Page 1 of Reaper & the Lioness (Lone Star Mavericks MC #1)

Chapter One

F rustration charged through me so strong I could shoot someone. I slammed my phone to the counter, pain searing through my wrist as I aggravated the not-quite-healed fracture.

It was as I’d suspected. The prosecutor had dropped all charges against Hale Abell, and now I owed thousands in legal fees alongside my lost hope for justice.

I glanced at my watch as I dabbed a tissue at the streaks of mascara on my cheeks. The call had lasted longer than I’d expected, mostly because I’d tried to argue with my lawyer before tearfully begging for other options.

Now, I’d risk a speeding ticket. Arriving late to this meeting would make a terrible first impression, and I couldn’t afford to jeopardize the chance of landing a new client. Especially now.

I jogged to my firecracker-red Jeep and peeled out of the driveway. The warm Texas breeze whipped through my open windows as I sped along the backroads. The mid-January temperature had hit the sixties today, a welcome change from the icy Northeast winters I’d endured the past decade.

I breathed in the sweet scent of winter honeysuckle, driving ten over the speed limit until the steel sign with pitted edges came into view. It stood surrounded by open land, swaying grass, and gnarled trees.

The Lone Star Mavericks Motorcycle Club.

Gravel crunched beneath my tires as I turned into the long driveway. My hands shook as I released a long exhale. I rolled my shoulders back, trying to release the crushing sense of anxiety in my chest.

What the fuck was I thinking?

I’d signed questionable clients before. I’d handled crisis communications for a senator after his drunk driving arrest. I’d managed a corporate PR disaster for a Fortune 500 company that was so bad my NDA didn’t even allow me to acknowledge I’d been a part of it.

I’d defended countless CEOs who certainly didn’t deserve a positive spin on their actions.

Could a group of men who liked motorcycles really be that much worse?

I swallowed hard before shifting the Jeep into park beside the massive pole barn. I killed the engine and stared at the line of parked Harleys.

Two leather-clad giants stood to the side of the building. Smoke curled from their lips as the unmistakable scent of weed seeped through my cracked window. Another biker swaggered over, swigging straight from a fifth of Jack Daniel’s like it was sweet tea.

Jesus Christ. It was barely one in the afternoon. If this was their Wednesday matinee, I couldn’t imagine the midnight show. The Lone Star Mavericks Motorcycle Club was a far cry from the polished corporate world I’d left behind.

When Rhetta Blackwell had asked if I could support the club’s businesses, I’d said yes without a second thought. Now, I wondered what exactly it might entail.

Nervously, I swept invisible lint off my navy pinstripe blazer and turned to stride toward the clubhouse. My spiky heels wobbled on the stones, and I cursed myself for not choosing more sensible shoes.

Rhetta stepped out of the door, soft blonde curls shaping around her face. She radiated confidence with a weathered edge that hadn’t existed in high school.

“You made it! Welcome to Texas, sugar.”

Rhetta hugged me, her black leather vest cool against my skin. In the photos she’d posted to Facebook, she’d referred to the vest as her cut—a piece of biker lingo I’d somehow retained.

I pulled back to look into blue eyes that sparkled with a familiar warmth. “I’m so happy to see you. It feels like it’s been a lifetime. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your wedding last year.”

We’d stayed in touch since high school, but I hadn’t visited Rhetta since she’d moved to Conroe, a growing city an hour outside the heart of Houston.

It was her photos—sunlight dappling through the pines onto the still surface of the lake, open fields dotted with wildflowers—that convinced me to move here shortly after the hospital discharged my bruised, broken body.

The impulsive decision had shocked everyone, including myself.

“You missed one hell of a party. But I know you were busy with that fancy job. You were the PR director at that private equity firm, right? There was a major crisis that weekend. It’s why I told Thane we needed to hire you.”

I forced a smile to my face, but my gut turned to a block of ice at the reminder of my time with Abell Enterprises.

“I appreciate the referral. Building a solid client base is taking longer than I expected,” I said tightly.

The small retainers from a local nonprofit and a few family-owned businesses weren’t enough to pay the bills.

Rhetta’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t press. “Life has really changed for both of us, hasn’t it? I can’t wait to catch up. Maybe we can grab dinner this weekend?”

“I’d love that.” A genuine smile replaced my strained one.

Knowing Rhetta lived nearby, a friend and ally as I rebuilt my life, brought more comfort than I cared to admit.

Making new friends in your thirties was a bitch.

Making new friends in your thirties in a new city while building a consultancy, fostering a puppy, and getting your shit together? A fucking nightmare.

I hesitated as I walked into the clubhouse behind Rhetta.

I’d expected a grimy, smoke-filled den. Instead, a wide-open lounge sprawled before me.

Eclectic fixtures hung at varying heights, casting pools of warm light across the space.

The high ceiling featured flat-black industrial ductwork crisscrossing overhead, and the polished concrete floors were shiny and clean.

The smoky air mingled with the sharp tang of motor oil and the richness of soft leather.

I followed Rhetta’s confident stride as she approached the bar, a massive slab of polished obsidian that devoured the light.

A vintage motorcycle, mounted above the bar like a chrome-plated deity, commanded attention.

The sprawling liquor selection beneath the mechanical altar rivaled even the ritziest bars I’d visited on the East Coast.

“Can I get a tequila on the rocks and a whiskey for Thane?” Rhetta asked the bartender. “Anything for you, sugar?”

I hesitated. Liquor before lunch sounded reckless. But when in Rome, right?

“Whiskey for me as well.”

As the bartender poured our drinks, I absorbed the gentle hum of conversation drifting from the corner, punctuated occasionally by the muffled thud of a pool cue striking a billiard ball.

The group of bikers glanced our way, gazing up and down my body with a hunger that left me both flattered and wary.

My eyes scanned the large space, taking in the TVs and clusters of worn leather sofas.

A group of dartboards hung in one corner.

In the other, a pair of classic pinball machines gleamed beneath a neon Mavericks sign.

The bartender slid my drink across the bar, and I gripped it as I thanked her.

My heels echoed through the clubhouse as I followed Rhetta down a long hall.

With a subtle nod, she ushered me into a well-lit office.

Rich, knotty pine paneling lined the walls, adorned with framed posters of bikini-clad women posing on gleaming motorcycles.

I breathed in the faint whisper of cigar smoke as I took in the man sitting behind the large desk.

He appeared in his late forties, his face weathered by sun and wind.

A salt-and-pepper goatee framed his jaw, and tan lines traced around his eyes where sunglasses must have usually sat.

His black leather cut hung loosely on his shoulders beneath his dark flannel shirt.

The worn president’s patch on his broad chest gave away my suspicion that this was Rhetta’s husband—the leader of the Lone Star Mavericks Motorcycle Club.

He reached a hand across the desk. Surprise flickered across his face as I matched his firm grip, quickly replaced by a hint of respect.

“Thane Blackwell. Please, sit.”

His gruff voice matched his imposing presence, but the politeness surprised me.

“Rhetta tells me you do PR. She thinks you can help us with a bit of a challenge.” His eyes, a deep brown, bore into mine as if trying to gauge my fortitude.

I offered a smile. “Absolutely. What kind of challenge?”

Thane pulled a newspaper clip from a folder.

This was how it always started with clients. They rarely thought about their reputation until a reporter wrote a headline that pissed them off. Then, suddenly, they wanted to order every service on the PR menu to change people’s minds. If only it worked like that.

He slid the clip across the desk so I could read it.

“Grassroots Coalition Calls for a Boycott of Lone Star Mavericks MC businesses.”

I recognized many of the storefronts listed, having even visited a few of them without realizing they were associated with the club.

Maisie’s Bakery. Onyx Taproom. Jack’s Car Repair. Sterling Jewelers. Elysia Salon. Grimm Construction.

“Any idea what prompted the boycott?” I asked.

Thane slid a stained manila folder across the table and scattered a few photos and a background check before me.

“Danielle Beone. She’s always hated the club. Her ex was a member. He died three months ago—motorcycle accident during a fundraiser. Their kid was on the back of the bike and got pretty messed up, too. Ever since, she’s been claws out.”

Thane spread printed screenshots from the local Facebook group, each dripping with hostility and contempt.

“Initially, she just posted her rants on social media, but this month she got traction with the local newspaper. The boycott is hurting the businesses owned by my club’s members.

They’re losing customers. Losing money.”

“Are you interested in having me represent the club? Or the businesses?”

“I’m not worried about the club’s reputation,” Thane said, sitting back and crossing his arms. His biceps strained against the sleeves of his shirt.

He seemed doubtful I could help, evident from the set of his brows. I bit back a smirk as I considered how similar the leader of a motorcycle club was to every CEO who had been a client. They were always overly confident, certain the small bumps would never dethrone them.

Sometimes, they were right. But small issues often snowballed into full-blown PR crises. Too often clients waited until it was too late to salvage their public perception.

This project was more than a simple reputation issue. It would take months of work and a serious retainer if he expected to shift the tides.

I tilted my head. “Putting the club in a more positive light could help the businesses as a whole. I can outline a formal proposal, but I can tell that you’re a skeptic, so let me break it down for you.”

I spread the papers across his desk, pointing at headlines and screenshots.

“Misperceptions about your club and its members are the root cause of your issues. People see the patches and bikes and think trouble. We need the community to see the big picture. These family-owned businesses create jobs and bring in tax dollars that support Conroe—paying for roads, schools, and county services. It makes the Mavericks an integral part of the community. That’s the story you need me to tell. ”

The slight uptick of his brows and the grin on Rhetta’s face confirmed I’d piqued his interest.

“And this isn’t a one-and-done strategy,” I continued now that I had his attention.

“We need a steady drumbeat of positive stories. I don’t want you to read a newspaper, turn on the TV, listen to the radio, or open up Facebook without seeing the face of a Maverick doing something that makes Conroe a better place to live. ”

I sat back, pressing the tips of my fingers together, displaying a confident power gesture common in my old world.

“The answer isn’t to separate the club from the businesses.

It’s to show the interconnection between the club and the community.

People need to see how your members create a positive impact. ”

Interest flickered in his eyes.

“We’ll show Maisie’s giving fresh-baked bread to the soup kitchen, Jack’s shop giving a car away to a single mom, and the construction company building a ramp for a disabled veteran. News crews will eat it up. It will help the community view your club in a new light.”

Rhetta laughed and crossed her arms. “I told you she’s a PR wizard.”

I leveled a cool gaze at the club president. “It’s not magic. It’s strategy.”

“Darlin’, this ain’t Wall Street or Capitol Hill, or a slick corporation run by suits in a boardroom,” Thane said, narrowing his eyes. “We’re just a bunch of grease-stained locals running shops all over town. It’s more of a goat rodeo than you can imagine. You really think you can wrangle that?”

Irritation flooded my chest at his challenge.

I inhaled a centering breath and offered a smile, hoping to shield my annoyance.

“I’ve handled PR and crisis management for Fortune 500 companies, global nonprofits, and politicians.

I can manage a few small businesses. The real question is, will you allow me to tell the stories that will make an impact?

Because if not, I wouldn’t want to waste your time or money. ”

Thane stared at me for a beat as he processed my words. It was true. While I needed the money, I wouldn’t beg anyone to see the value I brought to the table. Skeptical clients sucked, and Thane needed to agree with my recommendations if we worked together.

A slow grin spread across his face. “I like you,” he said with a gravelly laugh. “You’ve got balls. What’s the price tag?”

His approval sent an unexpected thrill through me.

“I don’t like to nickel and dime my clients, so I recommend you sign a contract for a $10,000 monthly retainer. In addition to the consulting and ongoing work to improve the reputation of the businesses, I’ll be on call for you twenty-four seven.”

Thane stood, hand outstretched. “Deal. Bring the contract over tomorrow. We’re having a cookout. We can introduce you to everyone then.”

As I shook his hand, excitement and trepidation filled my chest.

I’d come to Conroe for a change, and I was about to get a hell of a ride.