Page 3 of Reaper & the Lioness (Lone Star Mavericks MC #1)
Chapter Three
I lobbed another ball across the yard. My foster puppy, Hawk, launched after it on gangly legs.
“That’s it, buddy. Wear yourself out.”
I’d scrolled through multiple calls for puppy fosters from the local rescues and shelters since moving to Texas. The promise of puppy breath soothed my aching need for connection. Shortly after submitting the application, the shelter had offered me a young German shepherd mix.
I laughed when I met Hawk at the shelter. The inexperienced staff were either wrong or lying. Years of watching my dad train military working dogs gave me confidence that this tornado of fur, claws, and fangs was a full-blooded Malinois.
The pitter-patter of Hawk’s oversized paws on the hardwood floors, the jingle of his collar tags, and even his occasional howls eliminated the oppressive silence that had filled my home when I moved here.
While the quiet was a welcome change from the urban chaos I’d survived for years in my Washington, D.C.
, studio apartment, Hawk’s presence helped soothe my nagging doubts that abandoning my high-profile PR career had been a colossal mistake.
As he played, my mind drifted to the freshly printed contract on my kitchen counter. Apprehension curled in my chest as I recalled the deep dive of news clips and public information I’d read after meeting with Thane. The Mavericks were outlaws. Real-deal one-percenters with a history of violence.
But I would be working with the club’s members and their legitimate businesses, not the club itself.
And I really needed the money.
I glanced at my watch and sighed. Time to go.
“Come on, little guy,” I said as I attempted to wrangle the ten-week-old terror that the shelter called a puppy.
Hawk bounded back, drool dripping from his chin. His whiskey-colored eyes gleamed with mischief as I grabbed for the ball. I cursed under my breath as the tiny menace swerved out of reach to begin an impromptu game of tag. Dirt flew from his paws as he ran laps around my yard.
After a few minutes of chaos, I finally bribed Hawk close enough with a treat to scoop him up. He yipped in excitement and overstimulation, nipping at my hands and face as he squirmed in my arms.
“I promise I’ll be back in a few hours,” I murmured, nuzzling the spot between his ears and pressing a kiss to his tiny snout. The sweet scent of puppy fur mixed with the earthy smell of the yard filled my senses. “We can play ball again before bed.”
As I carried him into the kitchen, my eyes fell to the bills stacked on the counter.
My stomach clenched as I considered the latest—a new air conditioner installed last week after the original one had taken a shit.
My severance and PTO payout was gone, and I’d begun to dip into my savings to pay my new mortgage.
My checking account dwindled with each unexpected repair the lazy home inspector missed.
But not anymore. The contract with the Mavericks would keep me out of the red.
I pushed Hawk into his crate, my heart twisting as he let out a plaintive whine. I hated leaving him home alone, but I trusted he would fall asleep when I left.
The Mavericks’ parking lot was packed this evening, with bikes and trucks lining the drive. Heavy rock blared from the speakers, and a small group of bikers stood around a fire pit, drinking beers and smoking.
I tugged at the hem of my leather jacket. I’d aimed for biker chic but had landed squarely in “corporate queen attempting to be edgy,” wearing my Loft jacket with gold zippers and Lucchese cowboy boots. I looked like a teenager playing dress-up in a world of grit, grease, and gasoline.
I might have been out of my element, but it wouldn’t be the first time.
The Mavericks were no different than the dirty politicians and greedy CEOs I rubbed elbows with at fundraising galas in Washington, D.C.
Strip away the leather and ink, and you’d probably find the same hunger for power, thirst for respect, and desire for control.
I squared my shoulders. My job hadn’t changed.
I was here to tell stories that built bridges between worlds.
Whether those worlds were separated by political ideologies or lifestyle choices, it didn’t matter.
Still, as I approached the gathering, the butterflies in my stomach turned into angry hornets.
Rhetta materialized from the crowd, greeting me with a hug that reeked of cigarettes and sweet amber perfume. She wore her cut again, and I noticed the bottom rocker across her back. “Property of Thane.” I internally cringed at the patriarchal statement.
“Glad you made it, sugar,” she drawled, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she took in my attire. “Come on, let’s get business out of the way first.”
She led me through a gauntlet of curious stares before we arrived at Thane’s office.
He scanned the contract with unnerving speed.
I held my breath, half expecting him to change his mind and rip it in half, but instead he reached for a pen and signed at the bottom of the page, the scratch anticlimactic to my spiraling anxieties. He handed it back to me and smiled.
With this client, I finally had a viable consultancy.
And I could finally pay my bills.
Thane reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick envelope. “First month’s payment,” he said, his voice gravel and smoke.
I fought to keep my face neutral as he handed it over. The envelope was heavy. Cash. Of course, it was cash.
“Rhetta will handle introductions tonight,” Thane said, standing to kiss his wife’s cheek. “Keep her out of trouble.”
I wasn’t sure if the grumbled warning was for Rhetta or me. Thane closed the door behind us, and I followed her back into the main room.
The envelope of cash pulsed in my hand, a tangible reminder of the line I was about to cross.
This wasn’t Corporate America, with its paper trails, digital transfers, and off-the-record secrets shared by staffers over coffee.
The rules the Mavericks lived by were different, and Thane’s decisions weren’t made in boardrooms or over games of golf.
I doubted the man even owned a set of clubs, and, if he did, they were probably used for beating the shit out of anyone who crossed him.
I shook the violent vision from my mind.
“Can we swing by my Jeep? I’d like to lock this up. I don’t want to carry it in my back pocket all night.”
“Sure thing, sugar,” Rhetta said, throwing back the rest of her tequila and sliding the empty glass down the bar as we walked past.
As we stepped outside, I sighed. I was making a conscious decision to entangle myself with an outlaw motorcycle club. But, if I was honest, my former world had never been safe either, the men I’d worked for far from innocent.
I shoved the envelope into the glove compartment, slamming it shut and silencing my hesitations and doubts.
“Time to mingle,” Rhetta drawled, her arm snaking through mine, dragging me toward a grizzled, bearded biker beside a woman in her sixties with short gray hair and deep laugh lines around her blue eyes.
“Don, Maisie, this is my friend, Eva. She’s going to be doing PR for all the businesses.”
I shook their hands. I’d had no idea Maisie’s Bakery was associated with the club until yesterday’s meeting. I’d stopped there several times for a muffin and a latte and salivated at the thought of the sweet bursts of flavor from her baked goods made with local fruits.
“I have a few ideas on how we can help your business,” I said with a warm smile. “Maybe I can drop by for coffee this week, and we can go through them?”
Maisie’s eyes lit up. “I would love that, dear. Business has slowed a bit with the boycott. That means Don is eating all the extra cinnamon rolls.” She patted the beer belly on the biker with a laugh.
He grinned, looking down at her in adoration. “My old lady makes the best cinnamon rolls in Texas.”
I laughed and promised to try one the next time I visited.
Rhetta guided me through the crowd as the clubhouse filled, leading me through a series of introductions like I was speed-dating the entire club. Each greeting offered a snapshot of the lives affected by the boycott.
Jack Patino, a young mechanic barely into his twenties, had grease under his nails and determination in his eyes. The faint scent of motor oil wafted from his clothes.
“Business is slower than a three-legged dog in a marathon,” he confessed with an underlying southern drawl, his boyish face at odds with the weight in his voice.
“A lot of people are taking their cars to the big, corporate shop—even though they don’t do shit for the community.
I let high school kids use my shop and tools, for fuck’s sake. ”
This piqued my PR senses, and I dove in, asking Jack to tell me more about his partnership with the local high school shop teacher. I jotted down a few notes and his phone number on the small notepad I carried in my back pocket.
As another group swept Rhetta away, I found myself adrift in the sea of leather and chrome. The bar beckoned, promising the liquid courage I’d need to get through a night of networking.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked. She looked barely twenty, with pink hair and bright blue eyeliner.
“Whiskey. On the rocks,” I replied, surprised by the smoke in my voice. The night had taken its toll, despite my experience working a room. As an introvert, I found it exhausting to be surrounded by so many people.
A presence loomed behind me with an oppressive aura of danger. The hairs on my neck stood as I turned, finding myself face to chest with a wall of muscle radiating heat and hostility.
My eyes traveled up, taking in the snaking tattoos that covered his arms and disappeared beneath his T-shirt.
His right arm featured a dark grim reaper, its scythe poised above a macabre bed of intricate skulls.
His left bicep featured the unmistakable emblem of the Marine Corps—an eagle, globe, and anchor.