Heart Like Mine (Reapers MC: Conroe Chapter, #3)

by Hunter, Bijou

  I’m proud of us. Rebel for expressing his fears and calming himself rather than escalating like his father would have done. And me for not closing myself off and letting him rage unchallenged.

  A new life means being our best selves. Whether Jack really does kill Patrick slowly or the jerk lives a long life, that evil man won’t ruin our future.

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE HOTHEAD COOLS HIS JETS

  THE HOTHEAD

  I’m halfway through my morning roster of jobs when Georgia texts me using the phone I bought her yesterday. I want to empower her. That way, when she chooses me, I won’t wonder if it’s because I never gave her any other option. Yeah, Scarlet’s words are stuck in my head now.

  Georgia starts her message with “Hell yeah,” so I know she’s apologizing. Then she says she can only have dinner in my RV if Rebel joins us. Her wording is passive, meant to lessen my irritation. That asshole Hegseth trained her to be a perfect little mouse.

  I’m glad she can’t see my face when I read her message. I probably look angry. And I am irritated. Not about the kid so much. I want Georgia to myself.

  The house is always crowded, and I’m always fighting for her attention. For nearly six months, I imagined us spending time together. I dreamed up a bunch of dates and more sex fantasies than I can count. Now she’s within reach, but I have to share her. Not only with Rebel either. In a few months, a new cockblocker will join the family.

  I’m thinking of my kid when I arrive at Johansson’s Pub for lunch. Phoebe once said babies in the womb can hear their mother’s heartbeats. I bet my boy’s all chill in her belly. Johansson men love hot women and my son’s living in the most beautiful one of all.

  Butch sits at the circular, back booth where his brother once killed five men. Every time I eat here, I think about cleaning up those dead assholes. I’d been proud of my president for growing some balls while also irritated that I didn’t get to help with the killing.

  The Midnight Dogs were a bunch of man-babies who got their kicks beating on the prostitutes at the Rossiya Motel. Their deaths made the world a better place. No doubt, Patrick and his family’s deaths will do the same thing.

  “Are we saying the kid is yours?” Butch mumbles behind his drink.

  “Yeah, it’s mine.”

  “What if it’s not?” he asks and then says, “I just want to know what happens if we’re wrong and the kid is born a ginger or something?”

  I frown at him, wondering why the silent statue is playing the smartass. I assume he’s mimicking something his little brother Buzz said. The youngest Davies boy will joke about anything.

  “We’ll pretend it’s mine,” I say and gesture to the waitress to bring my regular order.

  “Got it,” Butch mutters, and I realize he understands my situation better than anyone. The guy’s been playing daddy with Sissy’s kids for years now, and he talks about them as if they’re from his seed.

  “Hey, how did you get close to Haydee and Hart when you started dating Sissy?” I ask after my coffee arrives.

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think, dumbass?”

  “I have no fucking idea.”

  “You’re not that stupid,” I grumble, wanting to smack him upside the head.

  “I have two children under the age of two. I’m fucking tired, asshole.”

  “Well, there's that,” I say, smiling at his whine, “so I’ll give you a break. Georgia has a son. I don’t like him. It’s not anything personal. He looks like his dad, who I want to kill. Of course, Georgia isn’t one of those moms who’ll ditch her child to score a hot guy.”

  Butch scowls at me for way too long. He’s either sleeping with his eyes open, or he’s angry because I’m not pretending to think Rebel is a miracle child I must worship.

  “Haydee talked all the time. I mean, she still does,” Butch says, finally remembering how to form words. “She was easy to be around because I didn’t have to do anything. Hart’s, well, you know, him. He’s scared of everything.”

  “And shy like his dad,” I say and finally get a little smile out of the perpetually anti-social man. “Didn’t being shy give you an in with the kid?”

  “No. It was harder. Hart feared me. I didn’t know how to get close. It was work. Haydee, though, just started talking to me and hasn’t shut up since.”

  I picture Georgia’s boy. He’s got an easy smile, but there’s something about his eyes that pisses me off. “Rebel seems like a happy kid, but he doesn’t like me.”

  “No one does, Jack,” Butch says and then smiles. I think he’s more pleased that he made a joke than with the actual joke. I can’t imagine living in this man’s head.

  “Do I buy the kid a toy or take him somewhere? What’s the trick to winning him over?”

  “Why aren’t you asking Georgia? She knows him, not me.”

  “I’m looking for dad advice.”

  “Are you going to keep the baby, Georgia, and her son in your RV?”

  “No, dumbass, we’ll get a house like normal people.”

  “Good. Living in that RV is stupid.”

  “You lived in your mom’s house until you got married, so shut the fuck up.”

  Butch doesn’t respond. His gaze flashes to where Bubba enters the pub with his daughter on his hip. Malibu isn’t two yet, but I can’t keep track of her age. Babies apparently go by months until they reach the two-year mark. It's weird.

  “Look at the big scary men bickering like children,” Bubba tells his daughter who waves a little fist at us. “She’s going to kick all your asses one day.”

  “Sure, but we’ll be old by then, so who cares?” I ask as he slides into the booth.

  Malibu stands on the seat next to her dad and crashes two plastic motorcycles together.

  “She’s a tough little badass,” I mutter. “Speaking of psycho blondes, what’s the story with Sylvie?”

  Bubba narrows his blue eyes at me. I assume he doesn’t think his kid is a psycho. Poor delusional sonovabitch.

  “She’s already in Milkweed. Well, in a hotel nearby anyway. Denver and Cavalry came along,” Bubba says, and I’m relieved to hear Sylvie’s older brothers joined her. The three of them run the Ellsberg pot business for the Reapers, but I sense they’ll ditch that day job as soon as something more exciting comes along.

  Bubba helps Malibu drink from the straw in his ice tea. Once she finishes, she gives him a thumbs-up, and he continues talking, “They took off for the town immediately. So far, they started a small fire to test out the local response time. The police force seems to consist of four guys. Real small-town, Andy Griffith-style operation. Smaller than ours, but there are plenty of armed men in the town to back up the cops.”

  Trying to picture the shithole Georgia once called home, I mutter, “How many men?”

  “Sylvie said a dozen assholes sporting rifles showed up to help out with the fire.”

  Butch stops mid-chew and asks, “How big was this fucking fire?”

  “Just a trash fire,” Bubba says, smirking, “but in a town like that, anything beyond a fart becomes a big deal.”

  “Yeah, Conroe would never be so easily distracted,” I grumble, rolling my eyes. “Now what?”

  Bubba takes a minute to bask in how I’m not micromanaging things or usurping his authority. He probably jizzes his pants with glee that I’m letting him lead. Next to him, Malibu watches the waitress move around the pub. I suspect the kid is hungry.

  “Sylvie and the boys plan to stick around a day or two to see what’s what.”

  “The assholes will get wise, you know? Who the fuck hangs around a small town for so long?”

  “Sylvie knows they’re sovereign citizens. When they bother her, she’ll claim she heard the town was somewhere people can be comfortable. Some shit like that. The girl knows how to lie, so chill out.”

  “I don’t want anyone getting hurt except the Milkweed fucks.”

  Bubba leans closer, and Malibu mimics him. He pauses to smile at her, a
nd she grins right back. His kid is cute, but mine will be better.

  “Ideally,” Bubba whispers, “we only have to fuck up one or two of them. Sean and Patrick Hegseth would be my preference. Make them disappear, and the others will fade away.”

  Leaning closer, I wink at Malibu, who shoots at me with her plastic motorcycle. She’ll destroy men when she’s older. I can already imagine cleaning up a whole lot of corpses by the time she’s done with puberty.

  “Patrick needs to die, no matter what. I don’t care if he spends another decade in prison. I’m fucking him up once he’s out.”

  “Agreed,” Butch says with his mouth full.

  Bubba sits back when his food arrives, and Malibu climbs onto his lap. “Then we're all on the same page.”

  “I want,” she says, pointing at the chicken tenders.

  “Me too.”

  She smiles at him and then rests her little head on his big chest. Aw, shit, I’d cry if I weren’t so fucking masculine. Still, I smile at the sight and imagine my boy doing that one day. Of course, my kid could decide I suck, and he might only want to hang around his mom all day. I wouldn’t blame him. I’d spend all day around Georgia too if I could.

  Butch finishes eating his meal and stares at the wall. He’s tired to the point of looking like a zombie. He and Sissy stayed over at the farmhouse for way too long last night. They were dragging by the time they left, and I bet they need a nap.

  “Let the kid spend time with you,” Butch says when my mouth is full with my last bite of sandwich. His green eyes find my face, and he frowns like I disgust him. Basically, his normal look. “It doesn’t have to be anything exciting. Hart would sit near me and draw. I wouldn’t need to do anything but let him feel safe next to me.”

  Mouth still full, I mumble, “It feels creepy to ask a child I don’t know to sit near me and draw.”

  “When you were a kid,” Butch says, narrowing his eyes until he’s watching me through slits, “didn’t you just want to hang out with your pop doing errands or helping around the house?”

  Thoughts of my childhood flood back. Pop loomed large when I was a kid, and I felt important when he paid attention to me. I remember how proud I’d be when he let me choose what food we’d take home to Mom and Scarlet.

  I’m still thinking about that when I walk out to my bike. The area is quiet, but I still scan for threats. If we’re sizing up Milkweed, those assholes are probably doing the same with Conroe.

  Honestly, I don’t get why they’re so set on returning Georgia and Rebel to their turd town. Does Patrick really care about the wife and kid he treated like shit?

  There’s no doubt some ego involved. Plus, letting Georgia escape sets a bad example to the other women. If one gets away, why can’t another abused wife do the same? Why can’t they all? Best not to let the womenfolk get any fancy notions.

  I don’t notice anything out of the ordinary, and we have spies all over town who rat out suspicious activity. That’s why we kept hearing about a possibly homeless woman and her kid. The problem was spies got details wrong—the color of the SUV and even the gender of the kid. Still, if someone comes snooping, we’ll know. Just like those Milkweed people know about Sylvie.

  I’m uneasy with her being in that place. Having known her my entire life, she’s like a cousin to me. Yet Sylvie craves danger, and I need Georgia safe. Uneasy or not, I’m glad the blonde spitfire agreed to go to Milkweed.

  Calling my brunette beauty on the cell, I’m bothered by how scared she sounds when answering.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask immediately.

  “Nothing. I’m not used to anyone calling me.”

  Georgia’s clearly edgy after changing our dinner plans. I don’t know if her fearing me is better or worse than her fearing an outside danger.

  “Is Rebel around?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you put him on?”

  “Why?”

  Georgia’s voice loses all emotion. She’s hiding again. I don’t blame her, but this shit is a test for us both. I’ll learn to bond with her kid, and she’ll learn to trust me.

  “I need to talk to him about dinner.”

  I feel her struggling for a reason to avoid putting her son on the phone. She could simply say no, of course, but I don’t think she realizes that’s an actual option. Fucking Patrick Hegseth needs to burn for what he did to this woman.

  “Hello?” Rebel asks in a challenging tone.

  “What kind of food do you like? I mean, for dinner tonight? I can pick up pizza or burgers or Mexican.”

  “I don’t know,” he says, losing the edge in his voice. “What did Mom say?”

  “I didn’t ask her. You know your mom will like whatever we pick. So, what do you want?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Kid, don’t make me come up with the answer on my own. I’m trying to impress your mom and you. Help a guy out, will ya?”

  Rebel stays quiet for too long, and I nearly give up. Then he says, “Pizza. Please.”

  “What do you like on your pizza?”

  “Everything.”

  “Even olives?”

  “No,” Rebel says, now sounding as if he wants to laugh. “Mom doesn’t like olives either. Or peppers.”

  “Does she like onions?”

  “Yeah, but the baby doesn’t.”

  I chuckle at how protective he is already of his little brother. Yesterday, he looked proud as hell when we saw the ultrasound.

  I ask him about a few more toppings and then what he wants to drink. His voice no longer holds so much tension when he answers.

  Finally, I tell him when I’ll be home and that I’ll need a shower because I’ll stink. He laughs at that, and I don’t feel so weird about him.

  Rebel’s just a kid. Not a little Patrick Hegseth or a cockblocker. He’s a little boy like me at that age. He no longer intimidates me. After tonight, I hope I’m not so scary to him either.

  THE DOORMAT

  After lunch, Rebel and I decided to unpack our few belongings and wash clothes. Considering their family size, I’m not surprised to learn Scarlet and Phoebe own a double-sized washer and dryer. I add more laundry to the mix, just to help out.

  “Phoebe does tattoos,” Rebel tells me while we fold clothes. “She has a twin brother. He does tattoos too.”

  “Maybe Jack can show us his tattoos tonight,” I say, and Rebel nods. He’s nervous about dinner. So am I.

  Hours later, Rebel asks if he can help Scarlet and the girls in the barn. I consider joining them, but hay often gives me sneezing fits, and I have enough trouble with my weak bladder as it is.

  Not long after he leaves, I hear a knock at the door, but I’m too afraid to answer.

  Phoebe catches me hiding in the hallway and takes my hand. “It’s Soso Davies. Bubba’s wife.” When I just stare, not remembering who she’s talking about, Phoebe tugs me along. “She’s around seven months along. Your babies will grow up together.”

  Her words make the future seem set. I’ve been so focused on dinner tonight that I can’t even imagine my son’s birth, let alone him having friends one day.

  Soso is the pregnant woman from the Hardee’s. She has an eighteen-month-old daughter named Malibu, and she’s married to the Reapers’ president. I also learn she runs a local store where Scarlet sells goat milk products. I think there’s more information, but I get nervous and zone out.

  “Conroe’s a nice place,” she says, relaxing into the corner of the living room couch.

  Soso wears a loose, flowered maternity dress, and her blonde hair is wrapped into a messy bun. She looks effortlessly beautiful. Like Ainsley with a cooler vibe.

  “We have a nice little community of women tied to the club. You met Sissy who lives in a Victorian duplex. Her best friend and brother live on the other side. Lily has a new baby daughter and a three-year-old son. Bubba’s youngest brother has a five-year-old boy. Us moms help each other out. You won’t be alone.”

  “
How can you let me into your group when you don’t know me?” I ask, still getting Ainsley vibes from her. “What if I’m awful?”

  Soso’s dark eyes narrow. “Yeah, what if you’re a dangerous klepto? We might need to put you through a few rigorous tests before you join our group.”

  Soso’s clearly teasing. Though I feel dumb for asking my question, I’m not accustomed to people embracing me. The women in Milkweed didn’t like each other, but they’re forced to spend time together. Ainsley would never in a million years want to be my friend. I’d never choose her either. Now I feel as if the women in Conroe are the same way. We’ll be friends because we have no choice.

  “What do you do together?”

  “Beauty days, playdates, trips to parks. We went to the apple orchard a couple weeks ago. Stuff like that. We also watch each other’s kids. Like right now, Lily and Sissy take turns watching each other’s kids so they can get naps and stay sane.”

  “I haven’t had a real friend since elementary school,” I admit.

  Soso’s expression doesn’t shift to disapproval. “A few years ago, I was new to Conroe. It took me a while to feel comfortable. But it’s a small town, and we spend so much time together that I got to feeling as if we’re family. I hope that’ll happen with you too.”

  “It’s all so fast, you know? I was living in my car three days ago.”

  “That’s how Johanssons work. They hit the ground running, but you’ll get used to it,” Soso says and then adds with a smile, “Eventually.”

  Not knowing what to say, I ask about her baby. “It’s our second girl.”

  “Have you picked a name?”

  “Venice. I like place names. What about you?”

  “No idea.”

  “You have lots of time to think about it. Oh, and this weekend, we’re listening to Phoebe and Scarlet’s band play at Atlanta Disco. Maddy will be over here babysitting. If you’re up to it, she could watch Rebel, and you could join us.”

  “What’s Atlanta Disco?”