Reaper's Fire (Reapers Motorcycle Club #6)

by Joanna Wylde

  Hmmm . . . probably not. Pisser.

  I’d just reached the door when Cooper’s hand caught my arm, scaring the crap out of me.

  “Sorry,” he said as I spun on him with a definitively unsexy squawk. “I just wanted to thank you. The place looks great.”

  “Wonderful,” I snapped, glaring down at his hand. I could smell him all around me, feel the strength in his fingers. If a super hot guy was going to answer my ad, why did it have to be one who already had a girlfriend? That was flat out unfair.

  “So, maybe we should talk in the morning,” he said. “If you put together a list of everything that needs doing, I can get started tomorrow. Looks like there’s a few projects here and there that could use some work.”

  I barely noticed his words—I was too busy watching his lips move. They were really, really pretty. Perfect. Exactly right for sucking on. Something twinged between my legs and I felt my nipples tighten. His hand squeezed my arm again, feeling strangely intimate, and his eyes pierced mine.

  “So, tomorrow?”

  “Um, sure,” I said quickly, realizing I needed to get the hell out of there before I embarrassed myself. “I’ll see you later.”

  Wouldn’t want to get in the way of them “breaking in” the bedroom.

  This wasn’t going to end well.

  Maybe I should fire him.

  I was climbing the steps back to my house and giving the idea serious consideration when my foot caught on a rotten board that’d been on my to-fix list since last spring. I tried pulling it free, but it stuck. Then I kicked at it, and suddenly the damned thing gave way, sending my foot plunging through.

  Well, crap.

  Firing him wasn’t really an option . . . I’d been advertising for a handyman for nearly a month, and during that whole time I’d only gotten two calls. One was a prank and the other was Steve Gribble, whose wife had kicked him out (again) for getting drunk and losing his job (again).

  I’d just have to suck it up and deal with Cooper and his stupid, evil, gorgeous girlfriends. Yup, that’d work. All I needed to do was think of him as convenient eye candy, like the guys in those sexy firefighter calendars. Fun to look at, impossible to touch, and not quite real.

  I could handle this.

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON, TWO WEEKS LATER

  “Bring more wine,” I hissed into the phone. “He’s taking off his shirt and I’m starting to overheat.”

  “Does he have tattoos?” my best friend, Carrie, asked in a harsh whisper. “I keep imagining tattoos swirling all over that chest of his, and . . . Oh God. I think I need to change my panties.”

  “No tats that I can see. But he’s getting sweaty.”

  “Do you think two bottles will be enough?”

  Shaking my head slowly, I sighed as Cooper stopped the lawn mower long enough to take a deep drink of water. God, the way his throat moved when he swallowed . . . and those muscles bunching in his back. Damn.

  “Three. Better be safe. It’s a big yard.”

  • • •

  Generally speaking, I’m not the kind of girl who drinks during the day. I mean, I will. Sometimes. You know, like at a Fourth of July BBQ where people start cracking beers around one in the afternoon? But this was a Sunday and I had four hundred caramels—a full week’s orders—to package for the courier first thing the next morning. A hangover wasn’t on the agenda.

  Seriously, though.

  He’d taken off his shirt.

  Why the hell was I putting myself through this? And more importantly, why had I moved him into the apartment that shared a wall with my own childhood bedroom like some total creeper? There was another vacant unit around the back side of the building.

  Lust.

  Yup. I was woman enough to own it. Tinker Garrett, aged thirty-six, was in lust with Cooper Romero. The man was so damned easy on the eyes that it caused me physical pain. Okay, not pain. Warm tinglies. And he was exactly what I needed, too. According to the rental application that I’d belatedly asked him to fill out, he was two years older than me. Should’ve been perfect, right? Too bad he was into twenty-year-old nutjobs with small boobs and tight asses.

  Speaking of Talia, I’d already heard far more than I wanted to from her since he’d moved in.

  Specifically, I heard her screaming during sex. Screaming about how good he was, screaming how much she wanted him, screaming instructions with a sense of sexual entitlement I pretended to despise but secretly made me feel jealous.

  Fucking bitch.

  Gah. I forced myself away from the window, looking around the faded living room of my family home. I’d been born upstairs in the same bedroom I slept in now. Somehow, despite the fact that I had a college degree, thriving business, and one failed marriage behind me, I’d landed right where I started.

  Of course, I loved the building in my own weird way. Grandpa had built it back in 1922, and he’d built it to last. Unfortunately, even good construction needs maintenance, and after Mom died eight months back, I’d realized that Dad could barely manage getting to the kitchen without getting lost. He’d obviously been letting things slide for several years now, but I’d been too busy living my life in Seattle to notice. The place was in worse shape than I’d ever seen it.

  That’s why I couldn’t evict Cooper for having a girlfriend who wasn’t me. Well, that and the law and the general sense of decency and fair play my parents raised me with, but I swear—if it weren’t for all that, he’d be out on his ass. I took another deep swig of the wine, hoping Carrie didn’t fuck around on her way over.

  Jerk.

  Sexy, beautiful jerk . . .

  Grabbing my glass of wine, I peered through the window so I could see him better.

  “Tricia?” my dad called, his voice wavering. “Is that you in the living room? Did they deliver my package?”

  “It’s me, Dad,” I replied, tearing my eyes away from Cooper. “And it’s Tinker, remember?”

  I watched as my big, strong father—my childhood hero—stared at me, confusion written all over his face.

  “I’m waiting for the parts,” he said slowly. “Want to rebuild the carburetor on Tricia’s T-bird, but I don’t have the parts I need. Did you take them?”

  “Dad, Mom isn’t with us anymore,” I reminded him softly. “And you sold the T-bird years ago.”

  He stared at me blankly.

  “I guess I forgot,” he finally admitted. “Sometimes I do that . . .”

  No shit.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, walking over to give him a hug. “Hey, my friend Carrie is coming over in a little while. We’re going to have some girl time—just a heads-up, okay?”

  He patted my back absently, then kissed the side of my head.

  “That sounds nice. You kids have fun, but not too much TV, okay? Rots your brains.”

  Smiling, I squeezed him tight, because despite his failing memory, he was still my daddy. Somewhere deep down inside, his love for me burned bright, even if he couldn’t quite express it the normal way any longer.

  The lawn mower roared as Cooper pushed it across the yard, working his way carefully around Mom’s rosebushes. I caught another glimpse of him through the window and pulled away from Dad quickly—no way I wanted to be hugging my father while I perved on the guy outside.

  Too creepy, even for a creeper like myself.

  • • •

  “Do you still have that open apartment?” Carrie asked half an hour later, leaning back to prop her feet up on the porch railing. I refilled my glass of wine, settling deeper into the same swing we’d played on during a thousand childhood sleepovers. It needed a coat of paint.

  “Yeah, but I’ve got someone interested. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I’m thinking of moving in,” she said seriously. I raised my brows.

  “You own a house,” I reminded her gently.

  “But I don’t have him,” she said, eyes darting toward Cooper, who was using the Weedwacker to edge the sidewalks. He caught me look
ing, giving a knowing quirk of his lips. An hour earlier this would’ve embarrassed the hell out of me, but Carrie and I’d nearly put the second bottle to bed. Reality had fuzzed out nicely.

  “Well, we’ll see how it plays out,” I reminded her, not wanting to jinx it. “Just because he does a good job today doesn’t mean he’ll be trustworthy in the long run. He hangs out with the motorcycle club, you know. Not only that, he’s dating Talia Jackson. I’m not his type.”

  The words fell between us, and Carrie gave an exaggerated shiver.

  “That girl is such a heinous little bitch.”

  “Thanks for pointing that out. I hadn’t noticed. Hell, I’d planned on inviting her over for drinks with us next Sunday.”

  She smacked me, and the whole swing swayed.

  “Careful! You nearly knocked over my wine,” I accused.

  “I brought over three bottles,” she pointed out. “The only reason you aren’t sitting here drinking water is me, so be nice.”

  We glared at each other, and for a good thirty seconds I managed to hold my angry face. Carrie broke first, and then we were both giggling, just like in high school.

  “Cheers,” she said, lifting her glass.

  “Cheers,” I replied. “I missed this. When I was living in Seattle, I mean. I had lots of friends there, but no one like you.”

  Carrie threw her arm over my shoulder, giving me a hug. Then she reached down and lifted the bottle, emptying the last few drops into my glass.

  “I’m glad you’re home,” she said. “I know things haven’t gone like you planned, but I still think you belong here in Hallies Falls.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Whatever.

  Then I chugged the rest of my glass, because it really wasn’t very good wine—not like what Brandon and I used to drink together. Cooper passed in front of us, flashing me a quick smile.

  “I’m in heat,” Carrie moaned.

  “You’re married.”

  “Oh, get over yourself—it’s not like he’s real.”

  I frowned at her, confused. “Of course he’s real. He just pushed the lawn mower right by us.”

  Carrie rolled her eyes.

  “No, I mean nothing will happen with him,” she said. “I’m married, and you aren’t his type. That makes him safe fantasy material.”

  “I could be his type,” I insisted.

  “You’re beautiful,” she said. “You’ve got that sexy, curvy body and retro style from hell, which kicks ass. But if Cooper’s into Talia Jackson, he’s not gonna be into you. Even without the age thing, this guy likes girls without curves. Talia’s like a wire hanger with breasts. Really little ones. She’s a tacky street racer and you’re a classic muscle car. Just two different things, you know?”

  Sighing, I slumped back in the swing, realizing she was right. I’d known it already, but somehow after the third glass of wine I’d been feeling more optimistic. But for better or worse, Carrie and I shared more than our love of fast cars. We had a deal—forged in the pain and humiliation of junior high—to always tell each other the truth, no matter how hard.

  “Hey, it’s not a bad thing,” she said, nudging my shoulder. “Not like the guy’s a serious prospect anyway. Doesn’t seem to have a real job, mows lawns for his rent, and hangs out with a motorcycle gang. You can’t tell me you were picking out china patterns in your head, were you?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t mind getting laid.”

  “So let’s hit a club in Ellensburg this weekend,” she said. “Two can play this game, you know—pick up some cute college boy, teach him a thing or two. I swear, his future wife will thank you.”

  I groaned.

  “One time . . .”

  Carrie burst out laughing. “Nothing ever dies in this town, babe. You’re a cougar on the prowl and we all know it! Why just the other day I warned a young man to get off the street before you caught him.”

  Pushing off the swing I stood up, pointing my glass at her accusingly.

  “It never would’ve happened if it wasn’t for you and Margarita.”

  “I realize this. You don’t have to keep thanking me.”

  The front door opened, and my dad looked out.

  “Do you know where your mother is?” he asked. “I’m getting hungry. She should be fixing dinner by now.”

  Carrie and I shared a look.

  “I’ll get it going soon, Dad,” I told him. “But Mom’s not with us anymore, remember?”

  Confusion crossed his face, followed by embarrassment as my heart clenched.

  “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

  “I’ll get some chicken started—how does that sound?”

  He didn’t answer, turning and shuffling back through the door.

  “You’re going to have to do something before too much longer,” Carrie said softly. “It’s not safe for him to be here alone at the house.”

  “Nothing’s happened,” I pointed out. “He gets confused, but it’s not like he sets fires or something.”

  She just stared at me, and in that instant I regretted the zero-bullshit clause in our friendship.

  “I’m gonna go light the grill,” I told her, sighing. “Are you staying for dinner?”

  “No, but I’ll hang around for a while longer,” she said. “Darren doesn’t get off work for another hour.”

  “You guys can eat with us if you like. It’s just grilled chicken and rice, but we’ve got plenty.”

  “Let me text him and see,” she said, brightening. “I’m not in the mood to cook and the girls won’t be home until later. They grow up too damned fast, babe.”

  I managed to hide my flinch, nodding and smiling. Darren had knocked Carrie up our senior year of high school, which wasn’t normally a good thing. It seemed to have worked out for them all right, though. The twins were a handful, but they were good kids.

  Couldn’t believe they’d be eighteen in another year.

  My little Tricia would still be a toddler. I grabbed my glass and chugged, willing away the thought. I’d cried enough for a lifetime already.

  “Sounds good. Let’s go fire up the grill.”

  • • •

  Half an hour later I was in my happy place again, by sheer force of will. Force of will and wine, that was . . . Now I stood over the grill, basting chicken breasts and sipping my drink.

  Back when I was a freshman, me and Dad built a covered porch off the kitchen so we could barbecue out there year-round. Mom was all about cooking outside because she hated scrubbing pans. I’d missed the freedom to cook outside in Seattle—Brandon thought a grill would make the deck look tacky. Just another reason to celebrate ditching his ass.

  Back in the kitchen, I had Carrie putting finishing touches on the salad, and the rice was bubbling away—it wasn’t fancy, but it’d be good. Things should be ready right about the time Darren arrived. We’d even set the picnic table in the courtyard gazebo with a pretty blue-checkered cloth.

  “Smells good.”

  I looked up to find Cooper on the steps, leaning against the railing. He looked so pretty. I smiled big and nearly told him so, then remembered I was drunk and bit my tongue. (Literally bit it, which hurt like hell and made my eyes water. I’m sure he thought I was crazy. Fair enough.)

  “Great job on the yard,” I told him after a few seconds of agonizing pain. “It’s a relief to have you helping out. How’s the apartment?”

  “Hell of a lot better than the hotel,” he said. “Although I’m not much of a cook.”

  He glanced at the grill, taking in the chicken. A small part of me wanted to ask if Talia was a good cook. The words were halfway to my mouth, but the single, tiny little chunk of my brain that was still sober managed to tackle them and wrestle them back to the ground before I made an ass of myself.

  “I worked as a private chef for several years,” I told him. Suck it, brain. I can work my skills into a conversation without being obvious. “Then I started making the chocolates, and the business took off. Pretty
soon I couldn’t keep up with both, so I cut my clients loose.”

  “Impressive,” Cooper said.

  “You want to join us?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I burst out laughing, because he said the word so fast and so fervently that there could be no question—Cooper wanted some of that chicken. Was this a bad idea? No reason you can’t be friendly with the guy, Miss Sober Brain informed me primly. You’ve got plenty of chaperones.

  Nice.

  “Okay. We’ll be serving up in about half an hour. Carrie’s hubby will be off work around six, then he’s heading over.”

  “Carrie the one you were talkin’ with on the porch?”

  “Yup,” I said, popping the “p” on the end. Then I took another deep swig of my wine. “She’s been my best friend since we were kids. My dad is here, too, so it’ll be five of us.”

  “Sure you have enough to spare?” he asked. “I don’t want to impose.”

  “No worries,” I said blithely. “It’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll go grab a shower, then.”

  “See you in a bit.”

  I thought I played it off pretty well, although I’ll own up to scoping out his ass as he walked away. His shirt hung loose from a back pocket, the muscles in his back rippling.

  “Goddamn,” Carrie said, and I jumped.

  “You startled me,” I accused, spinning to find her in the kitchen door, eyes wide. “You better be careful—Darren will catch you watching him.”

  She shrugged.

  “Darren and I have an agreement,” she said. “We can look, we just don’t touch. We’ve been married a long time, you know. He doesn’t get jealous.”

  This was bullshit and we both knew it. I considered invoking the sacred clause, then decided that if I was going to perv on my handyman, it’d be nice to have company.

  “Paper plates tonight,” I announced, and Carrie grinned. “I’m not in the mood to wash dishes.”

  GAGE

  Fuck, but that woman was sexy, especially when she was a little drunk . . . made her all cute and bubbly.

  I stepped into my tiny bathroom, wondering for the thousandth time why I’d volunteered for this gig. I’d had a good thing going back in Coeur d’Alene. Sure, the dancers at The Line were nonstop drama, but when I saw an ass I wanted to tap, it was usually available. Not so much with Tinker Garrett.