Reaper's Fire (Reapers Motorcycle Club #6)

by Joanna Wylde

  “But otherwise, that’s what you want?”

  Delusional. She didn’t even care about the damage she’d done, or who she hurt along the way. Sound like anyone else you know? I asked myself, and I didn’t like the answer.

  Just get through it. Do it for your brothers—they’ve risked their lives for you, they’ve served time for you. Now suck it up and do what you have to do.

  “Sure,” I said, letting a slow smile slide across my face. It was sexy—I knew this, because women fell for it every time. Talia did, too. So fucking predictable. She licked her lips, then reached down to cup one of her tits.

  “Why don’t you come over here and let me show you exactly how I feel?” she whispered.

  “Can’t,” I said, and while I tried to inject a hint of regret into my voice, it wasn’t easy to pull off. “Your brother wants me out at the clubhouse. Said we had something to talk about.”

  Talia perked up.

  “I’ll ride with you,” she said. “Let me grab my bag.”

  I wanted to protest, but figured I’d pushed her far enough already. All I had to do was manage the situation for a few more weeks. Then I’d be free.

  “I’ll be outside waiting.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Proving once again that women made no sense, Talia was in a great mood by the time we pulled up to the clubhouse.

  “Hey, Cooper!” shouted one of the prospects, a kid named Cody. “Good thing you’re here. Boss is lookin’ for you.”

  “He knows we’re coming,” Talia told him. “I already messaged him.”

  “Well, he said to watch for Cooper, and then send him in as soon as you guys got here. He’s waiting for you.”

  Talia and I walked into the clubhouse, which smelled like weed and burned chemicals. Someone must’ve gotten their hands on some seriously low-quality meth, which surprised me. You’d think with Marsh’s connections, he’d be using better stuff.

  Marsh sat toward the back of the room on a couch, hand tapping nervously against the armrest. A young girl sat on his lap. She had a blank, stoned look and while I could see her hand stuck down his pants, there didn’t seem to be much action happening. Approaching them, I caught Marsh’s eye and waited for him to speak. He pushed the girl off and stood up, blinking at me through bloodshot, dilated eyes, one hand still twitching nervously.

  Great. He was tweaking.

  “C’mon, Coop,” he said, eyes darting toward Talia. “You stay here, baby girl. We got business.”

  Talia pouted, but turned away toward the bar as I followed Marsh into a pool room. Their chapel. Lining the walls were old leather vests—colors from brothers who’d died—and a few prizes they’d taken off other clubs who’d wandered into the wrong town. Marsh grabbed a couple of pool cues, tossing one to me.

  “Let’s play a game and talk,” he said. “Shut the door.”

  I did, then watched as he racked the balls. He radiated a wild, nervous energy that could only come from one place. Meth. Fuck, I knew we had to play it out as long as we could, but at the rate he’d been using, things could fall apart fast. Seemed like it was worse every time I saw him.

  “Gotta job for you,” he said, leaning over to take the first shot. His hand trembled. Fuck. Hopefully he’d be steady enough for me to throw the game plausibly, because I had a feeling Marsh wasn’t a gracious loser. The balls broke with a crack, and thankfully he sank two stripes for a good start.

  “What’s that?” I asked, carefully casual.

  “Need someone to haul some cargo,” he said, frowning as he lined up another shot, eye twitching. “Someone we can trust. You been hangin’ around for a while and you got your own rig. Figured you might be ready for a shot at some money.”

  His cue skipped as he made his next play, hitting the ball off-center. Scratch. Marsh scowled.

  “I’m always interested in money,” I said slowly, pretending to weigh the offer. “What’s the run?”

  “We’ve got some shit for you to take up through Bellingham,” he said. “You’ll cross the border there and drop the load in Vancouver—all legal—and then drive across to Penticton to pick up another load. Come back through the border at Oroville, which is the most dangerous part of the trip. From there you’ll drive down to the Tri-Cities and deliver it to some friends of ours.”

  “The path’s a little random,” I said. If I went through Bellingham the local Reapers could back me up, but the rest of the time I’d be well and truly on my own. “I can think of better ways to do it.”

  “Not your job to think,” Marsh said slowly. “We’ll be watching you, so don’t fuck it up. Our Canadian partners will be at both drop points, and they’ll be in charge of paying and verifying the shipments. It’s your job to drop one trailer and pick up another—simple. Any questions?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “What’s my cut?”

  Marsh stared at me.

  “Standard shipping rates, Coop, payable when you finish and they verify delivery. So far as you’re concerned, this is just another job.”

  There was a trap if I’d ever seen one—only a moron would agree.

  “It’s my ass on the line,” I said, wondering if the risk was worth it. The Reapers needed information, but I’d never be able to tell them what I’d learned if Marsh slit my throat in a fit of paranoid rage. “You treat me right or I’m out. Your sister’s hot, but she’s not that hot.”

  The man burst out laughing.

  “You’re a good guy, Coop,” he said. “You call it like it is, and you aren’t pussy-whipped. Talia’s my baby girl and I love her, but business is business. Let’s make a deal.”

  Standing, he walked over and lifted a faded velvet painting of an American eagle off the wall. Behind it was a safe. Marsh opened it, then came back with a stack of bills in a rubber band, handing it over. I flipped through the money, doing a quick count.

  “I’ll give you this now and another just like it once you finish the deliveries,” he said.

  “And what’s to keep me from taking the money and running?” I asked, quirking a brow. Marsh laughed again.

  “Talia says you’re fond of your landlady,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Got her panties in a twist about it, and I understand why. Bitch is hot. I’d love to give her a test ride, and if you don’t come back on time, that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

  The muscles in my legs stiffened, but I managed to keep the friendly smile on my face.

  “Just ’cause I’m horny for some bitch doesn’t mean I care about her.”

  “Yeah, but you probably care about your kids,” he said. “So if you’re planning to make a run for it, you might want to stop off and pick them up along the way. Otherwise, I’ll find them and eat their little hearts for breakfast. We clear?”

  “Crystal,” I said, my voice hardening. My fingers twitched, itching to kill the bastard. Lucky for Marsh the kids weren’t real—otherwise the fucker’d be dead already.

  “Perfect. How soon can you get on the road?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” I said. “Got some shit to clear up around the apartment building. Otherwise it’ll look suspicious. Oh, and Marsh?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Your sister. She tried to fuck with my living situation, and I’m over it. We had words. That gonna be a problem?”

  Marsh laughed and shook his head.

  “The only man she really cares about is me,” he said. “She’d be bored of you already if she hadn’t caught you fuckin’ around.”

  “We got an understanding, then?”

  “Yeah, we got an understanding. You take care of the cargo, I’ll take care of Talia. We all do our jobs, everyone lives happily ever after. Easy. Now let’s finish the game.”

  • • •

  Took a couple hours to extract myself from the clubhouse that night. Helped that Talia had gotten herself wasted while I was talkin’ to Marsh, which meant she and her girls would be partying until the early hours. Seeing as I had a job to do the next day, I’d managed t
o escape following a quick fuck in the bathroom.

  Had to say, all those years managing the strip club and I never fully appreciated what the girls went through in the VIP rooms.

  Now? Yeah, let’s just say I was developing some empathy.

  Grabbing a beer out of the fridge, I cracked open a new phone I’d picked up a few days ago in Omak. Still wasn’t sure whether Marsh had decided to trust me, or if it was a setup, but either way, Picnic needed an update.

  He answered on the third ring.

  “Aw, sugar,” he said. “Three calls in one day? You really love me, don’t you?”

  “Fuck off,” I countered. “Got an update for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Playing the hard line worked. I shut Talia down and Marsh doesn’t seem to have a problem with it—all he cares about is money. Get the impression her tantrum is more about hurt pride than anything else. He wants me to run a load up to Vancouver, then bring another load back down through Oroville. Delivery to the Tri-Cities.”

  “Think it’s a setup?”

  “Possibly,” I said, considering the question. “But my gut tells me no. He’s not like us—he’s sloppy. No fuckin’ way a man in my position should be brought in this early, but he’s got prospects that barely know how to ride their bikes. He’s stretched thin as hell and it’s showing.”

  “Guess it’s decision time, then. You up for moving forward?”

  I considered the question. It was a legitimate concern—for all we knew, Marsh wanted me out of the picture. That didn’t feel right, though, and I’d learned to trust my gut over the years. “Yeah, I think it’s worth the risk. I’ll leave tomorrow. You give the boys in Bellingham a heads-up—they can help me go through the load, see what kind of intel we find. The sooner we end this shit the better.”

  “You got it,” he said. “We’ll have them meet you at a truck stop in case Jackson puts a GPS on you. Should be easy enough to pull off. If you ever get asked why you stopped, just say you needed to take a shit. Sooner or later we all do.”

  “This is getting more personal than it needs to be.”

  Picnic laughed. “Let me know when you leave town. I’ll call Bellingham and make the arrangements. Good job. This run is exactly what we need—access to their network and proof they’re stealing from us. And I don’t care how fantastic her tits are, don’t let Tinker distract you while you’re workin’. We’ve got your back, but we can’t ride in the truck with you. Keep your focus on what really matters here, got me? I fuckin’ hate funerals.”

  SEATTLE

  TINKER

  We pulled up to the house at eight that night. I hadn’t been back for six months, and it seemed weird how unchanged everything was. Brandon hadn’t really spent much time there while we were married, and apparently he still didn’t. Not that the house wasn’t in perfect condition—we had a service for that—but it didn’t feel lived-in. The whole place was as sterile as our marriage had been.

  I got Dad and Randi settled in their rooms before heading downstairs to check out my kitchen. Much as I hated what the rest of the house had come to represent, I loved what I’d created down here. Shining metal counters, giant sink with a built-in drainboard. Beautiful stove top and the enrobing machine. Rolling tray racks.

  God, I missed it.

  You could just stay here, an insidious voice whispered in my head. You don’t have to go back and face that crazy bitch. Leave it all behind. Your dad’s losing his mind anyway. In a few weeks he won’t even remember living somewhere else.

  “Tinker?” I spun around to find Brandon. He was tall and svelte, all perfect hair and wearing a suit that had to cost thousands. I knew his family had money, but I’d always thought it looked bad for someone on a deputy prosecutor’s salary to wear clothes that flashy. Not that it was my business at this point. The sooner we finalized the divorce, the better.

  “Hi, Brandon,” I said, offering him a tight smile. “I’ll only be here a few days. Shouldn’t mess with your life too much.”

  “I’m not worried about that,” he said, walking toward me. “You look good, Tinker. I’ve missed you. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” I told him. “I’m only here because I had a batch of caramels go south on me, and I needed to get caught up. Figured it would be good to use the full kitchen for a couple of days.”

  Brandon pulled a stool over to the center island and sat down.

  “Do you have a few minutes?” he asked. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  Ah, now I was remembering why I didn’t want to stay in Seattle. Whole damned town was infested with Brandon.

  “You’ve got five,” I said. His eyes hardened and I could see the hint of frustration he tried to hide—Brandon never liked it when people set limits. Guess the house wasn’t the only thing that hadn’t changed.

  “It’s been eighteen months,” he said in his Very Serious Voice. Juries always fell for it, which I guess I could understand. I used to fall for it, too. Now it just sounded ridiculous. “I think it’s time to discuss our separation.”

  Sighing, I grabbed my own stool and pulled it over, sitting down to face him. “You’re right. I talked to my lawyer last week about moving things along faster. He says he still hasn’t gotten all the financials from you. What’s the holdup?”

  Brandon frowned. “That’s not really what I meant, Tinker. All along, I’ve tried to give you space. I understood that you needed time to heal, and then when your mother died . . . well, we went through a series of tragedies, and that’s enough to shake any couple. But we’ve both had time to recover, and I think we need to discuss reconciliation.”

  “Are you high? No. Just . . . no.”

  “Tinker, you’re not even listening to me,” he said, his calm mask cracking. “I don’t think you understand the situation. The current Prosecuting Attorney is stepping down, and he’s going to back me in the next election. It’s great news, but our supporters want you as part of the package. It’s about family values. You’re a beautiful woman who’s built a fantastic business centered on the home arts—”

  The blood in my head started to pound.

  “You’ve been lying to people about us, haven’t you?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve told them about the baby, of course, and then explained about your mother. Everyone understands, but I really need you back in Seattle now. If you don’t show your face soon, it could cost me the election.”

  “You’re delusional,” I said bluntly. “We’re getting a divorce. Things have been crazy and our finances are complicated—or so you keep telling me—but it’s been eighteen months. You need to send all the documentation to my attorney so we can move forward. I don’t want things to get ugly, but we’re over, Brandon. There’s nothing to reconcile.”

  My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out of my pocket, giving it a quick glance. Carrie had texted, wanting to make sure I’d arrived all right. Setting it down on the counter, I looked over at the man I’d wasted ten years of my life on.

  “You’ve had a rough day,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t have bothered you tonight. Would you be free to have dinner with me tomorrow?”

  “No, but my attorney might be.”

  He laughed, the sound forced. I’d had enough.

  “I need to prep,” I told him. “You should go back upstairs and let me work.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, so I decided to ignore him, sliding off my stool and walking over to my storage closet. Hopefully, I still had some boxes in there to replace the ones that’d been damaged. My supply shipment had been delayed, and while I theoretically had enough for the next week, finding more would make life easier. I found an entire flat waiting to be folded. Nice. Randi could work on them tomorrow while I cooked.

  Stepping back into the kitchen, I found Brandon still sitting at the work island.

  Holding my phone.

  “What the hell, Brandon?”

  He looked up at me, eyes dark with anger. “Who’s Cooper?” />
  I raised a brow.

  “Seriously? You’re spying on my phone now?”

  “It kept buzzing. I wanted to be sure there wasn’t an emergency,” he replied, as if what he’d done were perfectly reasonable. He’d always had a gift for that—making it sound like I was the crazy one, not him.

  “Hand it over,” I snapped, holding out my hand. He dropped the phone into it, and I saw the message that’d flashed across the front.

  COOPER: I know about what happened with Talia. Sorry doesn’t cut it but at least I can promise it won’t happen again. FYI—I have to head out of town for a couple days. Short term job. Call me

  Great, because his crazy girlfriend wasn’t pissed off enough already. Fucking men, always thinking they knew how to solve everything.

  “So who is he?” Brandon demanded, the words clipped. I sat down, stretching my neck, because this was officially the day from hell. What could go wrong next? Maybe a meteor would hit us. That’d simplify things.

  “He’s my handyman,” I said absently. “He moved into the building about a month ago.”

  “Your handyman?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You know, the guy you call when something breaks? He does maintenance around the building. Huge help.”

  “And who is he, exactly? How do you know you can trust him? I really wish you’d had me do a background check before you—”

  What a smug, self-righteous asshole. The anger and frustration and grief and rage I’d suffered over the past year and a half boiled out and I turned on him.

  “Shut the fuck up, Brandon,” I snarled. “Jesus, how fucking stupid are you? I’m not your wife anymore, and I haven’t been for a long time. Our daughter died and you didn’t even bother to show up. Once you pull something like that, it’s all over. You can’t argue with me, you can’t bully me, you can’t do anything, because we aren’t a couple anymore. You don’t exist in my world, got it?”

  Brandon gaped at me, and for once he didn’t have a damned thing to say. The phone buzzed again, and I looked down to find another message.

  COOPER: I need Darrens number

  Fucking men. Always making demands.