Down to my Bones (Reapers MC: Ellsberg Chapter Book 1)

by Bijou Hunter

  Resting on her back, MJ cuddles the pillow again. “I always hoped to fall in love with an agreeable man.”

  “Mission accomplished,” I murmur and check outside again. “Is there anyone in the club that you don’t like?”

  “Lots.”

  “Does anyone in the club not like you?”

  “Lots.”

  I wish I could help MJ remember the guy from the woods. Trauma locks the answer in her mind. MJ might trust me, but I also rile her up. Clearly, she needs someone capable of making her feel completely safe. A mother’s touch might just do the trick.

  My phone sounds the same alarm as when MJ was shot. The Reapers’ emergency message means members and their families should shelter in place, arm up, and trust no one outside the club.

  MJ sits up and looks at her phone. “Protect my mom.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Someone could hurt Mom,” she says, and her voice breaks with fear.

  “They aren’t after your mom. They’re after you.”

  “Maybe he wanted to hurt Pop.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  MJ stares into my eyes and says with complete sincerity, “I don’t know the difference between the truth and the noise in my head anymore. Now, will you please check on my mom?”

  Leaving MJ feels wrong, yet her voice hides none of her building panic. She imagines her mother in danger, and she’s past seeing anything else. Unable to tell her no when she’s barely holding onto her calm, I hand MJ my favorite gun which she rests in her lap.

  Grabbing another weapon, I leave the RV. The summer heat slams into me, and I take a few seconds to adjust to the change in temperature. I’m nauseous by the time I reach the now empty deck.

  Inside the house, Farah and the other women huddle in the kitchen. The younger people struggle to close the shades on the dozen windows in the large family room.

  Farah sees me and rushes over. “Why did you leave MJ?”

  “She asked me to check on you.”

  “Did you hear?” one of the younger men asks me. “Someone attacked Whiskey Kirk’s.”

  “I didn’t hear shit,” I mutter, not sure why the fuck he’s talking to me.

  “Someone threw Molotov cocktails at the back of the bar,” he continues like a gossipy biddy at the hair salon.

  Limply holding a gun in her hand, Farah sighs. “Coop was inside. They didn’t see who did it. Anyone could sneak up from the woods behind the bar. Coop and the guys with him are searching for the sonovabitch.”

  “Where are Lily and Audrey?” I ask.

  “They were checking out Lily’s new place when the alarm went out. Cap is driving them to the closest safe house, which belongs to Shelby and Dylan. He’ll keep an eye on them.”

  Once she finishes reciting her answer as if going through the motions, Farah gestures for me to follow her to the front door. I do as she wants since we’re both on the same page when it comes to MJ.

  “Before I go,” I whisper, “I want to talk to you about something.”

  “This isn’t the time.”

  “It's about the man who shot your daughter.”

  Farah frowns and crosses her arms. “What?”

  “If you think you could handle hearing about that day, I want you to have MJ walk you through it.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be able to handle it?” Farah asks, obviously offended.

  “No harm meant. I figured hearing about your daughter almost dying might be upsetting.”

  “It would be, but I can handle anything if it helps my kids.”

  Her tone sounds so much like a pissed MJ that I fight a smile. “Look, MJ and I have a good thing, and we can talk, but she’s also really wound up about us. She’s excited by the newness and obsessed by the idea of taking care of me. I can’t get her to relax in the way you can.”

  Farah looks around as if she needs to ask Cooper’s advice. When she doesn’t speak, I continue, “And no offense to your husband, but with all the growling and threatening he does, I can’t imagine he can get her calm enough either.”

  “Calm enough to talk about what happened? I thought she already did.”

  “She remembers the superficial stuff. The top layer of what happened,” I say and shift my stance. “MJ said something bad happened to you growing up. She didn’t say what but basically I got the impression that you understood about PTSD.”

  “I do,” Farah says, protectively tightening her crossed arms across her chest.

  “So you know how you can remember something safely by not thinking too deeply about it. But you also know how if triggered just right, you return to the moment it happened. Well, we need MJ to remember the moment she was shot.”

  “Why?”

  “Her gut knows something about the shooter, but her mind can’t push past the fear to remember that day.”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Thanks,” I say and reach for the door. “I’ll stay in the RV until Cooper calls an all clear. Are you okay in here?”

  “Yes,” Farah says, glancing back at the others. “Club people are the only ones I trust right now.”

  Nodding, I peer over her head to the people behind her. They’re strangers to me, and I don’t trust them. A little part of me even wants to bring Farah back to the RV with me, but I know she won’t come. This is her house, and these are her friends. From her point of view, I’m the only outsider here.

  By the time I reach the RV, my shirt sticks to me from the nearly hundred-degree heat.

  “You stink,” MJ says as soon as I enter. “I should clean you up.”

  Grinning, I point at her and shake my head. “You stay where you are. I’ll splash water on my face, and we’ll sit and wait for the all clear from your father.”

  The kitchen faucet acts as a mini-bath to help me cool down. My shirt goes in the dirty laundry drawer, and I suspect we’ll need to find a better solution since my clothes are significantly bigger than MJ’s.

  “The fire was a distraction,” she says, watching me with a smile on her face. “Did you know you are beautiful?”

  “Yes, I’ve always known,” I murmur, drying off with a paper towel. “Go back to that other part.”

  “Take off your pants.”

  “Later.”

  “Now,” she growls, revealing her best Johansson glare.

  “What if your mother needs my help and I’m naked?”

  Tilting her head to the side, MJ considers this scenario as I climb on the bed next to her. My cooling body relaxes next to her chilly one.

  “Why do you think it was a distraction?” I ask, taking my gun from her lap.

  “Pop texted that the asshole threw the firebomb thing—”

  “Molotov cocktail.”

  “Yeah, he threw that thing at the back of the bar where no one was. It wasn’t meant to hurt anyone. This attack feels like someone trying to distract Pop from finding the guy who attacked me.”

  “Your father isn’t the type of man to be distracted.”

  MJ messes with my hair, no doubt enjoying my waves again. “No, but he might assume the situations were connected.”

  “Of course, they’re connected. Who else would start trouble except someone connected to the asshole?”

  “Huh?”

  “Look at it this way,” I say, resting my cheek against her soft arm. “If I were the bad guy and thought your father was close to catching me, I’d try to throw him off my scent.”

  “But Pop isn’t on anyone’s scent. Colton thinks it’s the Mullens. Tucker thinks it’s the Roches. Vaughn thinks it’s an old boyfriend, and Judd said it might be a random pervert. None of them are right.”

  I don’t waste time asking how she knows they’re wrong. Her gut screams the truth, but the fear and pain pills keep her blind. I can only hope Farah is able to help her daughter.

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE PIECES FIT THE PUZZLE

  THE ODDBALL

  Quaid and I quickly lose interest in talkin
g about the suspects. I turn the topic to pets. I explain why I don’t have a cat despite loving them so much—dogs would eat it. He clarifies why Baldy can’t move to Ellsberg—people revolve around the dog, not the other way around. I explain why I don’t have a dog of my own—they’d stink up my RV. He describes his ideal pet—a stuffed parrot.

  “You monster,” I giggle while we chill on the bed. “Though having a stuffed cat would solve the problem of the dogs eating it.”

  Smiling, Quaid suddenly lifts his head and acts as if he heard something. Every muscle in my body tightens when he sits up to check outside.

  “Speaking of dogs, they’re rolling around on the ground out there,” he says, reclining back on the bed.

  “I don’t know why they don’t hide in the shade, but visitors often make them act stupid. I think they’re just mad they can’t eat anyone.”

  Quaid grins despite being on edge. We recheck my phone, but Pop hasn’t told everyone to stand down yet.

  “You should get a fat cat,” Quaid says once we realize we’re never leaving the RV and will grow old in this tiny box. “Chase’s sister-in-law has a fat cat. It barely moves from the couch. With a cat like that, you wouldn’t need to worry about it roaming outside and getting eaten.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out at the shelter for a chunky one. Wait, you haven’t even said if you like cats.”

  “I don’t care one way or another. Baldy showed up one day and stuck around. I tried taking him for a walk, but he wouldn’t follow me. I tried getting him inside Chase’s house during a storm, but he wouldn’t come. He’s not really my dog, but I feed him when he’s around. That’s how I like life. Nothing too complicated, so if you get a cat, I’ll have a cat. If you don’t get a cat, we won’t have a cat.”

  “You’re so chill I feel like we shouldn’t need an air conditioner.”

  “And I found a cool chick, and we live in a hip little RV. Put on a little jazz, and we could get a party started.”

  “Mock me again, and I won’t put out.”

  “You’re a bad liar, MJ Johansson.”

  “Not usually, but I got really scared when you mentioned listening to jazz. That shit is awful.”

  Quaid laughs for way longer than appropriate, but the man is clearly bored out of his fucking mind. I don’t blame him. We can’t even watch TV without worrying about the sounds inside the RV muffling ones from outside. We’re on red alert here!

  After we stare at the ceiling of the RV for ten minutes, I remember how to speak. “I’m glad you were engaged.”

  “Makes sense,” he says and closes his eyes. “Why is that again?”

  “Even though my family had money, I always got Lily’s hand-me-downs. We’re so close in age, and kids grow out of stuff fast. By the time she was done with something, I was ready for it. I think Mom felt bad about that or maybe Pop wanted me to look super spiffy on my first day of kindergarten, but they bought me a whole new outfit. Well, it sucked. The shoes hurt my feet, and the shirt itched my neck. I barely made it through the day without stripping naked. Apparently, Lily broke in all the clothes, and that’s what made them feel so comfy. That’s when I realized how used stuff was better.”

  “And I’m used?”

  “Yes,” I say, rolling to my side and cuddling against his arm. “You’re broken-in and comfy. I bet I wouldn’t like you at all if we met when you were young and shiny and new. No, you’re much sexier now.”

  “That hurts my feelings.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “No, but I’m bored.”

  “I offered sex, but you had to get logical on me.”

  “You really like that I was engaged before?”

  “Yeah. You already know what it feels like to be in love, and how it is to think it’ll last forever. But with me, it feels better, right?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “There you go. If you were a young buck, you wouldn’t appreciate everything I have to offer.”

  “No, I might have missed that. I still can’t believe how close I came to missing it months ago.”

  “You didn’t, though, because you’re perfectly broken-in,” I murmur before closing my eyes. “Should we nap?”

  “Can’t stay focused if we’re asleep.”

  Sighing loudly, I keep my eyes closed and my face pressed against his warm flesh. I know he needs to be alert, but I think I might doze for a while.

  Then, like a miracle from above, we get the all clear message. I do a little dance, and Quaid nuzzles his face between my boobs. A real celebration takes place.

  When we hear bikes roar to life, Quaid looks outside.

  “The second-tier people are leaving,” he says and glances back at me. “We ought to go to your parents’ place.”

  “Why?”

  “Your mother will be alone.”

  Nodding immediately, I reach for my sandals. “She probably needs lots of hugs, and I’m the best hugger out of her four kids.”

  “Did she tell you that?” Quaid teases.

  “Yes, and I choose to believe her.”

  Despite the heat and my earlier fear, I can’t stop smiling during our quick walk from the RV to the house where Mom waits.

  “I had a feeling,” she says and opens her arms.

  Embracing Mom, I catch her and Quaid share an odd look. I’d be suspicious if they were any two other people.

  “Hungry?” Mom asks as we walk into the dark living room.

  “I like how the shades are closed. You should keep it dark in here always.”

  “No,” Mom says, and I grin. “So are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  Mom again looks at Quaid in a way that makes me think they’re plotting behind my back. When her gaze finds mine, she reveals her brightest mom smile.

  “Let’s go upstairs and talk.”

  “About what?” I ask, backing away.

  “Girl stuff,” she insists and takes my hand.

  “I don’t need relationship advice.”

  “I do, though,” she teases as we start upstairs.

  Turning back to see Quaid, I find him watching me with calm blue eyes. Oh, yeah, he knows what’s up with Mom’s sudden need for a girl chat. I decide to take a page from his no-drama handbook and roll with whatever they have planned.

  Upstairs, we enter my bedroom and Mom shuts the door.

  “I want to talk about what happened the day you were hurt,” Mom says

  Studying her, I consider making a run for the door. “Why?”

  “Quaid thought you might remember something about the shooter if you talked to me.”

  “Why?” I ask, no longer planning to run since her partner in crime is waiting for me downstairs.

  “I don’t know, Miranda.”

  “Ugh, don’t call me that,” I grumble as usual. “I should storm out of here and refuse to discuss anything with you. I won’t, but I should.”

  I sit on the bed and look around my room. I never owned much stuff, and anything non-essential remained in the bedroom once I moved to the RV. In my closet hang a few winter coats and shirts. On the floor is a single pair of snow boots.

  “You know when I was a teenager that something traumatic happened to me,” Mom says.

  “And Aunt Tawny. Are we going to talk about that?”

  “No,” Mom says and pats the pillow on my bed. “Let’s talk about Wednesday.”

  “Do you like Quaid?” I ask while resting on my back.

  “Yes.”

  “More than you like Cap?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you lying?”

  “No,” Mom says, and I can’t tell if she’s messing with me now or before.

  Smiling at her, I sigh when she rubs my jaw. I hadn’t even realized my teeth are clenched until her gentle touch relaxes me.

  “Did you park on the right or left side of Route 72?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Close your eyes,” Mom whispers. “Imagine you’re back on the road. Can yo
u see your moped?”

  I don’t want to remember the day I was shot, but Mom possesses a quiet stubbornness that refuses to be denied. She once nagged me for six days straight because I made the decision to give up wearing shoes. Mom never raised her voice or lost her temper. She just repeatedly asked me to please put on my shoes. When I told her no, she reminded me of how dangerous walking barefoot could be. I thought I could outlast her, but the woman was unrelenting and turned every conversation into how I should wear shoes. Finally, I gave in to her nagging. Her secret weapon was looking ready to cry each time she nagged. Making Mom cry was the biggest no-no of my childhood.

  Closing my eyes, I force my mind to return to the hot Wednesday afternoon. My heart beats faster as I remember climbing off my moped.

  “I parked on the left-hand side of the road because I noticed a box.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “I saw the pale blue truck. The man was at the back, hiding under a plain blue ball cap. I think his hair was dark, but I didn’t pay a lot of attention. It might have stuck out from under the cap. Not super long like Vaughn’s hair, but longish like Quaid’s waves.”

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  My eyes remain shut while I shake my head. “I ignored him and went to the box. I don’t want to remember the part with the kittens.”

  “It could help us find the jerk who hurt you.”

  “They were dead. That’s all that matters.”

  “The box was closed when you found it?” Mom asks, stroking my hand.

  “Yes.”

  “Was it by the side of the road or farther away?”

  “Just past the road into the grass.”

  “How many kittens were in the box?”

  “Four,” I whisper and shudder at the memory. “I don’t want to talk about that part.”

  “What was the man doing?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t look at him. I knew he hadn't left and I didn’t want to cry in front of a stranger. I took the box with me.”

  “How far did you walk?”

  “I don’t know. I kept going until the trees blocked the view of the road. I wanted privacy.”

  Mom hears the panic in my voice and takes a few extra seconds before speaking again. “When did you know he was coming for you?”