Page 12 of Reaper & the Lioness (Lone Star Mavericks MC #1)
Chapter Nine
I slung my camera bag over my shoulder as I walked to the Main Street Market in downtown Conroe.
Shoppers strolled through the farmers’ and artisan market, perusing homemade candles, jewelry, and crafty signs.
Local farmers proudly spread fresh fruits and vegetables across the tables.
I picked up a few blood oranges from a bearded man in a straw hat as I admired the colorful display of carrots, sweet potatoes, and collard greens.
Thane texted me the night before, suggesting I capture some feel-good moments for social media at Maisie’s booth. I’d talked him into launching a Lone Star Mavericks Instagram, and now we needed content.
Surprisingly, Thane had a knack for spotting good stories and even started texting me photos.
I’d yet to get a selfie from him, though—I was fairly certain the gruff, chain-smoking biker didn’t even know how to flip his camera phone.
Still, I appreciated the way he grasped my vision for showcasing the warm hearts beneath the cool chrome. It made my job easier.
The aroma of Maisie’s fresh-roasted coffee and cinnamon rolls wafted through the air. My stomach growled. It was an angry reminder that I’d forgotten to eat breakfast, and I knew I’d have to try one of the famous cinnamon rolls Don had bragged about.
The rumble of a familiar motorcycle sounded through the air. I watched in annoyance as Reaper parked and strolled casually to meet me.
I glared at him, still fuming from our interaction at Thane’s birthday party. “This doesn’t quite seem like your vibe.”
Reaper shrugged. “It’s not. Prez’s orders. Again.” His imposing figure, broad, leather-clad shoulders, and deep voice drew curious glances from nearby shoppers. He seemed out of place among the families and college students who frequented the market.
My irritation rose. “Is this really necessary? I’m perfectly capable of handling a farmers’ market on my own. We don’t even have a media interview today. I’m just shooting content for Instagram.”
“Don’t take it personally. We’re just making sure our investment pays off,” he said as his eyes scanned the market as if he were looking for insurgents.
“I don’t need a watchdog.”
I turned to storm away, but his calloused hand wrapped around my arm. He roughly pulled me back to face him, and I squinted in the bright sun as his eyes met mine.
“There’s more going on here than you know. I’m not just here to observe. I’m here to protect. Thane wants me to shadow you whenever you’re working with the Mavericks. Get used to it.”
“Protect? Care to elaborate on that cryptic bullshit?”
“No. Just do your job, and I’ll do mine.”
I yanked my arm away and began to press past him until I noticed the gauze wrapping his left bicep. A spot of blood stained the bandage wrapped around an intricate tattoo.
“What happened to your arm?”
Reaper smirked. “Gunshot.”
I reeled back in surprise. “How?”
He let out a dark chuckle. “Presumably from a gun.”
I rolled my eyes, but my heart began to race. “Is that why you’re here? Are we in danger?”
“You’re always in danger when I’m around.”
I doubted a community market would be ideal for a shootout, so I adjusted my camera bag and pressed past him.
“Fine. Stay out of my way.”
As I stormed by, I could sense his eyes on me, and I couldn’t shake that there was indeed more to this situation than met the eye.
Despite my outward irritation, an unfamiliar flicker of comfort eased into my mind at the idea of being protected.
The thought unsettled me. I’d learned the hard way that self-reliance was the only true safeguard.
Entrusting my safety to others had always been a dangerous gamble—and I’d too often been dealt a losing hand.
Yet, as Reaper’s watchful gaze followed me through the market, I wondered if having someone at my back might not be such a bad thing. My past taught me I couldn’t anticipate every threat, and maybe having an annoying, overbearing biker at my back wasn’t a completely terrible idea.
I quickly pushed the thought aside to focus on the job at hand.
The only person I could only truly rely on was myself.
The booth for Maisie’s Bakery displayed bags of fresh-roasted coffee beans, sourdough bread, muffins, and cinnamon rolls. Four child-sized tables were set beside it, overflowing with craft supplies. Maisie grinned and waved at me before returning her attention to the children before her.
I understood why Thane thought this would be perfect for social media. Maisie’s black cut contrasted with the rainbow explosion of craft supplies. She warmly greeted many shoppers by name as they stopped by to say hello.
I adjusted my tripod and positioned my phone to capture the scene. Kids surrounded one of the tables with Maisie kneeling beside them. Their faces lit with joy as they adorned miniature cardboard motorcycles with glitter, stickers, and paint.
I hunted for golden moments—the ones that could punch through the noise and actually make people feel something.
They say a picture can paint a thousand words, but I think social media has changed that.
People skim, they swipe, they doom scroll.
My job was to make them stop just long enough to feel something.
Curiosity. Amusement. Hope. Maybe even a flicker of empathy.
If I could get them to see the Mavericks as something other than the villains, I’d call it a win.
Maisie guided a little girl’s hands with infinite patience as they attached pipe cleaner handlebars to a pint-sized chopper. The girl held up the pink glitter-covered bike to show her parents before hugging Maisie.
This scene would form the heart of our narrative.
I began to record a new video clip that I would use to create a reel when a shrill voice cut through the cheerful chatter.
“This is unacceptable! The market should not allow a motorcycle gang here. All you do is bring violence and crime to Conroe!”
Danielle, the woman spearheading the boycott, stormed toward the booth. Her ruddy face contorted with rage as she pointed an accusing finger at Maisie.
“You might think you’re fooling everyone with this little act, but I know what you and your club are really about. These parents don’t understand how much your club destroys our community.”
Maisie’s smile faltered, and the children’s excited chatter died into confused whispers.
Danielle looked around, catching eyes with the gathering audience. “Did you know that the Lone Star Mavericks sell drugs? My son’s friend overdosed. The drugs he bought from them were laced with fentanyl.”
Nearby shoppers exchanged uneasy glances.
Danielle continued her rant, raising her voice to attract more attention. “Is that the type of vendor you want at our market? Is that the kind of person you want around your children?”
I stepped between the slightly disheveled middle-aged woman and the craft table. “Ma’am, you’re disrupting a sanctioned event and harassing a vendor. We’ll be forced to take legal action for slander and harassment if you don’t leave right now.”
Danielle sputtered as her face turned even more red. “You can’t threaten me! I know my rights!”
“And I know the law,” I countered as I gestured to my phone. “You’re on camera, Danielle.” I made sure to enunciate her name. “When I involve Thane’s lawyers, there will be no mistaking your threats and harassment against Maisie and her business. Please leave. Now.”
Danielle tensed at the mention of Thane and, for a moment, she acted like she might back down. Then, her face twisted with renewed anger, and she lunged forward, hands outstretched as if to shove me.
Before she could make contact, a large figure slid between us, and she stumbled backward.
“Hello, Danielle,” Reaper said. His voice sounded deceptively calm, but there was no mistaking the brutality below the surface. The tone of his voice sent a shiver through my spine, and I wasn’t even the focus of his malevolence.
Danielle’s face paled as recognition dawned. “I … I was just …”
“You were just leaving,” he finished.
Reaper took an intimidating step closer and narrowed his eyes. Without another word, Danielle turned and pushed through the crowd watching the confrontation.
As the tension dissipated, I found myself standing close to Reaper. Heat radiated off his body.
“I had that under control,” I muttered, stepping away to stop the camera.
Reaper’s lips quirked in what might have been a smile. “While you might threaten Danielle with lawyers, she knows my mere existence threatens her.”
He held out his hand. “Your phone. I need that video for Thane.”
“I can send it later.”
“Now.”
I rolled my eyes and shoved my phone in his outstretched hand. Reaper’s fingers moved across the screen, and his device pinged. As he returned my phone, his calloused hand lingered a beat longer than necessary.
“There. Now you have my number,” he said with a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “You can text me the plan for our next PR story … or anything else, of course.”
“Of course,” I echoed. I tried to ignore how my pulse quickened at the thought of Reaper’s number now residing in my contacts.
As he turned to leave, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “You did good today. But next time, let me handle Danielle. Some people only understand one language, and it ain’t legalese.”
I watched him walk away, the crowd parting around him. My eyes couldn’t help but trace the broad expanse of his shoulders, the way his dark jeans hugged his?—
No. I would not go there.