Reaper's Stand

Book 4: Reapers Motorcycle Club

by Joanna Wylde

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

As Reapers Motorcycle Club president, Reese "Picnic" Hayes has given his entire life to the club. After losing his wife, he knew he'd never love another woman. These days, Reese keeps his relationships free and easy-he definitely doesn't want to waste his time on a glorified cleaning lady like London Armstrong. Too bad he's completely obsessed with her.




Besides running her own business, London has her junkie cousin's daughter to look after. Sure she's attracted to the Reapers' president, but she's not stupid. When her young cousin gets caught up with a ruthless drug cartel, Reese might be the only man who can help her. Now London has to make the hardest decision of her life-how far will she go to save her family?




Contains mature themes.

Release date: October 7, 2014

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 336

Sample

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This is my fourth book in the Reapers Motorcycle Club series, and as time passes it becomes harder to write my acknowledgments. The list of people who have supported me grows longer and I’m afraid I’ll forget someone. You have no idea how much I appreciate all of you.

Thanks to everyone at Berkley who has made this possible, especially Cindy Hwang. I have an incredible team behind me and I appreciate all their efforts. It’s worth noting that I’ve been repeatedly blessed by the Cover Gods—the Berkley art team has been amazing, and I hear almost daily from readers praising their efforts.

I also want to thank my agent, Amy Tannenbaum, Betty, my MC friends, my beta readers, my writing posse, all the bloggers who have supported me and everyone on my Junkies page. Special thanks to Chas and Jessica, because it doesn’t matter whether or not a book is good if nobody ever finds out about it. Kylie, Hang, Lori, and Cara—you know exactly how much you’ve helped me, and don’t think I take it for granted. Thank you for all the time you’ve given me.

Finally, thanks to my family, whose endless patience and willingness to step up makes my writing possible. I love you very much.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Throughout this series, I’ve tried to offer readers insight into MC culture and how I do my research. I’m very fortunate to have the continuing support of real women affiliated with clubs, and like each of my books, this one has been reviewed for accuracy. Reaper’s Stand was the first in which my club friends didn’t find major errors regarding club life, so maybe I’m finally figuring it out.

I’ve tried to make each book in the Reapers Motorcycle Club series different, rather than following a set formula. This has challenged me as a writer, but I’ve enjoyed exploring a variety of character types along the way. I think you’ll find that Reaper’s Stand has a different feel than the books that came before it. For example, Devil’s Game was a coming-of-age novel. Reaper’s Stand is the opposite—it’s a book about mature characters who are already fully formed as individuals. Every time I try something new, I worry that readers won’t be willing to make the leap. So far you haven’t given up on me. I hope you enjoy Reaper’s Stand.

PROLOGUE

COEUR D’ALENE, IDAHO
PRESENT DAY
LONDON

Should I look him in the eye when I killed him or just shoot him in the back?

Tough call.

I crouched in the kitchen, digging through my purse as if searching for keys. I knew right where the gun was, of course, but pulling it straight out just seemed so . . . obscene. The smell of dinner on the stove filled my nose. Chicken chili, with whole-grain corn bread in the oven for a side because it’s healthier.

It’d been baking for ten minutes already, which meant I had about twelve more minutes to end his life before the bread burned.

Reese sat out in the dining room, reading one of his motorcycle magazines and drinking his favorite beer while he waited for food. I’d been sure to buy a half rack earlier, and I’d met him at the door with a cold one open and ready to go. He was on his second now. I wasn’t under any illusions—two beers wouldn’t be enough to slow him down if he came after me, or ease his pain if my aim was off.

Still, a man deserves a beer before dying, right?

My fingers brushed the cold metal of the gun. I pulled out my phone instead and looked at Jessica’s picture, studying her pretty, smiling face on graduation day. So full of hope and promise. She’d raised her right arm to wave at the camera. Her pinkie curled forward, offering a glimpse of the sparkling tips on her new acrylics. She’d wanted them for graduation so badly. They hadn’t been in the budget, but I couldn’t tell her no.

You have to understand—none of us ever expected Jessica to graduate.

Hell, she shouldn’t even be alive. My bitch of a cousin had done drugs all through both pregnancies, yet somehow Jessie pulled through. Not unscathed. She had the usual developmental quirks . . . poor impulse control, bad judgment. Quick to anger. They came from fetal drug effects—the gift that keeps on giving for a child’s whole life. But at least she had a life. Her little sister died in the NICU two days after her birth. Never got a chance.

Fuck you, Amber. Fuck you very much for doing that to your kids.

I glanced up at the oven timer and realized I’d wasted nearly three minutes thinking about Jess. I supposed I could kill him after pulling out the bread, but putting it off would just make things harder.

Or maybe I should feed him first?

No. He’d had his beer, but if I had to sit across from Reese over a meal I’d never make it. I couldn’t look into those blue eyes and laugh. I’d never been a good liar. This past month had been heaven and hell rolled into one big bad joke.

Right. Time for the punch line.

I pulled out the small pistol and stuck it into the pocket of the loose sweater I’d picked so carefully for just this moment. I also took out my keys, my ID, and my cash, stuffing them into my jeans. Just in case. I didn’t really expect to survive the night, but it never hurts to hope. The van was even gassed up and ready to go, on the off chance that I managed to get away.

Of course, I had no idea where I’d drive. Burn that bridge when you get to it . . .

Things started going wrong as soon as I walked into the dining room. Reese wasn’t sitting at the head of the table, where I’d left him. Damn. I could’ve shot him in the back without warning if he’d just stayed put. Now he sat facing me, leaning casually in his chair, beer in hand. The magazine lay open before him and he looked up, offering me that mocking smile of his. God, I loved that smile, despite the fact that it could be cruel as all fuck.

“Something you want to talk about?” he asked, cocking his head.

“No,” I murmured, wondering what he’d say if I shared my thoughts. Gee, Reese, I’m so sorry I’m about to kill you, but if it makes you feel any better I hate myself for doing it—not a hundred percent sure I won’t shoot myself next.

I wouldn’t, though. Not yet. Not until I saw Jessica for myself, made sure they’d kept their promises and she was safe and sound. After that?

Well. We’d just have to see.

He sighed, eyes flicking to my pocket, where my hand shifted nervously on the gun.

Paranoia hit yet again.

He knew. He knew all about it, I could see it in his face. Fuck. I’d failed her . . . Don’t be ridiculous. How could he possibly know?

“Babe, you look like you could use a day off,” he said finally. “Have you considered hitting the spa? Maybe get a massage?”

“That costs too much,” I said automatically, biting back a hysterical laugh. Because money mattered now, right?

“I wasn’t suggesting that you pay for it,” he said, frowning at me.

“I don’t want your money—”

“Yeah, I know, you’re totally independent and you like it that way. Blah, blah. Just let me do something for you, for once. Fuck’s sake.”

Shit. Why did he have to be so nice?

I felt my eyes start to water and I looked away, forcing myself to detach again and focus. I needed to kill him, and I couldn’t give him any warning. But he was facing me and all the way across the room, which was a bigger problem than it sounds. Pistols aren’t exactly known for accuracy, and it’s not like I had much in the way of experience.

I needed to get closer.

If I came up behind him, rubbed his shoulders . . . That would be close enough. God, I was a shitty human being.

“The food won’t be ready for another ten minutes,” I said. “You look sort of tense. Want a neck rub?”

He raised a brow as I circled the table.

“I think you should stay back,” he said slowly. I paused.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’d hate to make it too easy for you, sweetheart.”

My chest tightened. I offered a weak smile, because like I said—I’m a shit liar.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m assuming you’re planning to shoot me in the back of the head,” he said quietly, and that’s when I realized he wasn’t relaxed at all. He might be leaning back casually, but every one of those solid muscles roping his body had drawn tight, poised to attack. “That’s a bad idea. You shoot that close, you’ll be all covered in blood spatter. Means you’ll have to risk tracking more evidence out of the house or taking time to clean up. Either way, complicates things.”

Well. At least it was all finally out in the open. Almost a relief. I pulled out the gun and held it up, using my left hand to brace my right as I carefully sighted on him. I expected him to explode up at me, to fight back. Instead he just sat, waiting.

“Go ahead, do it,” he said, a sad smile toying with the corners of his mouth. “Show me what you’re made of.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “You’ll never know how much I wish this weren’t happening.”

“Then don’t do it. Whatever it is, we can work through it. I’ll help you.”

“You can’t.”

He sighed, then looked past me and jerked his chin.

“It’s over, babe,” I heard a man say from behind. Huh. I guess it was. Fortunately, I had just enough time to pull the trigger before he hit me.

CHAPTER ONE

EIGHTEEN DAYS EARLIER
LONDON

My back was killing me.

It was nearly two in the morning, and I’d just finished up the late-night cleaning shift at the pawn shop. I’d been letting myself get soft the past couple of months. Too much time spent managing the business, not enough time scouring bathrooms, because I’d forgotten just how much work scrubbing a toilet really is.

Well, scrubbing toilets, floors, dusting, vacuuming. London’s Cleaning Service did it all, and while we might not be the cheapest crew in town, we were the best. I knew this because I turned down more accounts than I took these days. Thanks to my hard-earned reputation, finding new clients was easy. Workers? Not so much. Most people aren’t fans of spending their nights wiping up after others, and even with my higher-than-average starting pay, people flaked on me.

Tonight, for example.

I’d gotten a call from Anna—one of my crew leads—to say she had two no-shows. Because the life of a cleaning lady is nonstop glamour, that meant I got to spend my Friday evening scraping dried pee off the floor in a men’s bathroom.

Charmed existence, I know.

At least my aching back and I could crawl into bed soon.

I pulled up to the house and noticed a blue Honda Civic parked in front. Mellie’s car—my young cousin’s best friend. She must be spending the night with Jessie, I realized. I bit back the surge of annoyance. On the one hand, I really preferred it when Jess cleared stuff like this with me ahead of time.

On the other, there were worse things than having the girl home on a Friday. Most of them were worse, actually. God, I loved her so much, but Jessica was impossible. I reminded myself yet again that it wasn’t entirely her fault—the counselors told me over and over that I needed to help her learn to cope with her limitations, because it’s not like she’d grow out of them.

Decision making wasn’t Jessica’s strong suit.

According to the experts, that part of her brain just hadn’t developed quite right, thanks to her mother’s ongoing chemical romance. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I knew she wasn’t like other kids. But you know what? We all have to learn to get along in this world. Nobody’s born with a clean slate, and she wasn’t a little girl anymore.

I unlocked the front door to find Mellie sitting on the couch. Her knees were drawn up, her eyes were huge, and she clutched a can of Diet Coke like a shield.

My parent radar crackled to life.

“What did she do now?”

“We were at a party,” Mel whispered. “It was around ten o’clock. She ran into some girls who graduated a couple years ago—Terry Fratelli and her friends—and they invited us out to the Armory for a party with the Reapers motorcycle club.”

I swayed, grabbing the back of my old, green wing-backed chair to catch myself.

“Fuck.”

Mellie’s eyes got even wider. I didn’t cuss. She knew I didn’t cuss. Ever.

“What’s the rest of it?”

The girl looked away, biting her lip.

“I’m so sorry for leaving her,” she said, guilt written all over her face. “But there was no way I’d go out there and she didn’t listen to me. She actually got kind of . . .”

Her voice trailed off and I filled in the gaps. Jessica liked to make fun of Mel when she wouldn’t follow along like a well-trained puppy. Classic Jess. Such an idiot child—I wasn’t quite sure how she managed to keep a friend like Melanie around, given the shit she pulled.

“Anyway, she promised me she’d text, and I told her I wouldn’t say anything as long as she stayed in touch. But she stopped texting me around midnight and I could tell she was really drunk. Her messages weren’t even making sense. I’m really scared for her, London.”

This last was said with a sniffle, and I realized the poor girl was terrified. I came over and sat down next to her, giving her a hug. Mel spent so much time over here that she felt like my own sometimes.

“She’s gonna be so pissed I told you.”

“You did the right thing, baby,” I said, running a hand across her hair. “She’s being a selfish brat, putting you into this position.”

“Well, on the bright side she’ll forgive me,” Mel muttered. She sniffed and pulled back, looking up at me with a wavering smile. “She always does.”

I smiled back, but my thoughts were grim. Mel was too nice. Sometimes I wished she’d ditch Jessie and find a new best friend. Then I felt guilty, because even with her issues, Jess was my heart.

“I need to go find her,” I said. “Do you want to stay here or head home?”

“I was thinking I could sleep here tonight?” she asked. I nodded, already knowing the rest of the story. Friday nights at Mel’s house weren’t pretty, especially on paydays. Her dad liked to celebrate the end of the week a little too much.

“Sounds good.”

•   •   •

I tried calling Bolt Harrison from my van so Mellie wouldn’t hear me. He managed Pawns, the same store I’d been cleaning that night. It happened to be owned by the Reapers MC. Bolt was their vice president.

I’d had the cleaning contract there for about six months now. They were becoming one of my most valuable accounts and had dropped hints about offering a second contract for The Line, their strip club. We’d already come in a few times when they needed extra help, and I had high hopes it would grow into something bigger. I originally ran the Pawns crew myself, but two months ago I’d turned it over to Jason, an older guy who’d been with me for almost five years. He was reliable, worked hard, and did a great job managing the people under him.

The MC paid well, and they paid in cash, which was convenient. In return, we kept our mouths shut about anything we might see, which honestly wasn’t as much as you’d think. I thought there might be some prostitution happening in the back rooms out at The Line, but I’d never seen any sign of women being forced.

Not my job to tell consenting adults what to do with their bodies.

Even so, I made sure that none of the younger girls ever came out with me. Just because I didn’t call the cops doesn’t mean I wanted my people getting sucked into anything.

Anyway, I figured Bolt was the first place to start if I wanted to extract Jess from whatever trouble she’d gotten herself into this time. I liked Bolt and felt relatively comfortable around him—and he was my only choice, really. My other contact was Reese Hayes, the club’s president. That man scared the heck out of me and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Something about him . . . The way his eyes followed me. Like he wanted to eat me, and not in a nice flowers and candlelit dinner kind of way. A hint of gray at his temples said he was probably just a little older than me, but his body was built like a man in his twenties. I don’t know what bothered me more, his inherent scariness or the fact that his scariness sort of secretly turned me on. (Pathetic, I know.)

There was no way on earth I’d talk to him if I didn’t have to.

“Yeah?” Bolt answered. I heard music in the background, loud music.

“Hi, Mr. Harrison.”

“Is there any point in telling you to call me Bolt?”

I would’ve smiled if I hadn’t been so stressed—we’d been dancing this same dance since I’d started. None of the club members understood why I insisted on being so formal, but I had my reasons. Just because the MC paid well wasn’t any reason to cozy up to them. I liked my boundaries.

“Not really,” I said, my voice betraying my worry.

“What’s going on?” he asked, picking up on my tone. That was Bolt—he saw and heard everything, whether you wanted him to or not.

“I have a personal problem I’m hoping you can help me with.”

Silence.

I’d probably startled him. I’d never come asking for help before. In fact, I rarely saw him these days. The first few months he’d watched us like hawks, but lately we’d started to blend into the background. Nobody pays attention to the cleaners, something I’ve always found fascinating. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen or the secrets I hold.

Of course, that might be why I found Reese so unsettling—six months into the job and I still hadn’t disappeared yet.

“You probably don’t know this, but I’m my cousin’s guardian,” I said, pushing forward. “One of her friends just told me that she went to a party out at your clubhouse tonight. I’m worried about her—she’s a great kid, but not the best at making good decisions. Is there any chance you can help me track her down?”

More silence, and I cringed. I’d insulted him, I realized. Implied things about the parties at his clubhouse that we all knew were true but nobody liked to talk about or admit. That they weren’t safe for young women. That the club couldn’t be trusted.

“Is she an adult?”

“She’s eighteen, but she just graduated two weeks ago and she’s young for her age.”

Bolt snorted.

“Hate to tell you this, sweetheart, but she’s old enough to make her own decisions about where to party.”

Now it was my turn to fall silent. I could say plenty—that she might be old enough to party, but she wasn’t old enough to drink legally. That they could find themselves in a heap of trouble for providing her with booze. Of course, for all I knew the cops were out there partying with them . . . But I kept my mouth shut, because I’d learned a long time ago that if you give someone enough silence, eventually they’ll fill it.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I get where you’re coming from. I’m not out there tonight, but Pic is.”

Darn. “Pic” was short for “Picnic,” and that was Reese’s nickname. I had no idea why they called him that and I sure as heck hadn’t asked. He was the least picnicky person I’d ever met in my life.

“Go out to the Armory and ask for him. Tell him I sent you, tell him it’s a personal favor. Maybe he’ll track her down for you, maybe not. Like I said, the girl’s an adult. You know how to get there?”

“Of course.”

He laughed. Everyone in Coeur d’Alene knew where the Armory was.

“Thank you, Mr. Harrison,” I said quickly, hanging up before he could change his mind. Then I turned the keys in the ignition and my van roared to life, along with the check engine light that had been haunting me for the last week. I chose to ignore it, because even if I had someone look at it for me, I couldn’t afford to fix the stupid thing.

If it could still drive places, it wasn’t really broken. At least, that was the theory.

I shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway. Oh, Jessie was going to hate this. Auntie London riding to the rescue in a minivan with the cleaning service logo on the side.

Ha. Not like it was the first time.

•   •   •

The Reapers clubhouse was about ten miles northeast of Coeur d’Alene, back on a private road twisting through the heavily forested hills. I’d never been there, although they’d invited me to a couple of parties when I first started cleaning Pawns.

I’d politely refused, preferring to maintain my wall of privacy. I’d cut back on socializing after my ex-husband, Joe, left. Not that I blamed him for ending it—he’d been clear from the start that he didn’t want kids in the house. When Amber OD’d and nearly died six years ago it came down to him or Jessie, because I couldn’t stand the situation any longer. The choice had been clear and the divorce had been amicable enough.

Still, I’d needed to lick my wounds for a while. Between building my business and raising my cousin, I hadn’t even tried dating until I met Nate a few months back. On nights like this, I wondered if those years alone had been worth it. It wasn’t that Jess was bad. It’s just that she never quite figured out the whole cause-and-effect thing, and probably never would.

By the time I pulled up to the Armory it was nearly three in the morning. I don’t know what I’d expected from the Reapers clubhouse. I knew it was an old National Guard building, but somehow that hadn’t translated into “fort” in my head. But that’s essentially what this was. Big, solid building, at least three stories tall. Narrow windows, parapets on the roof. There was a gate through a side wall leading to what looked like a courtyard behind the building.

Directly in front of the building was a line of bikes, watched over by a couple of younger men wearing the signature leather vests I’d seen around town over the years. Off to the right was a gravel parking lot with a good number of cars in it. I pulled into the end of the line and turned off the ignition.

It occurred to me that I’d be crashing a party right after cleaning for six hours. Great. I probably looked like an escapee from an insane asylum. I flipped down my mirror—sure enough, my blonde hair was ratty and my makeup had long since disappeared. Oh well . . . Wouldn’t be the first time chasing down Jess had dragged me out when I needed a shower and bed.

Although she’d never dragged me anywhere quite as intimidating at this place.

I got out of the car and started toward the main door. One of the men walked across the gravel to meet me. I looked him over, feeling old. He had to be twenty at the most, and the scraggly beard he wore with obvious pride had hardly filled in. He wasn’t muscular like his friend manning the door, but all wiry and pointing bones.

“You here for the party?” he asked, studying me skeptically. I couldn’t blame him—my ratty jeans might not stand out too much, but my tank top had seen better days and the bandanna holding back my hair was stained with sweat. I probably had dirt streaks on my face, too. The light in the car had been so poor they wouldn’t have shown up.

Oh, and did I mention the feeling-old part? At thirty-eight, I was pretty sure I could’ve been this kid’s mom.

I decided I didn’t like him.

“No, I’m here to speak with Mr. Hayes,” I said politely. “Mr. Harrison suggested I come here to see him.”

He looked at me blankly.

“I got no idea who you’re talkin’ about,” he said finally. The oversized infant masquerading as an adult turned and hollered at his friend. “BB, you got any idea who ‘Mr. Hayes’ is?”

BB lumbered over toward us like a bear, dark hair hanging down his back in a braid. He seemed to be older than this one, but not much. I sighed. Good lord, they were just babies. Dangerous babies, I reminded myself, eyeing the chains hanging from their pants and the bulky rings decorating their hands.

Those were essentially brass knuckles.

“That’s Picnic, dumbfuck,” BB said, looking at me critically. “Why you callin’ him Mr. Hayes? You got papers to serve? He’s not here.”

I shook my head. I wished it were something that simple.

“I call him that because I work for him,” I said, keeping my voice matter-of-fact and composed. “I own London’s Cleaning Service—several of your businesses are our accounts. Mr. Harrison sent me out here to find Mr. Hayes.”

“Bolt sent her,” BB told the little one. He nodded at me. “I’ll walk you in. See if we can find him.”

“Thank you.”

I took a deep breath and steeled myself to follow. I’d heard so many stories about this place that I wasn’t sure what to expect. If you believed the rumors, the Armory was a combination whorehouse/underground fighting pit, with piles of stolen goods packing every room to the ceiling. Fifty percent pirate cave, fifty percent drug den, one hundred percent dangerous.

BB opened the door and I followed him in, getting my first good look at the clubhouse.

Well.

The rumors were certainly wrong about the stolen goods. I’d like to think if they furnished the place with stuff they’d taken, they would’ve picked out things that were a little nicer than what I saw before me.

The room was large, and from the central location of the door it seemed to span the entire front half of the building. On the far right was a bar. Ancient couches and cast-off chairs lined the walls, and several battered, mismatched tables filled the center. To the left was a pool table, darts, and a jukebox that was either forty years old or a damned good replica. The place wasn’t dirty . . . just very well worn.

It’s funny, but looking around, my very first thought was that I was overdressed—and by overdressed, I meant there was literally too much fabric covering my body.

Wayyy too much.

The women ranged from full-on naked to dressed casually in tight jeans and low-cut tank tops. I stuck out like a . . . well, like a cleaning lady at a biker party. Half the guys had women on their laps, partially clothed and otherwise, and off in the corner I was pretty sure was a couple having full-on sex.

I snuck another quick look out of the corner of my eye.

Make that definitely having sex. Disgusting . . . yet strangely mesmerizing . . . I had to force myself to look away, hoping to hell I wasn’t blushing like a little girl.

You’re thirty-eight and you know where babies come from, I reminded myself firmly. Just because you’re not getting any doesn’t mean they shouldn’t.

People started to notice me—big guys covered in tattoos, wearing leather vests with the Reaper colors on them. Their gazes ranged from curious to outright suspicious. Shit. This was a mistake. So Bolt sent me out there. That didn’t mean it was safe, or a good idea. Bolt wasn’t my friend. Sure, he probably valued me as a worker, but the club valued their strippers, too. Certainly didn’t stop them from firing their asses right and left when their personal drama got out of hand.

Snap out of it.

I took another deep breath and smiled