he’s got the devil on his ass.

  Pop’s mind is already on suspects. Did someone come after me because of him? He’ll rally his troops for the impending trouble. I imagine him sending a club guy to watch over Lily. Someone trusted and experienced like Vaughn. Then Pop will make sure Audrey is safe in Tennessee. No doubt Mom will soon be surrounded by muscle. Ellsberg will submit to the power of Pop’s demands. He’ll get everything handled just like he always does.

  Meanwhile, I try to keep my mind off how wet I feel. Did I piss myself? Is it just sweat? Can’t be blood since it’s a minor arm thing.

  No, I won’t think of the pain. I’ll mourn the kittens. Oh, and worry Quaid will reschedule dinner just because of a little gunshot wound. A small smile warms my face when I remember his soft, wavy hair. It’s the last thought I have before the world spins, and my mind goes black.

  THE OUTSIDER

  Time nearly stans still for the next few hours. Miranda’s texts get me riled up. My attempts to reach her are met by silence. I probably shouldn’t assume the worst, but I do because Miranda doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman to pull such a dramatic ploy.

  The
answer to her texts and silence comes within the hour. Cooper doesn’t inform me that Miranda’s hurt or at the hospital. Instead, I learn from River who hears from Vaughn who got a club message from his president. When my president says the words, “Rando’s been shot,” the world drops out from under me. I’ve seen too many gunshot wounds not to assume the absolute worst.

  A follow-up text reveals Miranda is in surgery but expected to recover. River promises to keep me updated. I have no intention of sitting around at the farmhouse with a trio of overheated pigs and waiting for snippets of information.

  The small hospital looks like an urgent care center, but I know I’m in the right place just based on the number of Harleys parked around the building. I add mine to the dozens and storm through the front sliding doors where I’m met by a waiting room full of familiar faces belonging to people whose names I don’t remember.

  The men turn to me, and every frown darkens. I’m the outsider. No one shot Miranda until I arrived. No doubt, I’m the piece of shit that caused this clusterfuck. Get ’em, boys!

  I don’t know what the fuck to do with myself now that I’m here with strangers. Standing since there’s nowhere to sit, I text Vaughn to ask if he’s at the hospital. He takes ten minutes to respond “no.”

  “I’m at the scene. Looking for clues,” he adds some time later.

  I thank him for letting me know, but I’m restless without having news about Miranda. Surgery takes time. I need to be patient. There’s no hurrying what needs to be done. I decide to head outside where I pace in peace.

  I walk to the corner store to buy a drink. Taking my time choosing a soda, I scan every option in the coolers. When I return to the hospital, I find everyone in the same places as when I left. So I walk back to the corner store to grab a bag of chips like the ones Miranda fed me yesterday. This routine continues for over an hour. Back and forth, I walk until the owner asks me what I’m doing.