Reaper's Property

by Joanna Wylde

  “I like how you change the subject.”

  “Glad I could be of service. Let’s get this cleaned up, there’s something else I wanna use the blanket for.”

  Worked for me.

  I rolled off his lap to my knees, collecting everything up and putting it back into the bag.

  “Hey, why aren’t you helping?” I demanded playfully.

  “Enjoying the view. Love that sweet ass of yours.”

  I shook it at him, smirking, and he crawled over to me, cupping my cheeks in his hands, rubbing the inside curves where they met my thighs with the pads of his thumbs.

  “Fuckin’ hot, babe. Can’t wait to get inside.”

  I shivered, pushing back at him.

  “So goddamn sweet,” he muttered, dropping his head down to kiss the small of my back.

  Sweet.

  Sweet ass.

  Sweet butt.

  “Horse, what does sweet butt mean?” I asked suddenly. He stilled. “I know you said you call me that to piss me off, but it means more. I know it does. Tell me.”

  “Doesn’t matter, babe, you’re not one of them.”

  Uh-oh. I pulled away from him, cooling a little. Didn’t like the sound of that at all. I sat down, facing him, knees up to my chest, arms wrapped around them pointedly, and waited.

  “Drop it, babe,” Horse muttered, sitting back on his heels. “We’re in a good place, let’s just let this flow like it should. You’re thinking too much.”

  “When a man tells me I shouldn’t think, that’s a bad sign,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Explain. Now.”

  Horse ran a hand through his hair and shrugged.

  “You don’t know much about the Reapers, do you? Or motorcycle clubs in general?”

  “I don’t know anything about them,” I said.

  “Well, bikers—bikers like us, part of a club for life—are a different culture,” he said after a short pause. “We’re not regular citizens, we’re more like a tribe that shares territory with citizens but only answers to our own kind. Everyone who’s part of the tribe has their place.”

  “Okay,” I replied, wondering where this was going.

  “Fuck, this is gonna piss you off and then you aren’t gonna let me stick my dick in you,” he muttered.

  “Do you have to be so crude?” I snapped.

  “Have you met me?”

  “Who says I’d let you do it anyway?”

  “Babe,” he replied in a low, rough voice, raising his eyebrow at me. I blushed. Okay, yes, I’d planned on it.

  But that could change.

  “So tell me.”

  “Well, there’s two kinds of people, those who are in the club and those who aren’t,” he said. “If you’re in the club, you’re family, and we’ve got each other’s backs. You got a cut and three patches, you’re a member and you vote. We got prospects too, who aren’t full members yet, but if they don’t punk out, they will be eventually.”

  “What about women?”

  “No women in the club,” he said, shaking his head. “Women hang around the club, but they aren’t part of it.”

  “Sounds pretty sexist.”

  “It is what it is,” he replied with a shrug. “Don’t have to like it, but that’s the reality in the MC world. Remember, we don’t live in your world, we live in ours and the rules are different. Some clubs let women ride, ours doesn’t. We’re old school. Seriously old school. But that doesn’t mean women aren’t important to us.”

  I didn’t like the direction this was headed.

  “A man takes a woman, means to keep her, she becomes his property,” Horse continued. “We covered that before—it’s a sign of commitment, of respect. It means he’ll protect her and everyone else better keep their fucking hands off her or be ready to fight him and all his brothers. You do not want to fuck with a man’s old lady.”

  “Sounds messed up, Horse.”

  He shook his head, clearly frustrated.

  “You’re judging it by citizen standards, but we’re not like you,” he said. “Remember, we’re a tribe. We live together, we die together and what’s ours is ours. When times are good, we’re all good. Bad times, we may eat shit but we eat it together. Most people can’t handle that level of commitment. It’s like when you’re in combat and taking fire—you have to trust that your brothers would rather die than let you down. You feel that kind of brotherhood during war but when you come back home people expect you to sit down and work in an office like it never happened. Men—at least men like me—don’t work like that. I turned into something else in Afghanistan and I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. In the club, they don’t ask me to.”

  “That’s intense,” I murmured.

  “No shit,” he said. “I know this is hard for you, but I want you to understand. This is a different life, and we have our own rules and our own justice, but it’s not bad. In fact, it’s pretty fuckin’ good. I got a nice house, make good money, have a great time almost every fuckin’ day of my life. I’m alive, babe. Ninety-nine percent of men are okay with following the rules and doing what they’re told. We’re the other one percent, so we built our own world with our own rules. You don’t fuck with us, we won’t fuck with you. But once you fuck us, you will pay.”

  I shivered, even though the air was warm. I reached over and grabbed my shirt, pulling it over my head. Horse’s eyes followed me, holding an expression I couldn’t begin to fathom.

  “So finish it,” I said, breaking the silence. “You’re telling me this for a reason, I guess. What does sweet butt mean?”

  “Well, not all women attached to the club are old ladies,” he said bluntly. “Being an old lady is a big deal, like I said. You don’t want to take some skank as your property if you aren’t ready to throw down for her. But a man’s still gotta get laid. That’s what sweet butts are for.”

  Oh, I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Continue,” I said, my voice cooling.

  “We got women who want to be old ladies,” he said. “Or just like hanging around bikers. Maybe they want a place to crash for a while. They come around the club house and if they make themselves friendly enough we let them hang around. They clean up, take care of shit, and we sort of—”

  He paused, looking away.

  “You’re really not gonna like this,” he muttered.

  “Tell me. Now.”

  “Well, they’re pretty much public pussy,” he said. “Man needs a woman, that’s what they’re for. Entertaining the brothers. Those are the sweet butts.”

  I saw red.

  “You jerk!”

  I got up and went for my pants. He reached for me, but I slapped his hand away, yanking up my jeans.

  “You think I’m a whore!”

  “No. I do not think you’re a whore. I told you, I like pissing you off sometimes, it’s hot. You aren’t a sweet butt either. You see any other guys around here? Not exactly lookin’ to turn you into Chinese handcuffs, Marie!”

  “WHAT?” I didn’t even know what that meant, but I knew it wasn’t good. I finished getting dressed and grabbed my purse, pulling out my phone. Great. No service.

  “Fuck,” Horse muttered, pulling on his pants and tee, then grabbing his cut and jerking it on. “You won’t even listen to me. You aren’t like them, babe. I know that. The guys know that. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Then why did you all call me sweet butt the first time we met?” I demanded. “It’s not like we had anything between us then, so you didn’t do it just to piss me off. Explain that, Mr. Badass Reaper!”

  He looked away, rubbing a hand along the stubble on his chin, then turned back to me.

  “Because that’s what you looked like,” he said finally. “You were waiting outside that trailer decked out like a fuckin’ wet dream. We knew Jeff didn’t have a woman, at least not one in particular. Just assumed, babe.”

  “Take me home.”

  “Babe, please.”

  “Take. Me. Home.”


  He turned away and kicked a rock, sending it into the hot springs with a splash, running his hands through his hair again. I wished he’d stop doing that, because it just made him look sexier and I didn’t need to think about him being sexy right now.

  I needed to remember the man was a pig.

  “Okay, I’ll take you home,” he grunted, turning back toward me. “But I want to show you something first.”

  “By all means!” I declared grandly, throwing my arms wide. “Please, do whatever it takes to get me out of here and away from you.”

  Horse stalked over to the leather saddlebag he’d brought and opened it. He stood there, staring down inside it for what seemed an eternity, then glanced back at me.

  “You need to know that I didn’t just bring you here to fuck you, Marie.”

  I snorted, rolling my eyes.

  “Don’t give me that shit,” he growled. “I can get laid whenever I want, I don’t have to drive four hundred miles round trip to get off. Women see the bike, they see the tats and the cut, they’re all over that shit. Pussy is just pussy, but you’re different. That’s why I had this made for you—I wanted to ask you to come back with me, give club life a shot.”

  He pulled out a black leather vest, much smaller than his, and held it up. On the back were two embroidered patches, reading “Property of Horse, Reapers MC.”

  Holy shit.

  “Are you kidding me?” I demanded.

  His face tightened, eyes growing cold.

  “Never offered this to anyone else, babe. Not a joke.”

  “Well, don’t offer it to me,” I hissed. “I hardly know you, but what I do know is that you’re a sexist pig and you can go fuck yourself and your stupid club.”

  “Don’t insult the club, Marie.”

  Something in his tone stopped me mid-rant. All traces of my sweet Horse were gone and the scary biker stood in front of me in full standoff. My anger disappeared, replaced with terrible unease. I’d forgotten how terrifying he could be.

  “Let’s stop this,” I said after a pause. “What we’re doing, there’s nothing good here. Let’s just stop talking and leave before things get worse.”

  “Works for me. Get your shit.”

  Funny, but hiking to the spring had taken about thirty minutes. Hiking back felt like ten hours. The ride home was even worse. I worried about falling off the bike the whole time, but I’d be damned if I was going to wrap my arms around him and rest my head on his back like before. I held the sides of his hips, trying to keep my lower body from touching his, which was all but impossible.

  When we reached the trailer he didn’t even bother getting off his Harley, let alone watch to see if I got in the door all right.

  Horse just roared away without looking back.

  Chapter Eight

  Sept. 7

  Me: Are you there?

  Sept. 9

  Me: Horse, we should talk. I don’t want us to hate each other. I think we made a mistake, please call me. I miss you. Let’s fix this

  Sept 10

  Me: Are you even getting these? Please, even if you hate me, call me. I need to tell you something

  Sept. 13

  Me: Okay, you win. Bye

  Sept. 15

  Things got a little dark after our trip to the hot springs.

  Work was okay, but it wasn’t like I loved what I was doing. Don’t get me wrong, the kids were awesome, but it’s tiring to be surrounded by little people constantly when they can’t even wipe their own rear ends. And sometimes diapers blow out, which means exactly what you’d think.

  Good times.

  Life with Jeff wasn’t going very well either. It’s not like we didn’t get along, because we did. We didn’t fight or anything. But he’d stopped talking to me, didn’t seem to work much and smoked more pot every day. I had my first hint of real trouble coming when he asked me how big my paycheck was. By this time I was buying all the food, which I didn’t mind. After all, he’d floated me when I first got here, and when I’d gotten hurt too. But it wasn’t like him to mooch, believe it or not. He’d always paid his way and I’m pretty sure he’d carried Mom a time or two.

  Things came to a head right after the Reapers visited us again, this time without Horse. Jeff didn’t warn me and it was hard to tell whether the visit was planned or not. I’d learned my lesson—don’t ask questions unless you want to hear the answers. Honestly, I didn’t think there were any good answers to the questions I had about their business relationship.

  I came home from work to find bikes in the driveway. Horse’s wasn’t there. We were totally out of food and beer because I hadn’t done my grocery shopping for the week, and I sighed in frustration. I decided to go and buy pizza instead of cooking because I had a little extra cash. I just didn’t feel up to whipping something together.

  I walked in to find Picnic, Bam Bam, Max and Jeff standing around the kitchen bar in tense silence.

  “Um, hi?” I asked, setting down my purse.

  “Hey, Marie,” Picnic said, and while his voice wasn’t friendly, it wasn’t cold either. I guess Horse didn’t go home and talk too much shit about me. “Just talking some business here.”

  “Yeah, I see that,” I replied. “How ’bout I go and grab some pizzas? Sound good?”

  “Sounds great, Marie,” Bam Bam said. He reached around to his wallet, pulling out some bills and offering them to me. I was stunned.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I murmured.

  “Take the money and don’t forget beer,” Picnic said, his voice short. Arguing with them didn’t seem like a good idea, so I grabbed the bills and retreated. I took my sweet time getting the pizzas. I really, really didn’t want to come back home too early, but after hanging out at the takeout place for forty-five minutes I got a text from Jeff telling me all was clear. I grabbed the pies and drove home, hoping Jeff’s weirdness lately wasn’t connected to the Reapers. I kept hearing Horse’s voice in my head.

  Fuck with us and we will fuck you back.

  Jeff wouldn’t be that stupid, would he?

  When I got back, I had another of those surreal moments that seemed to happen around the Reapers with alarming frequency. Earlier I would have sworn things were ugly between them and Jeff. Now everyone was friendly—practically jolly—and they welcomed me (or rather, the pizzas I carried) with the kind of cheer usually reserved for returning war heroes. I tried to give Bam Bam his change, but he wouldn’t take it, telling me to use it for gas.

  The evening followed a familiar pattern. We ate together and then they sat around drinking beer while I cleaned up. As the night went on, the jokes got dirtier. I drank several beers. They built a bonfire. Someone suggested tequila shots. I don’t usually do shots, but it seemed like a fantastic idea when viewed through my beer goggles. But I’d been up since early that morning and I had to be up again at seven to get ready for work, so eventually I decided to hit the sack.

  I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the guys outside and how Horse should be with them. Then I thought about how it felt when he held me in those strong arms of his and we slept together, all warm and safe. That made me sad, and this was where things got ugly.

  “They” always say you shouldn’t drink and text, whoever they are.

  I should have listened to them. They’re pretty smart.

  Me: Horse, muss yu

  Me: Why dont anser?

  Me: Horse like yur name. Horsey. I’d like to rid u horsey, LOL. You sleeping? Or busy with someone?

  Me: I know yur there. I bet you got a new gurl alredy. Screw you.

  Me: Screw you and your slut. I hate you. Take yur club and shove it up yur ass I wudn’t be yoor old lady for ten milion dollrs.

  To say I was hung over when my alarm went off at seven that morning would be a bit of an understatement. I discovered the messages I’d sent between barf two and barf three, and then that particularly nasty one after barf three. I wanted to crawl under the trailer and die, I was so embarrassed. Through th
e force of extreme will, I managed to get myself to work on time. Fortunately the head count was low for the day, so the kids weren’t too loud and crazy. I kept thinking about those messages, trying to decide whether to call Horse and apologize, text again or what.

  I finally decided to text. He probably wouldn’t take a call from me anyway, and I couldn’t blame him for that. But I couldn’t just leave it like that—I wasn’t that kind of person. I drove home after work, grabbed a big glass of water and crafted my text carefully.

  Me: I’m really sorry about my messages last night. It’s no excuse, but I was drunk and wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry I bothered you and I’m sorry for the things I said. I was a bitch, it wasn’t called for and I feel like shit. I promise, I won’t bother you again.

  I sat, holding my phone, not sure if I wanted him to reply or not. Shit, my head was killing me. Why did I drink the tequila? I couldn’t handle tequila, I knew that. The last time I’d done tequila shots I’d stripped off my shirt and danced on the coffee table at a party that had thankfully been very small. Gary’d stuffed dollar bills in my jeans and told me to drink more tequila. His friends had cheered me on and waved around their own money. Gary thought that kicked ass.

  Guess I couldn’t claim there hadn’t been warning signs that the man was a douche…

  The door slammed open and I winced.

  “Marie, I gotta talk to you,” Jeff said, sitting down heavily on the stool next to mine.

  “I’m pretty hung over. I don’t want to talk,” I muttered, closing my eyes.

  “It’s important. I need money.”

  “Um, I’ve got a little in my purse,” I replied. “How much do you want?”

  “A lot,” he replied, not meeting my eyes. “I’m kind of in a bind.”

  That caught my attention, and I looked at him. Really looked at him. What I saw shocked me. He’d lost at least ten pounds in the past couple weeks, and his hair clearly hadn’t been washed in a couple of days. His face was sallow and his eyes dull—not just hangover dull.

  “Jeff, are you sick? You don’t look good. I want to take your temperature.”