Reaper's Fire (Reapers Motorcycle Club #6) Read online

  “I don’t want to calm down,” I hissed, wondering if I could launch myself forward and scratch his eyes out before they caught me.

  “Yes, you do,” she said. “Because otherwise he’ll think he’s the victim here. Don’t give him that. Knowing your luck, he’ll press charges.”

  A snort of laughter burst out of me, because wouldn’t that be just like Brandon? Not that he would . . . Not really. That would be far too embarrassing. Couldn’t risk scuffing up that precious image of his, now, could we?

  I looked up to find the guards escorting him out of the room. The nurse was pushing me toward the bed and I did what she said, because everything else aside, I really didn’t want to get sedated or whatever. She helped me sit down, her face firm but compassionate.

  “I know this has been a terrible day—probably the worst of your life,” she said. “But you can’t physically attack people or we’ll have to restrain you. Would you like me to call a counselor?”

  “I’m sorry,” I told her, which was a damned lie. “And no, I don’t want a counselor. Not right now, at least.”

  “That was her husband,” Margarita said. “He couldn’t be bothered to leave work earlier when she was losing the baby.”

  The nurse’s eyes widened, and she glanced back toward Brandon.

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” Margarita confirmed, her face fierce. The nurse shook her head and looked at me again.

  “Well, whatever he did, we can’t have people fighting in the rooms,” she said. “Is this going to be a problem?”

  I shook my head. “No, no more problems.”

  The nurse nodded, then gave me another sharp look.

  “So you’re done with him? For real?”

  I didn’t have to think twice before answering.

  “Yeah, I’m definitely done with him.”

  “Good for you, sweetie. You deserve better.”

  Damn straight I do. A lot better.

  CHAPTER ONE

  EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER

  HALLIES FALLS, WASHINGTON STATE

  GAGE

  Handyman needed for family-owned building—free rent in exchange for work. Call Tinker Garrett or inquire inside Tinker’s Teahouse, Antiques & Fine Chocolates for more information.

  I ripped off one of the little paper tabs with a phone number on it, glancing in the shop window. No signs of life, but the sign said “Open.”

  Pulling a worn bandanna out of my back pocket, I wiped my forehead, cursing the fucking heat. Hottest summer on record, and Hallies Falls was even worse than back home in Coeur d’Alene. Couldn’t even sleep at night because the piece of shit AC couldn’t keep up in my craptastic hotel room. Glancing at the sign again¸ I figured I might as well go for the job. It’d get me out of the damned hotel and provide good cover at the same time. Anything was a step up at this point.

  A string of bells jingled as I opened the shop door. Very old-school, which I guess made sense because the whole shop was like stepping through a time warp to the eighteen hundreds. There were fancy little shelves holding fancy little teacups. Each of the windows held a fully set table with cloth napkins, shiny silver, and a hundred more tiny, breakable things that would probably shatter if I looked at them too hard. The battered wooden floor had been scattered with old-fashioned floor rugs to create separate display areas, along with strategically placed side tables and even a couple of old dressers. It was clever, although how the hell it made enough money to keep the doors open was beyond me—couldn’t be much market for specialty tea shit in a town like Hallies Falls.

  Across the back of the shop was a glassed-in case full of chocolates, along with an old-fashioned cash register straight out of Little House on the Prairie. I walked over to it.

  “Anyone here?” I asked, frowning. There was a door behind the counter that opened into what looked like a small kitchen in the back. I heard a strange, shuffling sound and reached for my gun automatically, then jerked my hand away. Fuck. I’d been jumpy as hell ever since I pulled into this stupid town. Those instincts might keep me alive, but they’d also sink me if I gave away too much.

  “Be with you in a sec,” said a sexy, drawling voice from behind the counter. A voice that oozed smoke and heat and warm darkness, putting my cock on high alert. “I was just checking the temperature in the candy case.”

  Long, slender fingers tipped with bright red polish reached up to grip the countertop for support as the hottest, most fuckable woman I’d ever met in my life stood up and smiled at me. Yeah, this had been a bad idea. I’d seen Tinker Garrett in the distance once already—my club brother, Painter, and I had checked her while she was unloading the trunk of a sweet, cherry-red Mustang convertible a couple days earlier. I’d known then she was exactly my type, but now that I’d looked at her up close? Fuckin’ hell . . . I’d managed a goddamned strip club for two years, but this bitch put all those girls to shame and she hadn’t even taken off her clothes yet. An image of her naked and sprawled across one of those prissy little tables filled my mind. I had to hold back a shudder.

  Walk out—this isn’t going to end well.

  “Hi, I’m Tinker,” she said, reaching up to wipe the sweat off her forehead. That set her tits in motion, and for an instant I blanked out entirely, wondering if her nipples were pink or brown. Pink, I decided. Her skin was super pale and white, like creamy . . . Fuck, I didn’t know. Like something creamy and lickable.

  She had black hair with bangs, and she wore this tight little top that somehow managed to look prim and seductive at the same time. Didn’t hurt that her boobs were absolutely perfect. High and pointed and big enough to overflow in my hands while I held them.

  Throw in a pair of puffy red lips designed to suck cock and wide, green eyes with thick black lashes?

  Yeah, I’d hit that. Early and often.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, and I reached across the counter, wiping away a small smudge of dirt on her cheek. She flinched, and I caught hold of myself. Great, scare the shit out of her, why don’t you?

  “Sorry,” I said. “You’ve got dirt on your face.”

  She gave a bright laugh. “I’ve probably got dirt all over. It’s one of those grubby, sticky kind of days, you know?”

  Sticky? In her mouth it was a dirty word, and I wanted to make her stickier. My eyes crawled across her body, watching as a bead of sweat rolled down her neck and into her cleavage. I licked my lips. Tinker cleared her throat, gently reminding me that we were in the middle of a conversation.

  “You don’t exactly look like one of my regular customers, so I’m assuming you’re here about the job?” she asked, smiling at me. By then I’d half forgotten why I’d walked into the store—she was that fuckable. Tiny and pretty, but still round in all the right places. Despite the mess, she radiated class—I wanted to drag her down into the dark with me.

  Swallowing, I managed not to reach down and give my dick the adjusting it seriously needed, which took real willpower.

  “Yeah, according to the sign, you’ve got an apartment available in exchange for work. Still open?”

  “Yes,” she said, and I swear her eyes dimmed a little. “But I need to get these chocolates into the basement before they melt. The AC wasn’t working when I came in this morning. The temperature’s rising”—not the only thing—“and I can’t afford to lose product. Can you come back in an hour or so?”

  “You call anyone about the AC yet?” I asked, realizing this could be the perfect in. She frowned, those gorgeous lips pouting as I considered sucking them into my mouth. Maybe chewing on them for a while. My dick surged—apparently we were in agreement.

  “No,” she told me. “I mean, I tried. But the closest repair place is in Omak, and the guy isn’t available for another week at least. Not much around here, you know?”

  No shit.

  “Let me take a look at it,” I suggested. This really was a perfect opportunity to get in with her, build up my cover . . . Great, now I was thinking abou
t getting into her. Thank fuck for the counter between us, because my cock was rock hard. “I’m Cooper, by the way. Cooper Romero.”

  “Tinker Garrett,” she replied, offering her hand across the glass. Her fingers were delicate and tiny, but not fragile. I felt the strength in her grip, and she wasn’t afraid to look me in the eye. “Nice to meet you. Have you done maintenance work before?”

  I considered the question, deciding not to lie more than was necessary—it’s always the extra lies that cause trouble. Keep it simple and don’t volunteer information.

  “Not formally, no,” I admitted. “But I’ve done a bit of everything over the years. Generally pretty good at figuring things out, if I’ve got enough time, and it sounds like this isn’t an hourly job anyway. Not so much a cash operation?”

  She flushed. I should get the hell out of here—I already had a job to do, and it didn’t involve banging Tinker Garrett. She tugged her hand free and reached up, catching her black hair and pulling it back into a ponytail, jiggling her boobs in the process.

  So much for doing the right thing.

  She caught my look and blushed, looking uncomfortable for the first time since I’d walked in. “Stupid hair—it’s hot in here, and I couldn’t stand it on my neck for another minute. You’re right—the job is off the books. I know that’s—”

  “No worries,” I said, offering her a sly smile. She flushed harder, and I felt a surge of triumph because I wasn’t the only one feeling it. “I’m just a guy lookin’ for a place to sleep. How many hours a week do you need me to work?”

  “Um, twenty?” she asked, turning it into a question. That was perfect—enough work to make me look busy and explain my presence, but not enough to get in the way of my real job. “But I haven’t even had you fill out an application yet, and I need to put away the chocolate.”

  “Show me the AC,” I replied, figuring I might as well take charge. “I’ll look it over and see if I can fix it while you do that. Sound good?”

  She glanced around, and I had to bite back a snort of laughter. She obviously didn’t feel comfortable giving me free rein of the place, but at the same time she wanted that AC fixed. Bad. Couldn’t blame her, either. Shop felt like it was a hundred and ten in there, and the day wasn’t over yet.

  “It’s up on the roof,” she said finally. “Come on through the back. I’ll show you where the stairs are.”

  Excellent, although as I followed her up the stairs—eyes glued to her ass—I couldn’t help but think she was a little too trusting for her own good. Any other guy might take advantage of the situation. I sure as hell wanted to.

  Focus, I reminded myself. She’s not the target.

  Fucking shame.

  • • •

  An hour later my dick had calmed down, leaving me alone with a piece of shit air conditioner that should’ve been put out of its misery ten years ago. The old building was three stories tall, with a fake facade and a black tar roof that had to be at least a thousand degrees, maybe more. Either way, it was so hot that melted tar had coated my knees, ruining my favorite pair of jeans.

  Christ, but I was a moron.

  Yes, I needed cover to stay in Hallies Falls, and the thought of working for Tinker Garrett appealed greatly. But there were less complicated covers that didn’t involve broiling myself alive on a roof that screamed “structurally unsound.” Fucking AC unit wasn’t much better. Damned thing was held together with duct tape—okay, that wasn’t entirely fair . . . some of it was electrical tape—and I couldn’t figure out how it’d kept running this long. My best theory was animal sacrifice. I’d found five dead squirrels inside. Little fuckers had chewed through the wiring, probably in some kind of satanic ritual.

  Now their fluffy little corpses had bloated in the sun—just waiting to explode all over me—because kneeling in hot tar wasn’t shitty enough. I needed to cut my losses and the get the fuck out of there. Life was too damned short.

  “Hey there.”

  I turned to find Tinker stepping out onto the roof from the raised stairwell. She walked toward me, hips swaying in her cropped jeans with the cuffs rolled up. She’d tied a red bandanna around her head, and with her fitted shirt and generous curves she looked just like a Harley pinup girl.

  A pinup girl carrying a tall glass of iced tea.

  “Thought you could use a drink,” she said, raising a hand to shade her eyes from the sun. I took the glass, chugging down half of it in one swallow, then considered pouring the rest of it over her boobs, because God made those tits to be seen and appreciated.

  Instead I thanked her.

  “So how’s the AC looking?” she asked, catching her bottom lip and chewing on it mournfully.

  “Squirrels ate your wiring,” I said bluntly. “I can probably get it running again, but it needs to be replaced.”

  “It’s August already,” she replied, sighing heavily. A better man would’ve made sympathetic noises, but I didn’t give a shit about her AC. I was too busy imagining her tongue licking my cock, because what can I say? I’ve always been a simple man with simple needs. “You think you can keep it running for another couple weeks? That’ll give me enough time to figure out what to do.”

  Christ I wanted to fuck her. Seriously, it was like the bitch had been made for me, all perfect and put together but just a little dirty.

  Sweaty.

  Small enough I could control her every move if I wanted to, but lush and soft and—

  Opt out, asshole. You don’t want a complication like this. Tell her you changed your mind about the job.

  “I’ll need to get some parts in Omak,” I said instead. “I already called to check. Trip should take an hour and a half, maybe a little longer, which means I’ll still have plenty of daylight to finish the repair. Assuming I’ve got the job, that is.”

  She looked up me, green eyes wide with relief, although she was trying not to show it. I had the job, and we both knew it. Too easy.

  “Cooper Romero . . . How long have you been in town?”

  “Less than a week.”

  “And how long are you planning to stick around?”

  “For a while,” I said, which was a damned lie. I had a mission to accomplish—then it was home to Coeur d’Alene, because fuck this little shithole of a town. “My old lady and I decided to end things. I needed to get away for a while, and wanted to be somewhere I wouldn’t run into her but close enough to still see my kids.”

  Her eyes caught mine.

  “Boys or girls?”

  “Boys,” I said slowly, knowing I had her. “One’s ten and the other’s twelve.”

  “You must miss them,” she said softly. Um, yeah. I’d totally miss them if they existed. You’re a fucking asshole, lying to her like that.

  Hell, at least I was consistent.

  “Every day. If you want me to get that part, I’d better leave soon.”

  She glanced back down at the ancient unit and nodded her head.

  “That’d be great. How much cash do you think you’ll need?”

  “Shouldn’t be too much—it’s more labor than anything. I’ll bring you a receipt.”

  • • •

  Fixing the AC took longer than I’d expected. It was nearly seven that night before I screwed the access panel back on, packed up my tools, and started down the stairs to the shop, reeking of sweat and tar. My jeans were ruined, but I’d stripped off my shirt early on, so it was okay. It’d still been hot as fuck up there, but at least I’d been able to catch the occasional breeze on the roof. I felt tired in a good way—not so much that I wouldn’t be able to make my assigned “date” that night, but enough that I felt like I’d accomplished something. Sheer boredom had been the hardest part of the last couple days. You can only sit in a hotel room for so long before losing your fucking mind.

  The stairs landed in a narrow hallway outside the main shop. There was a small bathroom in the back—shared with the storefront next door—although it looked to me like nobody had used the spac
e in a long time. I stepped inside to clean myself up. Pointless. I’d have to pick up some Orange GOOP on the way home, otherwise I’d never get this shit off.

  Of course, I had a feeling my real target was into dirty hands. Not that I knew Talia Jackson all that well, but I’d seen enough of her in action over the past week to get a feel for her. She was young, stupid, and had a crazy sense of entitlement, all because her brother—Marsh—was the president of the local motorcycle club. Talia was everything I hated in a woman, but the little bitch was my ticket into the Nighthawk Raiders.

  None of this should’ve been necessary. They were nothing more than a support club, and they owed a percentage of everything they earned to the Reapers MC—a percentage that had fallen by more than half in the last three months.

  Fucking traitors.

  Marsh was up to something. It was my job to catch the bastard, which meant that tonight—instead of bending Tinker Garrett over her prissy little counter and banging her until she forgot her own name—I was stuck meeting Talia and her girl posse at a bar.

  Christ, I might even have to dance.

  The irony wasn’t lost on me—how many dancers had I hired over the years? So many I couldn’t remember. Now I’d be the one performing for a woman, only I wouldn’t be getting paid. I washed as best I could, scrubbing my face and using my shirt as a towel. Then I tucked it into my back pocket and pushed through the door into Tinker’s little kitchen. No sign of her, but I heard music playing softly in the main shop. Where the hell had she gone?

  I pushed through the kitchen door and looked down. Ah shit. Tinker was on her back on the tile behind the counter, one leg resting flat, the other propped up and bent at the knee. Her arm was over her eyes and I couldn’t quite tell if she was asleep.

  It would take all of thirty seconds to get her shorts off and shove my dick deep inside—she’d never know what hit her. Just like that, I was rock hard and ready for action. Whipping my shirt out of my back pocket, I let it dangle across the front of my jeans. Otherwise I’d give her an eyeful.