Reaper: Devil's Mayhem MC Romance

by Mary Potter

  “A deed?” she asks, confused. “What’s the deed…”

  She trails off, her mouth dropping. Then her eyes shoot up to me. “Are you serious?” she gasps.

  “Yes,” I reply with a nod. “It’s taken us so long because we had to weed out all those fuckers that were bringing us down. But now, it’s free from anyone else’s influence. Katie stepped down as manager three days ago, as you know. I’m too busy to run it myself. I thought you might enjoy it.”

  “It sounds like you gave me a job, but this is way more than that,” Kyra says faintly. “Jack, you didn’t have to…”

  I step closer, and she snaps her mouth shut.

  “I wanted to,” I reply, looking into her eyes. “You’re one of the smartest, most capable people I know. Night Pleasures is yours now. Look after it.”

  I pretend I don’t notice Kyra’s eyes watering before she turns away, clearing her throat.

  “Thank you,” she finally croaks.

  I reach out and tug her toward me. I would give this woman the fucking world if I could.

  “I love you,” I tell her.

  “I love you too,” she replies softly.

  For a long moment, we simply stand there, happy to be in each other’s embrace. Then Kyra steps back.

  “Thank you,” she says again. Then she smiles, wicked amusement in her expression. “Now, about this dress…”

  I laugh as I step forward to begin the arduous task of undoing all the clips and buttons on this beautiful monstrosity. I feel excitement stirring in my gut, already knowing where this is going to lead.

  Unable to help myself, I lean in and press a soft kiss to her free shoulder. This woman is amazing. I’m so incredibly lucky that she’s mine. And now, today, we promised each other forever.

  Forever is a long time, but that’s alright with me.

  There’s no one else I would rather spend it with.

  ************

  Want more?

  Did you enjoy reading Reaper? Then check out my SAINTS & S.O.B.s - New Orleans Chapter Series

  It starts with Stormy Ride

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  Preview of Stormy Ride:

  Chapter One: Serafin

  “We riding through the French Quarter today?” Stephanie was straddled on her silver and black Ducati, chewing gum as she considered the route. She was a long time rider of the Bayou Syrens and a really down-to-earth person.

  I scrunched up my lightly freckled nose at her. “Yeah, I mean, we can. I was thinking we could ride out back of the Bayou. A nice, smooth ride.”

  I leaned against my shiny pink and chrome bike. The southern Louisiana wind picked up a little around me as I peered up at the violet sky, wondering if it was about to come down on us. It wouldn’t make for the best riding conditions if the road was slick. I wasn’t a big fan of riding in the rain.

  Stephanie blew a bubble, popping it in her face, and I laughed. “I mean, we could. Let’s ask the others when they get here,” she said.

  We were waiting for the rest of the Saturday riding crew in the Bayou Syrens motorcycle club parking lot. I’d been a loyal member since I was sixteen. I got restless when I didn’t feel the horsepower of my bike under me at least once a week.

  As the wind blew off the swampy Blue Bayou, my chestnut curls, which I had gotten from my mother, swirled around my face. Momma had a full head of wild hair, one of our bloodline’s traits that probably comes from our African and Caribbean heritage. I pushed them back, never mind trying to tame them. They were a little wild and unruly like me.

  Not long after, we heard the low rumble of four mean bikes as they turned into the parking lot. My superhero—Monique—rolled in, spinning her wheels as a huge white plume of billowing smoke filtered out the back of her bike. I clapped my hands and whistled through my teeth. Shonda followed her in on her all-black bike with pink rims. Shonda let the bike do a full turn underneath her as she walked it in. Impressive stuff. All of us were excited because we’d been asked to be in the Mardi Gras parade later this year.

  My stomach flipped a little as I thought back to the reason I didn’t attend last time. I sighed as I looked on at my fellow kick-ass riders. Although I’d like to think that I had moved on from that scumbag, two-timing, lowlife, Daryl, in reality, it really had cut deep. I know it was stupid. He wasn’t my first, but he was the first guy that I actually fell crazy in love with.

  Why, when I knew that he was bad news from the start? I’m not sure. Maybe I saw potential in him to be something more than he allowed himself to be. But he continued being the scum that must have made him comfortable with his life choices, but I wasn’t willing to be a part of it any longer.

  Daryl’s biker name was Slick, which made a whole lot of sense in hindsight. He and I were supposed to go to Mardi Gras together. His club was the Saints & SOBs－short for Sinners On Bikes－but I had a different version of it when it came to him.

  Every now and then, thoughts of him sent me on a downward spiral. Fortunately I had my girls to keep me in good spirits. I shook my head to dispel the negative thoughts.

  The crew of four girls stopped their tricks, bringing their bikes to a standstill. They dismounted their bikes, shaking their hair out from under their helmets.

  We all had our biker names: I was appropriately named Spice Rebel; Monique was called Hot Tricky; Stephanie was Candy Queen; Amber got the name Crystal Maiden; Stacey, Femme Fox; and Lisa was Rain Smoke. Rain didn’t get to ride with us very often because of her work schedule, so we all agreed to start later than usual so that she could join us.

  There were others in the chapter as well; it felt good to be a part of a real community of riders.

  Amber raked her hands through her blonde hair after pulling it free of her bedazzled helmet, “Hey, y’all. What we doin’? You leading the ride, right, Spice?”

  I grinned, “Yeah. Where do you girls want to ride－back roads in the bayous or into New Orleans?” I heard a bunch of New Orleans and one Bayous, so I made the decision to head into the city.

  And no, we do not pronounce it “N’awlins.” That’s what tourists call it. When we say New Orleans, most of us pronounce it “New Orlins.” So when you read “New Orleans,” just remember that it’s not “New Orleens” it’s “New Orlins.”

  I looked over at the girls as they held their helmets in their hands, waiting for my instructions, and I grinned. “Yeah, let’s do the French Quarter and take it from there. Take it easy.” I pointed to the sky. “Looks like it’s going to rain. Road might be a little slick, and you know how these cagers be, especially on these winding roads out back.”

  The girls laughed in unison.

  “Yup, that’s for real.”

  “We can do that.”

  “I like it.”

  “Let’s show off a little bit.”

  “I’m wearing my nice leather today,” Monique beamed.

  I sent her a salute in appreciation as I slid on my cute helmet. It matched my get-up, which was all black. “alright, let’s go. I’m going to lead us out.”

  I mounted my bike and cranked the engine, listening to her sweet purr. I gave my bike a quick pat, then took off.

  Leaving Blue Bayou, we made our way into the suburbs and the kids waved to us from the streets. We loved our people. We were riding six strong and we drew a crowd every time we rode. I waved back as we headed into the French Quarter, one of the oldest parts of New Orleans, dating back to the 1700s. We went on to the crown jewel of New Orleans—Bourbon Street, with its old-school colonial architecture, boho style, street performers, and bars where the aristocrats used to hang out.

  I had a smile on my face as we weaved around the tourists and locals, who called out to us in the street. We beeped our horns at the appreciation people showed as we rode. It was almost as if we were already in the parade.

  “We love you!”

  “Do some tricks!”

 
“Y’all are dope!”

  It was nearly noon, so we pulled up to Johnny White’s, a cool bar and restaurant in the French Quarter. The place had the typical wrought iron balconies and historic looking wooden shutters so it fit right in with the French Quarter vibe. It’s a bit of a biker bar and a bit of a tourist spot, but some of the girls got a kick out of screwing with the tourists. Some of them occasionally got “overnight meaningful relationships” that way. Not something I was interested in, but some of them enjoyed the flings.

  There was a table right in the middle of the room, so we grabbed it, allowing everyone to get a good look at the “biker chicks”, who had come swooping in with a lot of noise and exuberance.

  There were a couple of tables with groups of guys hanging out together. They were pointing at us and giving each other knowing looks, like they could be scoring with us girls if they really wanted to. Yeah, right! But the guys at the couples tables were giving us sidelong glances, wishing they had someone like us instead of the quiet, demure girls they had come in with.

  That was why we enjoyed coming to Johnny White’s, and why we would always end up laughing our asses off. We hung out drinking our allotted one beer each, since we were riding, and scarfing down great New Orleans grub in between guffaws at the expense of the tourist dweebs.

  Once in a while we would see some of the local biker guys hanging out here, but not today. Today it was just us and the tourists. A bunch of cagers.

  Along with my beer I ordered a plate of crawfish tails simmered in Johnny’s rich etouffée sauce on a bed of rice and French bread on the side. Delicious! Monique, sitting to my right, ordered Shrimp Creole which is cooked in a spicy Creole tomato sauce with rice.

  Shonda, sitting on the other side of me, ordered the Seafood Jambalaya which consisted of shrimp, crawfish, oysters and rice cooked together in a light Creole tomato sauce. We each sampled the others’ choices, and although I liked each one, I really preferred my Crawfish Etouffée.

  After joking, eating, and making fun of the tourists, we decided to hit the road and get some miles under our tires.

  Shonda and Monique idled low at the lights next to me. I was riding high, even though the weather was only just holding off. Riding my bike with my girls was what I lived for, besides fixing them. I was pretty handy at that, too. My bike was just right for me. I was a little over five-foot-seven, so I went for the Sportster model.

  That’s when I felt a low, heavy, dark rumble in my chest. It was another group of bikes as they came weaving in between us and on either side. I heard one of the girls yell out, “Hey, you little bitch! What the hell are you doing?” It sounded like Monique.

  I took off hard, gripping my handlebars. It was not the best move, considering we were still in the middle of town. My brain didn’t compute. A dark figure clad in all black leathers; tight pants, jacket, and heavy-duty boots, kept pace beside me. Through my visor, I saw who it was from the emblem on his helmet. The figure was a fucking Saints and Sinners rider. I didn’t know which one, and quite frankly, I didn’t care. When I saw them, all I could think of was that asshole, Slick. My blood started to heat up like a furnace.

  Who the hell do these guys think they are?

  I tried to make out who the figure was by squinting, but I couldn’t. I felt the blood rush through my system as I swerved and narrowly missed a minivan with the kids’ faces pressed against the glass watching us zip by. The shadowy figure was in hot pursuit, but he had to wait. I smirked under my helmet.

  I could hear my girls behind me as I started to breathe heavily. My competitive streak made my jaw set in determination. I revved at the next set of lights.

  “Ready for a li’l fun?” the mysterious figure taunted.

  I stuck up my middle finger, shoving it in his face. I knew the girls saw it.

  My senses told me there were two more bikes. I anticipated the light turning green, and a pipeline formed in front of me. When I wanted to focus, I could. I beat him off the start at the light since there was no traffic in front, which was a lucky break. I zoomed ahead as I heard the squeal of tires close to me. Then his tightly-muscled physique surged ahead on his bike. His bike was powerful, I’d give him that, but I wouldn’t go down without a fight. I pressed forward, weaving in front of him. I heard honks from my crew behind me.

  We played this cat and mouse game down the strip for a couple of minutes. Luckily, the cops didn’t come. I’d been busted a couple of times already. I came back again, tailing him. I gritted my teeth, trying to lean, and I cut too far across him. I wanted revenge. My past dealings with the club probably had something to do with it, as well.

  He pulled a dangerous stunt and cut in front of me, returning a middle finger of his own. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. I felt my bike pull out from under me. We were far enough in front of the group to not create a pile-up. I laid the bike down and slid along the road and into the muddy green, dank fields off to the side.

  I lay still for a moment, with a loud, thumping heartbeat raging in my chest. I blinked rapidly, shocked that I was even on the ground. I’d heard people say that time slowed down when they were in an extreme situation like this, but for me it was over in the blink of an eye. It was as if one second I was up on the bike and the next I was lying in the grass!

  I touched all my limbs, nothing hurt; just a slight ache in my hip from hitting the road, and intense embarrassment. My leathers protected me from any road rash. The next time I blinked I saw a tall, dark figure looming above me with his helmet and jacket in hand. I’d seen him before, but I didn’t know his name.

  “Whoa! Storm, she alright? Shit. That got out of hand,” I heard a male voice say in the background.

  I heard footsteps running toward me as all the bikes caught up and stopped. Once I knew all my marbles were intact, a curdling rage set in. I sat up, my curls bouncing around. I likely resembled a wild banshee. I lifted myself to my feet as a large hand tried to reach out, and once standing, I opened my hand to slap the guy across the face. He swiftly grabbed my wrist before I could make contact.

  “Uh. Nah, li’l lady. We ain’t doin’ that one.” His ferocity made me recoil a little. I felt the danger and the thrill of him. I tried to yank my hand back, but he just gave me a leery smile. “Sucks to be you, huh? That will teach you not to test me. You thought you were going to beat me on that pink piece of shit?”

  I cracked my neck as he loosened his grip on my arm. I rolled my tongue around the side of my cheek. “I was beating you already, bitch. You’re the lucky one. You practically pushed me into the ditch,” I lied. Both crews were circled around us now, my girls behind me and his guys on the other side, each watching the show play out.

  He was tall and firmly muscled under a black tee and black leathers that catered nicely to his defined legs. My body reacted with a bold spark of electricity and hunger. I tried to dim it down, but arguing with this guy—Storm, I think someone called him—just ignited it further. He was smoking hot, but I was mad as hell and wanted to stay that way.

  “You fucking prick!” I pushed him in the middle of his chest.

  Storm grabbed my finger, and in a weird and oddly satisfying move, sucked on it. He let out a snicker as his crew jeered at the gesture. I quickly removed my hand, heat rising to my cheeks.

  “That will teach you to flick that finger at me.” He watched my expression with his dark, passionate eyes. The weather was about to turn wild and woolly. I could feel the change in the air.

  “Girl, you better wash that hand when you get home,” Stacey called out, and I nodded in recognition.

  Storm stood with his arms crossed, waiting for the next move. I eyed his tats. He had a few of them. One was a dragon on his forearm, and he had something just above his T-shirt that I couldn’t quite make out. I wiped my hand on my jeans, but secretly, he had turned me on with that move.

  “You didn’t seem to object on the road,” he continued taunting me. “Looked like you were up for a little chase. Just unlucky
. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.” He smiled with amusement as he picked up my bike. I swatted him away. The tension between us was thick, like the charcoal gray clouds forming in the sky.

  “Since my bike is such a piece of shit, stop trying to pick it up,” I bit out. I took hold of the handlebars, and our fingers touched. I blinked again as the electric current transferred from Storm to me in a primal way. I tried to ignore it.

  “The name’s Storm, by the way. I seen you around.” He crunched his knuckles together and reached out his sinewy, tattooed arm. I noticed he was wearing a dark opal ring. I slapped it away with glowering eyes. If looks could kill, he would be dead.

  “Fuck your apology. You could have killed me. You SOB’s are fucking clowns.”

  Storm raised a brow at me as the other crew clapped in jest. My girls hissed back at them. I watched as a few cars went by, and I knew that we needed to get off the road. I didn’t want any trouble… or any cops.

  His chiseled jaw flinched as his sexy lips curved in a deceitful smile. “Yeah, I know you.” He licked his lips as his eyes undressed me. He paused a beat, watching my movements. My fists were balled, and my chest heaved in and out. “You got that fire I like. No wonder they call you Spice Rebel.”

  “You better believe it. Get the fuck on your bike and leave us the hell alone. I’m fine.”

  “You got that right. But hey, I’ll go now ‘cause I see your little friends are trying to spark a fight with my boys. See you around. Might wanna get a bike that can do something,” he called out as he jumped back on his bike and sped off with his crew.

  Fucking Saints, my ass. More like SOBs in the true sense of it.

  The problem was that my brother, Callen, had decided to join them. I tried to get him to join another crew, but he refused. Every now and then, we’d ride together, and after our last ride, he confessed his intentions.