by Jamie Begley
“It’s yours now,” Viper protested.
“It doesn’t fit.” Sickened at the memories of acts he had been forced to perform at Slate’s bidding, he didn’t deserve to touch the jacket, much less wear it on his shoulders.
Crazy Bitch and Calder had been the ones to ask for the box. Taking it out of the closet, Crazy Bitch explained that it was meant for him. Opening the box, it had contained the three jackets, each with different patches and club names on the back.
Taking a step forward, Crazy Bitch touched the one on top. “This is Stud’s. As president of the Destructors, he’s telling you they will always have your back. In the pocket is a motorcycle key. It belonged to Stud, but now it’s yours.”
Calder reached for the Blue Horsemen jacket, spreading it out to take the keys out of the pocket. “This is my jacket. As president of the Blue Horsemen and brother, I will always have your back.” Reaper took the second key handed to him. “This is the key to my motorcycle. It’s yours. Stud will put both bikes on a trailer and park them at The Last Riders’ clubhouse tomorrow.”
He recognized the third jacket when Calder put his hand in the pocket and pulled out another key.
“You don’t need me to tell you that this is Viper’s jacket or that The Last Riders will have your back; you already know that.” Calder placed the key in Reaper’s hand.
Reaper could only stare at the jackets and keys. Club presidents didn’t give up their jackets or their bikes.
“Viper said he’s been riding it for you, but that you need to ride your own bike. They want you to know that it’s time to come home.”
Going to his closet, he took out a plain black leather jacket and shrugged it on. He would never be the man who deserved to wear Viper’s jacket.
Clenching his jaw, he picked up the suitcase, leaving Viper to follow. When he’d been admitted to the treatment facility, he had barely weighed one hundred pounds. The doctors had told him it was a miracle his heart was still beating. Reaper didn’t think it was a miracle; he knew his heart no longer existed.
He didn’t look back at the room where he’d endured the agony of withdrawal from Butcher’s concoctions. It had taken him months to regain enough strength to leave on his own steam. Without, Calder and Killyama’s mother, he would have been wheeled out on a coroner’s gurney.
It had been a long, hard struggle to fight the addictive drugs he’d been poisoned with for years. Slate might not have given a fuck if he ate or drank every day, but he had made sure something was pumped into a vein to keep him under his control.
His saving grace was the determination to rebuild the body that Slate had done everything in his power to destroy. Each day he spent in rehab, after he’d been strong enough to start exercising again, was used to strengthen his muscles. Eating enough calories to fuel the workouts had been the hardest part. He hated to admit it, but taking small bites had worked. Gradually, he’d grown stronger until he was able to tolerate longer workouts, and the increase in calories was restoring his haggard appearance. He weighed more now than when he had been kidnapped, muscles defined and sculpted with the challenging workout he did twice a day. Peyton had brought four different sizes of clothes for him to wear during his stay. The shirt and jeans he was wearing now were already getting too tight, showing the body underneath was anything but frail.
Walking toward the sliding glass doors, it still felt as if one of his captors was waiting to snatch him back. He hadn’t talked to Viper about where he planned to live to rebuild his life. Each time Viper brought it up, Reaper shut it down. He had only one thing on his mind and until that was taken care of, there was no need to think of what was going to happen next.
Coming to a stop before the doors activated, he was about to ask Viper for his gun—he didn’t want to go out in the open without a weapon—when Killyama and Peyton came through the door.
As the women walked toward him, he thought about how, if they hadn’t claimed the relationship, he wouldn’t have believed they were mother and daughter. Killyama was twice the height of her mother; Peyton was petite. While both women were feminine, the mother would catch a man’s eye, and Killyama would knock his socks off. Their personalities were just as different. Peyton exuded caring and mothering, and neither of those traits applied to Killyama.
When Killyama visited him at the rehab center, he expected the same tenderness and kindness she had shown when she carried him out of the Road Demons’ clubhouse. That wasn’t what he’d gotten.
She was a smart-ass with a quick tongue that could shred a man to pieces with one word. Earning Killyama’s love, Train deserved another medal to go along with those he’d earned in the military that decorated his uniform.
Peyton gave him a misty smile as she grew closer. “You look fantastic.”
Bracing himself, he didn’t pull away when Peyton reached out to hug him. Uncomfortably hugging her back, he looked down at the small woman who helped him through the worst of his withdrawals. She and Calder had taken turns staying with him, giving him encouragement when he needed it, and giving the brutal truth that it was going to get a lot worse before it got better.
He had found that out for himself after Taylor had come to see him.
The fantasy he built during his recovery had gotten him through the worst of the withdrawals. That fantasy of them together ended the day she came to see him.
As much as Taylor had sworn to love him, she had never been real with him about her wanting—no, needing—him to part ways with the Last Rider’s. She accomplished that with her current husband. When she had come to see him and refused to stay and talk with him, it had been a clean debridement, leaving him vulnerable and exposed as she walked away.
He didn’t remember what happened after she left. The doctor had a medical term, but the way Crazy Bitch had said it was more apt. He had bugged out and had to be medicated for three days; the next thing he knew Greer Porter was sitting with him. After Taylor left, he had realized she’d done him a favor by coming.
With that last illusion of him achieving a normal life gone, the love he had felt for her had been scrapped away leaving a scarred and hardened shell of a heart, whose only purpose was to pump ice-filled blood to an organ that no longer had the capacity to hold any lasting emotions for anyone, including himself.
Physically and emotionally he didn’t want anyone within touching distance of him, the only exception he made was Calder and Peyton. They had earned his trust, but even with them he kept the contact to a bare minimum.
He allowed Peyton a five-second hug, before he had to disengage himself. She looked at him proudly, dropping her hands to take his. “I was here for your first day, and I wanted to be here for your last.”
“I’ll never be able to repay you for what you’ve done for me.”
Pulling his hands away, he greeted Killyama. Unlike her mother, she made no attempt to touch him but examined him from hair to boots.
“I wouldn’t say you look fantastic, but you do look damn good. If Train and I weren’t already hooked-up, me and you could’ve had a thing.”
Reaper raised a brow.
Killyama was wearing skintight leather pants and T-shirt that said, Move Fucker, Or I’ll Run Your Ass Over. She also had a gun holstered on her hip.
“Excuse me, you can’t carry your weapon in here.” A security guard came out from behind the front desk.
“I didn’t see any signs that I can’t carry.”
“Personal weapons are supposed to be concealed.”
“Do you know how fucking hot it is out there?” she snarled.
“Ma’am, you need to leave, or I’ll be forced to take your weapon and call the police.”
“Call them. I’m not scared of Deputy Wannabe-A-Real-Cop.”
“Rae!” Peyton grabbed her daughter by her arm and tugged her to the door. “I’m so sorry, Officer. She’s leaving. She won’t be any more trouble.”
The security guard puffed up his chest. “She better not be.”
/> Reaper had been in the service and knew the signs of an impending attack. The woman who had been so gentle with him the night he’d been saved had a hair-trigger temper that still amazed him. That, and the fact she was Peyton’s daughter.
Reaper blocked the security guard, nodding for Killyama to go to the door. She huffed, then strode out the door, moving away from her mother.
“Rae can be a little temperamental,” she said when he and Viper reached her side.
“Are you sure there wasn’t a mix-up the day you had her?” Reaper couldn’t help asking as the doors slid open.
“She has a lot of her father’s personality.”
“You said his wife killed him.”
“Yes, she did. God rest his soul.”
“Have you thought about hiding Train’s guns so she can’t get to them?”
As they exited the building, there was a small area with benches. All of the front parking were handicapped spaces and filled with various vehicles. It was when they walked past the benches that he saw the lot was filled with motorcycles and two vans. Train stood next to one of the vans, and Hammer and Jonas were standing next to the other one. Killyama was angrily getting in the van where Train was standing.
“My car is over there.” Peyton motioned to a small, grey Honda. “I know you have all your friends waiting. I just wanted to stop by and wish you well. Just because we won’t be besties anymore, doesn’t mean that I won’t expect a phone call every couple of days to let me know how you’re doing.”
“I can do that.” Reaper knew what she was waiting for. Bending down, he gave her a good-bye hug and let her give him a quick peck on his cheek before backing from her. Then both he and Viper stood watching as she walked to her car.
“I plan to pay her back for staying with me,” Reaper told his brother.
“She won’t take any money. I tried.”
When they were assured she was safely in her car, they turned toward the men who had filled the parking lot.
“Why are The Last Riders here?” Reaper kept his attention on Viper, having been unable to see some of The Last Riders since his captivity. “I thought it was going to be the nine of us?”
Viper reached into his jacket pocket and took out a gun, handing it to him. “I thought so, too. I didn’t tell them you were getting out today. But the others figured it out when I scheduled us off for the day. They were already on their bikes when I got to the parking lot. How could I tell them no?”
“You’ve never had trouble saying no in your life.” Tucking the gun in the small of his back, he strode toward his motorcycle.
Viper sat down on the bike next to his and put his key in the ignition.
Reaper slung his leg over the seat to start his own. “They know we’re coming?”
“Pretty sure they’ve been expecting it since your escape.”
“Good.”
Four miles away from the Road Demons clubhouse, they stopped at a gas station to refuel. After each tank was filled, they moved to the side to the parking lot for the original members to look at the house blueprint that Jonas had made. Hammer gave brief, concise instructions to each person’s responsibility in the attack. Reaper didn’t pay attention to any of it, his blood getting colder and colder as Hammer pointed to different areas of the house.
Seeing the blueprint of his chamber of horrors, where each boxed-off square held more memories of his debasement than he could count, was a macabre reminder of the torture he withstood.
The sun was beginning to set when Hammer folded up the blueprint. “There aren’t going to be many there,” Hammer told him. “Most of them ran like fleas when you got away. The cowards didn’t even bother going back to the club to get their shit. Jonas has been tracking them down for us. So far, we’ve managed to find Raff and Ink.”
Reaper never expected any of the ones he wanted to be there, just the drugged-out hangers-on that had nowhere else to go. Hammer took his phone out, giving him a considering look, only handing it to him when Viper nodded at him.
Reaper looked down at the picture of the man on the phone, aware of Killyama coming around his shoulder. She had been standing toward the back of the van Train had been driving, staying back as the men talked.
“That’s the one I took out on the way out.”
He didn’t take his eyes off the picture. “That’s Chain.”
“Not anymore,” Killyama said proudly.
“Scroll to the side. Those are the others we took out.”
Reaper slid his thumb to the side. He didn’t recognize any of the others. None of the pictures invoked any memories of seeing them during his captivity.
He could understand how Slate had gotten away with keeping him for so long. He had limited his contacts to ones he trusted the most within the club. From what Viper had told him, the ones who had taken part in his tortures were those that Slate had met online and who paid to be there.
Sliding his thumb over again, he saw a face he did recognize. “That was Brewer.”
Reaper received no satisfaction at seeing the bullet-ridden biker. He would have rather him be on the run with the others.
Handing the phone back to Hammer, he asked the question that had been burning like a wildfire in his brain. “Have you found Slate?”
“Not yet. Jonas and I are close, but so far, he’s been jumping between hideouts.”
“You can stop looking.” Getting on his bike, Reaper put his riding gloves back on. “I’m going to be the one to track him down. He’s mine.”
Viper took the lead as they pulled out of the gas station. A mile away from the club, they stopped on a dirt road. Parking his bike, Reaper went to the van to get his weapon. Train handed it to him. Reaper held his baby in his hands, feeling the familiar weight as if he had just held it the day before.
“Need some help?” Viper spoke next to him.
The brothers shared a glance, remembering all the times they had fought alongside each other, so familiar with each other’s habits that they wouldn’t have to say a word.
Reaper handed him his modified flamethrower, so he could take off the leather jacket he’d asked Peyton to buy for him before leaving the treatment facility. Placing the jacket in the back of the van, he started to take the flamethrower from Viper.
“Don’t forget this.” Rider jumped down from the van and handed him a box.
Opening the box, Reaper’s hand trembled as he looked at Viper. “I thought you cut it up.”
The Last Riders had two hard and fast rules. When you left the club, you lost your bike and your jacket was cut to shreds, essentially cutting any ties to the club.
“Brother, you know I’m a tight-ass. If I cut up a jacket every time you got pissed at me, it would have cost me a fucking fortune to replace them all.” Viper handed Rider the flamethrower when Reaper hesitated to put his cut on. Then, taking the jacket out of the box, he turned it so that Reaper could slide his arms inside.
He took a step forward, turning around and putting his arms inside as Viper held it. With a hard smack on his shoulder, Viper moved to face him.
“It still fits,” Reaper said gruffly.
“If you gain any more muscle in your shoulders, it’ll be too tight.” Viper took the flamethrower from Rider to give it back to him.
Taking it, he slid the strap onto his shoulder next to a button by the collar. Reaper used his other hand to flip a slender flap over the strap. Once in place, he could swing the thrower over his shoulder and let it ride on his back until he was ready to use it.
Silently, The Last Riders got back on their motorcycles.
They didn’t plan a sneak attack on the Road Demons; they rode up the long driveway, two by two, with the vans going last.
Reaper and Viper stopped a few feet from the door, saving enough room for both the tactical vans to park sideways, giving cover to the Riders from any bullets coming from inside the house. There weren’t any.
Reaper let Viper get off first, then it was his turn. Lucky was
next, and then … one by one, The Last Riders got off their bikes according to their rank. Only one Last Rider was missing from the exodus that stormed the house.
Shade, who had been waiting for their arrival, was perched high in one of the surrounding trees, waiting to kill anyone who ran out.
It was a wasted effort. The only ones they found inside were fourteen hangers-on. Nine of them were women.
Moon, Train, and Killyama herded them outside as the rest searched the house for anyone hiding. Reaper stood in the living room, waiting until Hammer and Viper returned. He saw from the ashen expression on his brother’s face that Viper had gone into the bedroom and down into the basement.
“It’s …” Viper had to clear his throat before continuing, “clear.”
Reaper nodded grimly at Hammer. “Get everyone out.”
Hammer barked out, “Pull back!”
When it was just the three of them, Hammer nodded that the house was empty, leaving him and Viper alone.
“Get out.” Reaper had waited and built his fury to a boiling point. He wanted Viper out of harm’s way.
“Let me do it.”
Reaper couldn’t look at his brother. He didn’t want to see Viper’s anguish. He was too consumed with hatred for the Road Demons and for himself to deal with Viper’s reaction at seeing the place where he’d had years stolen from him. There was nothing that Viper or any of The Last Riders could say that would make it right about what had happened to him.
“No.” Reaching behind his back, Reaper pulled his flamethrower around to his chest. “Get out.”
Viper remained still. Reaper could read the indecision on his face.
“Don’t worry; I didn’t live through Hell to make this place my graveyard.” It was hard to do, but he gave Viper what he needed. “Go outside. I have no intention of torching myself.”
His fears eased, Viper strode outside, leaving him alone.
Putting his finger on the trigger, Reaper walked around the club, room by room, using his thrower to spray the clear liquid onto each object. He could hear the sounds of his boots as he walked on the floorboards, each sound echoing through the empty house.
