Page 6 of Reaper & the Lioness (Lone Star Mavericks MC #1)

Chapter Five

T he cool night air hit my flushed skin as I drove home with the windows down.

The Mavericks weren’t what I’d expected.

Sure, they exuded that tough biker image, but beneath the leather and ink, I’d met business owners, family men, and community members.

It was a welcome shift from the soulless weasels, bloodthirsty hyenas, and political vultures I’d dealt with in D.C.

Throughout the evening, I’d built connections and walked away with a few solid leads on stories to develop.

I’d also crossed a line in the clubhouse. Reaper was a client, which meant he was off limits. No matter how much replaying our encounter in the hallway sent shivers down my spine.

His intensity both thrilled and unnerved me.

I’d dealt with powerful men before, but Reaper was different.

He didn’t hide behind a sharp suit or boardroom bravado.

He didn’t bother with masks or manners. Reaper personified raw, untamed power.

He embodied the fears whispered about outlaw bikers—making him intoxicating and achingly tempting.

God, what was it about bad boys and beasts that caused women to lose all common sense?

Pulling into my driveway, I gripped the steering wheel tighter, forcing myself to focus, and drew a deep breath. I couldn’t afford to blur the lines between professional and personal. I had to remind myself why I was here: to rebuild my life and escape the shadows that had chased me from D.C.

As I braced myself for the whirlwind of puppy energy waiting on the other side of the door, I made a silent vow.

I would give this project my all, pouring every ounce of my skill and determination into it.

And I would maintain my professional boundaries, especially with Reaper—no matter how my skin tingled at his touch or how my heart raced when I looked into his dark eyes.

I couldn’t risk compromising the contract.

The Lone Star Mavericks Motorcycle Club was now my client, and I had a job to do.

T he sun beat mercilessly as I pulled into Jack’s Car Repair, the gravel crunching under my Jeep’s tires. Thane’s quick green light on my ideas represented another small victory for my growing PR business.

Even better, the reporter responded to my pitch within a day, practically salivating at the chance to cover a story associated with the boycott.

The news outlets were starved for the kind of gritty, humanized narratives I planned to package for them—even if they featured stories showing only a carefully orchestrated side.

Hawk’s excited bark pierced the air as we stepped out, his tail wagging at the sight of the lanky high schoolers milling about outside the repair shop. I couldn’t help but smile at his infectious enthusiasm.

Jack rolled out from under a red 1950s Ford truck, his face a mix of grease and apprehension.

“Hey, Jack.”

His hands twisted together, and he cleared his throat twice. He smiled at me, clearly nervous about today’s interview. I’d expected as much; he’d only agreed because his president insisted.

“It’s good to see you. You brought a friend.” He wiped the grease from his hands on a stained red rag and smiled at the wiggling pup in my arms.

“This is Hawk. He’s my foster puppy. I’m trying to expose him to more people and teach him some manners.”

Jack relaxed as he ruffled Hawk’s ears, earning an excited nip. The tension in his shoulders eased, and I made a mental note: Hawk proved an excellent icebreaker. I lowered the puppy to the ground and hooked the leash around a belt loop to keep him anchored nearby.

“The reporter will be here in about an hour. I wanted to run through a few things with you first.”

Jack regularly opened his shop to a few local high schoolers, giving them the space, tools, and mentorship to help them restore an old Ford Bronco. The story I’d pitched to the local news highlighted how a Maverick gave back, significantly impacting his community.

As we practiced for the interview, the story took shape.

Jack’s journey from local high school grad to young yet respected business owner made for a compelling narrative, but his mentorship was what really shone.

His eyes lit up when he talked about teaching the boys the basics of restoration and helping them breathe new life into the old Ford.

“If they veer off-topic, especially about the Mavericks, use the response we practiced,” I advised, adjusting his collar. “Keep it simple and redirect to the restoration project.”

Jack nodded. “Got it. Stick to the talking points.”

I patted his arm. “I know you usually don’t wear it while working, but we should have the reporter capture some b-roll of you talking to the kids while you wear your cut. It will help us show your affiliation to the club without calling it out.”

A flicker of pride crossed his face, briefly overshadowing his nervousness.

I squeezed his shoulder in reassurance. “You’ve got this. Just be yourself.”

Jack’s warm and genuine demeanor would be great on camera. I hoped his would be the first of many stories to show the community the softer side of the Mavericks—the side Reaper insisted didn’t exist.

I stepped away with Hawk and started my Jeep to let the air crank on high. I settled the pup in the back, safely locked in his crate with a peanut butter–filled toy. Following the attention and excitement, I expected him to drift off to sleep in minutes.

The news van pulled up, and I greeted the reporter and her crew as they unloaded their gear from the back.

The thunderous roar of a Harley shattered the relative calm, drawing all eyes to the sleek matte white bike with black pipes pulling up beside the news van. The scythe emblazoned on the gas tank left me with no doubt about the rider’s identity.

My heart performed a series of traitorous flips as Reaper dismounted, his presence dominating the space. His black cut and inked arms offset the crisp white T-shirt he wore beneath. Instead of a helmet, he wore a backward baseball cap.

The reporter tensed, fear flashing in her eyes. She strode away behind her cameraman, eager to put as much distance between her and Reaper as possible. While Jack offered a warm, welcoming vibe, Reaper’s presence was chilling in the Texas heat.

I ground my teeth. “What are you doing here?”

“Thane asked me to come.”

Irritation swept through me. “Why?”

He offered a saccharine smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Because it’s my job to be here, according to the prez. So here I am.”

I sighed. I couldn’t argue with Thane. At least, not yet. “Fine. Just keep your distance. You’re making the reporter nervous.”

I spun on my heel and walked away without giving him a second glance. I didn’t find it surprising Thane wanted a club representative present, but sending his VP seemed excessive.

Despite Reaper’s looming presence, the story came together nicely.

The high school boys raved about the hands-on, real-world skills they’d learned throughout the project.

Jack’s personal account of how the shop teacher had been a lifeline for him just a few years ago, inspiring him to pay it forward, added a touching depth to the narrative.

Reaper stepped beside me as the crew captured b-roll of the boys and Jack talking and laughing in front of the shop. The reporter glanced up at his imposing form and voiced an excuse, saying she needed to check in with her producer.

“I think she’s scared of you,” I said dryly.

Reaper smirked. “Of course she’s scared of me. What I want to know is why you aren’t.”

I met his gaze, unflinching. “Because the true monsters are usually the ones you least expect. They hide behind smiles, handshakes, and bibles, not leather and patches.”

T he setting sun cast a warm light across the wood floors in my home office as I hunched over my laptop, sifting through a digital labyrinth of police reports, employee announcements, and email leads.

My eyes burned from hours of screen time.

I’d already spent a day on video calls, meeting with clients and talking to editors.

But I couldn’t stop my investigation at night.

Each piece of information added another fragment to the mosaic of Hale Abell’s mistreatment of women, and I believed we had nearly enough information to break the story.

A soft whine drew my attention to Hawk. He stared at me with his soft brown eyes.

I reached out to scratch behind his ears, guilt twinging in my chest. Sometimes I became so deeply entrenched in my work that I’d forget I had a puppy—at least while he napped.

If I didn’t take him out to play soon, he’d either piss on my floor or find his own entertainment by chewing on something he shouldn’t.

“Sorry, buddy,” I murmured. His tail thumped against the floor, a plea for attention. “I promise we’ll go for a long walk in a few minutes. I just need to talk to Matt, and then I’ll be done for the day. I promise.”

He let out a low whine. As if on cue, my phone screen lit up as the cheery tone rang through the air. I took a deep breath before throwing in my earbuds.

“Hey, Matt.”

“Eva!” His voice boomed, full of its usual enthusiasm. “How’s life in the Lone Star State? Are you line dancing in a cowboy hat yet? Maybe joining a rodeo?”

I laughed, picturing myself stumbling through a crowded dance floor with my two left feet. “Definitely not. There isn’t enough tequila in this state for me to try line dancing. But I’ll keep rodeo clown as a career option if my consulting business fails.”

Matt chuckled. “Have you found yourself a cowboy yet?”

His tone was less teasing, and I rolled my eyes. While only a friend, Matt often seemed all too concerned about my romantic interests.

“No, Matt. No cowboy.”

Just a sinfully hot, tattooed biker with a bad attitude , I added mentally.

I shifted the conversation, not wanting to get into my new association with the Mavericks with my friend. He’d ask far too many questions.