Page 4 of Reaper & the Lioness (Lone Star Mavericks MC #1)
As the man’s cold gaze bore into my eyes, my intuition told me I stood before someone who had experienced—and likely participated in—more than his fair share of violence.
“Eva Harland,” he said, his tone low and threatening.
I raised my brows in surprise. We hadn’t been introduced, but he knew who I was. The weathered patch on his cut indicated he served as the club’s vice president. This was Thane’s right-hand man.
“And you are?”
His eyes narrowed at me. “Reaper. Mavericks VP.”
The air between us crackled with tension. I sensed his distrust and the frustration that his attempt to unsettle me with his predatory gaze was failing miserably. I offered Reaper a smile and a handshake. This biker, menacing as he seemed, presented just another challenge. And I loved a challenge.
My smile shifted into a smirk as my eyes met his, unflinching, and I sipped my whiskey. I savored the burn as it slid down my throat and into the pit of my stomach. “Reaper? I’m guessing that’s not the name your mother gave you.”
Reaper’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly. “What gave it away?”
“Your warm persona,” I replied, my tone light. I probably shouldn’t have needled him, but my drink emboldened me.
He raised a brow as he lifted the glass to his lips, drawing my gaze to how his crisp white T-shirt stretched across the planes of his chest. I bit my lip as I tried to refocus on the conversation.
“Let me guess … you’re not thrilled about an outsider like me coming in to help clean up this boycott mess.”
He leaned against the bar, his muscular frame towering over me. “I’m not. Thane shouldn’t have hired you. We don’t need your help. And you won’t be working with my company at all. PR isn’t my style.”
“And what exactly is your style?” I stared up at him with a disarming smile as if I were facing a harmless librarian rather than an ex-Marine biker with a penchant for violence. “Intimidation? Maybe some light torture? Sharp knives and bullets?”
A low chuckle rumbled through Reaper’s chest as he tilted his head. His dark eyes studied mine. “You’re not easily rattled.”
I scoffed, rolling my eyes at his observation. “You can try to intimidate me all you want, but I’ve dealt with much worse than bikers with an image problem. You’re not nearly as scary as you think you are.”
“Is that so? And what exactly have you dealt with that’s worse than us?”
A shiver licked down my spine, but I schooled my face into a neutral expression. Memories I’d tried to bury clawed their way to the surface, making my heart race as the conversation drifted into a pool I had no intention of swimming in with this stranger.
“My non-disclosure agreements prevent me from discussing client details. All you need to know is that I’m here to help. My job is to improve your club’s image and manage the fallout from this boycott.”
“How?” Reaper asked, his tone challenging.
“By showing this town there’s more to the Mavericks than they think. You’re not just hardcore bikers. The businesses impact the community in a real way. My job is to reveal your softer side. To show the good you bring to Conroe.”
Reaper scoffed. “What if we don’t have a softer side? What if we aren’t the good guys you want to pretend we are?”
I leaned in, close enough to catch the scent of leather and cedar emanating from his chest. “Then I guess I’ll have to dig deep, won’t I?” I raised a brow in challenge.
Reaper was silent for a moment, appraising me before he straightened to his full height. A condescending smile played on his lips. “Good luck, PR girl. You’ll need it.”
Annoyance coursed through me. Some people thought of Samantha Jones from Sex in the City when they heard I worked in PR.
They didn’t realize the closer comparison was Beth Dutton from Yellowstone .
My job wasn’t schmoozing over cocktails.
It was ruthless strategy, calculated moves, and playing the long game.
He continued to stare at me quietly. I knew I shouldn’t ask my next question, but I couldn’t resist.
“Tell me, Reaper. What does a VP do?” My curiosity would kill me one day.
“None of your fucking business.” He turned his body back toward the bar in dismissal.
I shrugged, unsurprised by his reaction. “Well, I’m on retainer. Call me when you need me.”
His gaze burned into my back as I returned to Rhetta. Her eyes twinkled with amusement as I approached.
“You met Reaper,” she said, nodding toward the bar where he stood, his massive frame a dark silhouette against the neon signs. “He owns Grimm Construction.”
“He’s pleasant. A real delight,” I said dryly as I glanced at him.
Rhetta laughed heartily as she noticed his steely gaze focused on me. “Thane told me he’s skeptical. Where Thane sees opportunity, Reaper sees risk.”
While I found it annoying, it didn’t phase me.
I’d often been hired by leaders, much to the dismay of their teams. I didn’t aim to make friends or mince words when calling out shitty practices that would make reputation repair harder for an organization.
Reaper wouldn’t be the first man who didn’t want to work with me. He sure as fuck wouldn’t be the last.
“Wait? Is his last name Grimm?” I tried to stifle a laugh, but it slipped out anyway. “And he goes by Reaper?”
Rhetta offered a small smile. “I wouldn’t make jokes about it. Especially not where these men can hear. Road names are earned. From what Thane told me, Reaper’s had that name since he was a Marine sniper. It stuck for a reason.”
I glanced at the man in question. The weight of his name settled in my mind. He looked every bit the personification of death, and I wondered how many people one would need to kill to earn that type of road name.
As more members walked in, the air thickened. The scent of cigarette smoke mingled with sweat, leather, and stale beer. Gruff laughs and the low timbre of conversations competed with the TV in the corner. Sweat began to bead at the nape of my neck as the clubhouse started to feel crowded.
As we wove through the room, I glanced over my shoulder, catching Reaper’s intense stare. Our eyes locked, making my heart thunder in my chest.
“So, how are you settling in?” Rhetta asked, drawing my attention back as Reaper turned away. “I know it’s a change from the big city.”
I smiled, hearing the twinge of concern in her voice. “I like it here. It’s nice to finally have a chance to breathe. All I did before was work and sleep. It doesn’t feel like home yet, but D.C. never felt like home either.”
“How’s the foster pup? Have you decided to keep him yet?”
I gave Rhetta a fake grimace. “Hawk is a heathen. He’s already destroyed a throw pillow and a pair of shoes. He’ll be up for adoption once he gets his last round of shots.”
Rhetta laughed. “You’re in love already. I can tell. Fifty bucks says you end up adopting him. You should bring him by sometime. The guys might act tough, but they’re suckers for dogs.”
“Maybe I will,” I mused. Bringing Hawk to the clubhouse could humanize me, making me more than an outsider in expensive boots.
A sudden crash cut through the air like a gunshot as the clubhouse door flew open. Heads whipped around as two men stumbled in, half dragging a third whose face was a mess of blood and bruised flesh. The coppery scent of blood hit me, turning my stomach.
The atmosphere in the room shifted. I watched as several Mavericks, including Rhetta and Reaper, moved to assist. Rhetta cleared a spot on a table, allowing Reaper to help lift the broken man onto the oak-grain surface.
There was no panic or fear—just cold, precise action that spoke of far too much experience with situations like this.
I retreated to the bar, setting down my empty glass with a soft clink. The pink-haired bartender raised an eyebrow, silently offering another, but I shook my head. I had to drive home.
The commotion overwhelmed me, a maelstrom of raised voices and male aggression. I needed air, space, and a moment to process.
I slipped away from the crowd, finding a dim hallway near the bathrooms. The sounds from the main room were muffled here, allowing me a moment of relative peace.
Photos and newspaper clips from the past few decades lined the walls, along with a framed vest, the weathered patch indicating it had been worn by one of the club’s founders nearly fifty years ago. Most of the newspaper clips highlighted photos from rallies or funerals attended by hundreds.
I breathed in, enjoying the quiet moment, until boots scuffed behind me. A figure loomed in the shadows at the end of the hallway. He took a step forward, and I noticed the prospect patch on his cut. Not a Maverick, but someone aspiring to be.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing all alone back here?”
I straightened my spine, forcing steel into my voice. “Just getting some air.”
He moved closer, blocking my path to the main room. “We haven’t been properly introduced.”
I squared my shoulders, refusing to cower despite the alarm bells clanging in my head. “Unless you’re a club member who owns a business, there’s no reason Rhetta would have introduced us.”
As I moved to push past him, the man grabbed my arm roughly. I pulled back as another voice cut through the tension.
“What the fuck are you doing back here, Scott?”
The man released his grip on my arm. Relief flooded through me as Reaper stepped into view, his massive frame filling the hallway. Irritation rolled off him in waves as his eyes fixed on the prospect.
The man’s menacing demeanor changed in an instant. “Just welcoming our new friend, VP,” he mumbled.
Reaper’s gaze flicked to me, a silent question in his eyes, before returning to the man.
“Why don’t you go make yourself useful at the bar.” It wasn’t a question.
The prospect didn’t need to be told twice. He scurried away, leaving Reaper and me alone in the hallway.