Page 2 of Reaper & the Lioness (Lone Star Mavericks MC #1)
Chapter Two
“ Y ou fucking hired someone to do PR?” I growled, my voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. “You didn’t think to run that by us first?”
The cigarette smoke and testosterone-fueled tension in the room stirred memories of my time in the Marine Corps.
I leaned against the clubhouse wall, my arms crossed over my leather cut—a constant reminder of the weight of responsibility I carried.
As always, Thane nonchalantly shared this decision during Church, our weekly club meeting, with the expectation we’d fall in line.
Thane’s face hardened, his tone laced with irritation. “The businesses are suffering. The members who work for them are fucked if they fail. Not many people want to hire a Maverick right now. And I know you’ve lost at least two contracts this month alone.”
The room fell silent except for the soft clink of ice in Thane’s whiskey glass as he took a sip. His eyes bore into mine in challenge. The other club officers shifted uneasily, their eyes darting between us.
While they might also disagree, they wouldn’t voice it like this.
The club operated under a similar hierarchy as the military, with expectations for respect and authority by rank.
I was the only one in the room who could challenge the president this directly.
Though he was about fifteen years older than me, he was my best friend, and I’d served as his VP for the past five years.
I’d earned the right to speak my mind.
A twinge of frustration curled in my gut. I’d kept Grimm Construction separate from the club, building it from the ground up since leaving the Corps. However, Thane was right. Work had slowed with the boycott.
Pushing off the wall, I straightened to my full height. “And you don’t think bringing in an outsider is risky? Especially with the Rangers sniffing around our territory?”
The Hill Country Rangers Motorcycle Club predated the Mavericks by nearly a decade, and they’d been a thorn in our side since day one.
I remembered one of the club’s founders, Maxwell Morris, endlessly bitching that they didn’t have a shred of respect for our codes.
Their lack of a moral compass made the Mavericks look like goddamn choirboys.
Linc, my younger brother who also served as the club secretary, piped up. “Reaper’s got a point. We’re sitting on a powder keg here. A few Rangers were in the Woodlands last night. They stole a Benz, and they’re stripping it down in that old warehouse near our turf.”
The Woodlands stood at the center of our most lucrative theft operation, with no shortage of luxury cars and bikes we could steal to strip down for parts faster than law enforcement could track.
We could strip a Range Rover to the frame overnight, the owner none the wiser and the parts sold and scattered before the police report was finished.
“I hacked into the Houston PD system, and reports say they’re also dealing downtown again,” Linc added. “They’re selling fentanyl to high school kids, according to what I’ve read.”
“We need to press them out of Conroe,” I spat. “They’re goddamn drug pushers, and I don’t want them doing business in our territory.”
Our no-drugs policy—a stance I’d pushed for when I became VP—set us apart from other clubs, giving us a twisted sense of honor in this fucked-up world. But it also opened opportunities for rival clubs to grow in our backyard.
Hatchet Perry leaned forward. His bright blue eyes glinted with a hint of anticipation. “What’s the play?”
“We start by torching their warehouse to remind them that Houston is our territory.”
Hatchet offered a wicked grin. “I just put a new set of pipes on Detective Rodriguez’s bike. All right guy, for being a cop. I’ll reach out to him with some intel about the Rangers’ coke distribution. The heat will keep them on edge.”
Merrick Morris, our sergeant at arms, crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. His sharp brown eyes focused on me as skepticism colored his scarred face. “What about the shipment coming in next week? We can’t afford any extra attention right now.”
The tension in the room ratcheted up a notch.
The shipment was my orchestration—my contact bringing us a container of “lost” military-grade weapons to be sold off the books.
This delicate operation demanded finesse.
A single fuck-up would land us all behind bars in Beaumont.
The weight of their gazes fell on me, waiting for my response.
“Thane,” I said, my voice carrying a note of authority that caused everyone, including the president, to pause.
“I get that we need to deal with this boycott shit. But the fucking Rangers are pushing into our territory, and we’ve got a club to run and deals to broker.
You sure you want to complicate things with some PR stunts? ”
I held Thane’s gaze, unflinching. This dynamic defined our leadership—my steel to his flexibility.
“The PR support will be for businesses associated with the club,” Thane explained, annoyance clear in his tone. “The club stays separate, as always.”
I ground my molars like I chewed on broken glass.
The news coverage of the boycott had just flushed a juicy construction contract down the shitter, but I still didn’t want someone poking around in the business I’d worked so hard to build.
And I hated the idea of working with someone who thought they could make us out to be something we’re not.
We’d rightfully earned our reputation for ruthlessness.
“I’m not working with some motherfucker who thinks he can spin a story that the big, bad bikers are really the good guys.”
Thane let out a laugh. “I think you might be in for a surprise if that’s who you think I’ve hired. Linc, tell us what you’ve found out about our new consultant.”
My brother snickered as he spread the contents of a folder onto the table. “Eva Harland, thirty-two years old, born in Michigan. Went to Boston University on a full ride. Just bought a house off 1484.”
Fuck me. The photograph hit me like a sledgehammer.
Her stormy, blue-gray eyes pierced my soul.
Her heart-shaped face was framed by a cascade of dark hair that begged to be wrapped around my fist. She wore an expensive navy power suit, her arms crossed over her chest as if she dared the world to fuck with her.
Linc continued, pushing through the pages of the background check.
“Owner of Harland Communications & Marketing, a new LLC she just started.” The stack of printed pages rustled as he dove deeper.
“She started her career in Washington, D.C., working at a crisis communications agency for political figures and big-name CEOs. Named to a thirty-under-thirty list at twenty-four. Won a few awards for campaigns she managed. She worked at Abell Enterprises up until November. She quit after an attack put her in the hospital.”
The following pages of the dossier, information he’d discovered using his skills as a hacker, hit like a punch to the gut.
The police report presented a clinical, detached account of a brutal attack.
The battered woman in the photos looked nothing like the polished, corporate ice queen in the headshot Linc had shown moments before.
They showed her swollen face and neck, distorted with a palette of sickening purples and yellows. One arm lay trussed up in a cast. The close-up of her side revealed a canvas of black-and-blue carnage. Bootprints had been stamped into her flesh.
I’d witnessed my share of brutality. Hell, I’d dished out plenty myself. But to do this to a woman? My trigger finger itched, and my blood ran cold all at once.
“She named her attacker immediately. Hale Abell.”
“Why does that sound familiar?” I asked.
“He’s the son of millionaire CEO Benjamin Abell. They were in the news a lot last year. Some insider trading shit. Anyway, his mountains of cash and army of lawyers made sure junior stayed out of jail. The charges were dropped this week.”
The familiar burn of rage built in my chest. “The whole goddamn attack was caught on camera. How does a rich cocksucker get away with something like that?”
The disgust in Linc’s eyes mirrored my own. He pulled out his phone. “Here’s the footage.”
The video flickered to life, the glow of fluorescent lights casting an eerie pall over the concrete parking garage.
A figure wearing a hooded jacket slunk into the frame behind the woman in black heels, a white blouse, and a pencil skirt.
In a heartbeat, he attacked, yanking her back by her long hair like a rag doll.
But this fireball of a woman was no one’s prey. She exploded into action, a whirlwind of elbows and nails like her life depended on it.
“Damn. Girl’s got some fight in her.”
Linc nodded grimly. “It ain’t enough. Watch. His face is never shown. Angles are all wrong. When he takes her down—there—she cracks her head. Bad concussion. His lawyers used that to say she couldn’t ID him for shit. He wore long sleeves and gloves, so no DNA under her nails, either.”
“Convenient,” I growled. My breath hissed through clenched teeth as I watched the savage attack continue, the kicks vicious and relentless. Once she hit the ground, her attacker wrapped his hands around her throat.
“Cowardly piece of—” I bit off the curse as a vehicle’s headlights swept across the scene. The attacker bolted, leaving her crumpled on the cold concrete. Blood bloomed across the white silk top she wore as a figure hovered above her and dialed 911.
Linc slipped his phone back into his pocket after the video stopped. “She lives alone. Probably jumps at every shadow. She doesn’t have many friends here yet. Mainly chats with Rhetta and some hotshot investigative journo from her college days. Matt Byron.”
I shook my head at Thane. “No fucking way can we have someone who’s friends with a journalist hanging around here. Might as well invite the goddamn feds for a tour.”
Thane’s face remained impassive, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. He shared my concerns, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
Linc shrugged. “I dug through her emails and text messages. They keep a pretty solid boundary between their work and friendship. She shuts him down hard anytime he sniffs around her clients. He generally respects it. Doesn’t push her for more information.”
“What the hell are they yapping about all the time then?” I demanded, not buying this squeaky-clean bullshit for a second. Someone with deep connections to a reporter was the last thing the club needed.
Linc’s expression darkened. “The Abells. Eva and her buddy are on a crusade. Ever since her attack, she’s been trying to dig up dirt and get other women to expose Hale for the bastard he is. And, from what I’ve found so far, it’s a rabbit hole of hush money and NDAs.”
Thane stood, clearly done with the debate. “Eva’s coming to the cookout. You can get a read on her then. It’ll be fine. Rhetta will keep her focused.”
“And if she sees or hears something she shouldn’t?”
“Then we’ll deal with it. Like we always do.”