Boulder’s Weight (Reapers Rejects MC: Second Generation: Mexico #1)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Boulder

A Few Months Ago…

Ol' ladies are a fucking dead weight, and I say that with every fiber of my being.

Every man sitting around this table in Tart has heard me say it before.

They'll probably hear me say it again, but as I look around at the other prospects from the Montana charter, I notice how a couple of them have wedding bands on, or they’re tied down by a woman already.

Luckily for me, I'm too smart to get caught up in that trap.

"All I'm saying is I don't see the appeal," I continue, taking a big swig of my black coffee. It's bitter as shit, but somehow it hits the spot today. "The moment you get an ol' lady, you're weighed down. Your freedom's gone. And as prospects, we hardly have any freedom to begin with. Why would I waste it on some bitch?"

Ripper, who's been a prospect a few months longer than me, rolls his eyes while scrolling on his phone. "Says the guy who has a different chick in his bed every weekend."

"That's the point," I tell him, a cocky grin taking over my face.

Ripper isn't wrong.

I've earned my reputation. "I keep it simple. We both get what we want, and then she goes her way, I go mine."

The only reason I'm in Montana is because my baby sister, Joslynn, just had a kid.

A little girl named Melanie.

She's cute and all, but I'm not one to sit around making baby noises.

After two days of pretending I know what the hell to do with a newborn, I called up some of the boys from the club to meet me here and shoot the shit.

It seems like a lifetime ago that I was prospecting for the mother charter instead of down in Chihuahua.

Tart is a café owned by the club, though you wouldn't know it looking around.

It's all exposed brick walls, wooden tables, and fancy light fixtures dangling from the ceiling.

The kind of place where soccer moms come for their morning fix, completely unaware they're putting money in a club's pocket.

The Billings charter has a lot of legit businesses now. It’s a lot different than how things are going down in Mexico.

"You saying you've never thought about it?" Bama asks, setting his coffee down. "Never had a girl make you wanna stick around longer than a night?"

"Fuck no. Have you seen how the patched guys with ol' ladies act? Like they're on a leash." I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. "They're pussy-whipped. No freedom to do shit without checking in. Always got a honey-do list a mile long."

As I say it, there’s a movement from the corner of my eye, and I feel this unnerving need to stop what I’m doing and turn.

And that’s when I see her.

She's moving between tables with a pot of coffee in one hand, notepad in the other. Her light brown hair is pulled back in a messy bun, strands falling around her face like she couldn't be bothered to fix it.

She's not trying hard with her appearance—just jeans and the café's black t-shirt—but there's something about the way she carries herself.

It’s like she's trying to blend into the background but can't quite manage it.

When she turns, I notice the shiner.

Her right eye is sporting a nasty bruise, the kind that's a few days old—yellow and purple around the edges.

She's done her best to cover it with makeup, but whoever gave it to her put some force behind it.

Something in my chest tightens.

It’s not like she’s someone of importance to me, but seeing that bruise makes my hands clench into fists under the table.

"Kelsey’s still here?" I ask, keeping my tone casual.

Ripper glances over. "I think the woman’s gonna end up dying working here, man. Been around forever."

"Yeah, her and Tara will be here for the rest of their lives I’m sure, " Bama adds. "I’ve been kinda curious about her, though. I heard she doesn’t date anyone or nothin’ like that, keeps to herself. Only person she really talks to is Tara, right, Rip?"

Ripper shrugs. "Yeah, they work together, so obviously."

The fact she keeps to herself only piques my interest more. I'm the kind of man who’s always liked a challenge.

She comes to our table to refill coffees, and I notice how she keeps her head slightly turned, trying to hide the bruised side of her face.

Up close, I can see her eyes are a deep brown, almost like whiskey when the light hits them right.

"Need anything else?" she asks, voice soft but not timid.

There's a strength there, hidden beneath her quiet tone.

"We're good, Kelsey, but thanks," Bama says.

She gives a tight smile and turns away, but not before her eyes meet mine for a split second.

They’re the kind that can completely captivate you.

Just as she walks away, Ripper's phone rings.

He checks it, then looks at us with a sudden seriousness.

"We gotta get goin’. There’s some trouble at The Rusty Nail. Some out-of-towners getting rowdy with one of Octavia’s girls."

The Rusty Nail—a new bar they opened up on the edge of town that doubles as a strip club. Some of the women who work for Octavia have been stripping there on the weekends to make some extra cash.

Like I said, the Billings charter is making money however they can.

The mood shifts at the table, and I chime right in, "You want my help?"

It’s been boring as all hell since I got here. I could use some action to keep me busy.

Ripper hesitates, looking me up and down. "Nah, man. You're here to see your sister and the baby. Vacation, remember? We got this handled. Enjoy your time while you’re here. Highly doubt you even get a break back in Mexico."

I almost argue—I've never been good at sitting on the sidelines—but he's right.

I'm supposed to be taking a break from club shit, not diving into the Montana charter’s business when I'm supposed to be prospecting down in Mexico.

"If you're sure."

"We're good. Catch you later." They toss bills on the table and head out, leaving me alone with my coffee.

The place is starting to empty out as the afternoon drags on.

I check my phone—still another hour before I'm supposed to head back to Joslynn's place.

My mom's been blowing up my phone all morning, asking when I'm coming back, sending me photos of the baby like I haven't just seen her yesterday.

I ignore the messages for now.

I've got something else on my mind.

Kelsey who’s wiping down a table across the room.

I watch her for a moment, the careful way she moves, how her eyes constantly scan the door whenever it opens.

She reminds me of some of the old ladies back at this charter, specifically, the ones who came from rough backgrounds before finding the club life.

They’re the kind of women who are always alert, always ready.

I make a decision and stand up, making my way over to her.

"Hey there," I say, keeping my voice casual.

She startles slightly, turning to face me.

Her hand tightens on the rag she's holding. "Can I help you with something?"

"You might be able to. Remember me? Boulder."

Her eyebrow raises slightly. "Boulder? I always forget how ridiculous your names are."

"Road names, sweetheart."

Her expression shifts subtly, a wariness entering her eyes. "Yeah, still, they’re fucking ridiculous. You’ve been gone a while, haven’t you?"

"Yeah, I’m here to visit family. My sister just had a baby. I’m at the Mexican charter now."

"Right. The Mexico charter." She nods, recognition flashing in her eyes.

She doesn't seem impressed, which is different from how most women react when they find out I'm in the club. "Well, welcome back to Billings. Need anything else before I get back to work?"

"Actually, I was wondering about that." I gesture toward her bruised eye before I can stop myself.

The question's out before I consider if it's my place to ask. Then again, I don’t really care. "What happened there?"

Her entire demeanor changes in an instant.

Her back straightens, shoulders squaring as she takes a small step away from me.

The rag in her hand twists as her fingers clench around it.

"It's none of your business," she says, her voice cold enough to give me frostbite.

I should back off.

I know I should, but something about her pulls at me, makes me push when I'd normally walk away. "That's where you're wrong. Who did this to you?"

It isn’t my business, sure, but I don’t like seeing a woman have any marks on her face.

Her eyes narrow, the whiskey brown darkening to something more dangerous. "You think because you’re patched into a club—or well, might be someday—that gives you the right to know everyone's business?"

"No, that's not?—"

"I don't need saving, prospect." She spits the last word like it's poison on her tongue. "Especially not by someone who still has to earn his way."

That stings more than I want to admit.

I'm not used to women talking to me like this.

Usually they're falling all over themselves to please me, especially when they find out I'm connected to the club.

"Look, I didn't mean to overstep," I say, softening my approach. "Just don't like seeing a woman hurt."

Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or doubt.

Like she's not used to someone being genuinely concerned.

It's gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by a careful, neutral expression.

"Well, thanks for your concern, but I can handle myself." She glances at the clock on the wall. "I'm closing up in ten minutes."

I take the hint and start to turn away, figuring I've struck out completely, when she adds, "I usually go next door for a drink after my shift. If you want to join me, that's your business."

I look back at her, trying to read her expression, but her face gives nothing away. "Next door, huh?"

"Yeah, it’s nothing fancy, but they pour a decent whiskey." She turns away, moving to another table, effectively dismissing me.

I find myself standing there like an idiot, watching her walk away. Whatever I expected when I approached her, it wasn't this.

Not this strange mix of ice and invitation.

I check my phone again.

I should head back to Joslynn's.

Mom's sent three more messages with more baby pictures.

My sister will give me hell if I'm late, but fuck I need some time to myself while I’m up here too.

I type out a quick reply:

Got caught up. Be there in a couple hours.

I throw some cash down on the table and leave Kelsey a handsome tip before disappearing next door.

The bar is exactly what you'd expect it to be next door, a total dive.

Wood paneling that hasn't been updated since the '70s, neon beer signs casting a blue-red glow over everything, and a jukebox that's playing country music just loud enough to make conversation difficult but not impossible.

After about twenty minutes and mid-way into my first drink, I spot her.

She's changed out of her work shirt into a simple black tank top that shows off arms that are surprisingly toned.

Her hair's still up in that messy bun, but she's washed her face, the makeup gone.

The bruise around her eye looks worse without the cover-up, a splash of purple and yellow heightened against her pale skin.

She walks right up to the bar and orders a whiskey neat. “Thanks, Sammy,” she tells the bartender.

Once she gets her drink, she makes her way over to me and takes the seat beside me.

"Didn't think I’d actually show, did you?" She laughs, not looking at me.

"Guess you’re full of surprises." I signal the bartender. "I’ll have another."

The bartender, a burly guy with a beard that could house a family of birds, slides another whiskey in front of me.

"So," I start, turning toward her. "You gonna work at Tart until the end of days?"

"Who knows, I might. Feels like I’ve worked there a century." She finally glances my way. "What's your real name, Boulder? Unless your mama actually named you after a rock."

I chuckle. "Barron. But nobody calls me that anymore."

"Barron," she repeats, as if trying it out. "Suits you better than Boulder."

"You think?" I lean in a little closer. "Does Kelsey suit you?"

Something passes across her face, too quick for me to read. "It's the name on my paycheck."

There's a story there, but I sense now's not the time to push.

Instead, I raise my glass. "Well, Kelsey from Tart, to good friends and a good time."

She clinks her glass against mine, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Likewise, Barron, who's called Boulder."

Three drinks in, and Kelsey's a different person.

The wall she wore like armor at the café has slipped, revealing a sharp wit and a laugh that makes heads turn.

She still hasn't told me about the bruise, but I'm starting to think that's a conversation for another time.

"So you're really prospecting in Mexico?" she asks, leaning against the bar. "What's that like?"

"Hot as hell," I reply, watching the way she twirls a strand of hair that's fallen from her bun. "Dusty. Different from here in ways I can't even explain. But I'm learning Spanish. Getting by."

"And how many broken hearts have you left down there?"

There's a playful edge to her question, she probably doesn’t even realize I’m picking up on it.

I flash her my best smile, the one that usually gets women to lean in closer. "None. I'm very clear about what I'm offering."

"Which is?"

"A good time. No strings, no promises, no bullshit."

She laughs, a rich, throaty sound that stirs something in me. "At least you're honest about it. Most men lie through their teeth to get what they want."

"No point in lying," I say, finishing my drink. "Life's complicated enough without adding that shit to the mix."

Kelsey studies me for a long moment, her whiskey-brown eyes seeming to look right through me. "You know what? I believe you."

"Should I be offended that you sound surprised?"

She smiles, a real one this time that transforms her face completely. Even with the bruise, she's beautiful when she smiles like that. "Take it as a compliment. I don't believe most people."

"So why me?" I ask, genuinely curious.

She leans in, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something light with a hint of vanilla. "Maybe I'm just drunk enough to let my guard down. Or maybe there's something about you that makes it hard to keep the walls up."

The air between us changes, charged with something I can’t put my finger on.

I'm no stranger to this dance, have performed it countless times, but somehow with Kelsey, it feels different.

Like it’s more significant or some shit.

"You want another drink?" I ask, my voice lower than I intended.

She shakes her head slowly. "No. I think I've had enough to drink."

Our eyes lock, and the unspoken question hangs between us.

I wait, letting her make the move, letting her decide.

Kelsey slides off her stool, moving into my personal space. "You know what I want, Boulder."

I swallow hard. "Tell me."

She leans in, her lips brushing against my ear as she whispers, "I want to forget everything for a little while. Can you help me with that?"

My body responds instantly to her words, to her being so close.

"Yes," I manage to say. "I can definitely help with that."

The next few minutes are a blur.

Kelsey grabs my hand, leading me through the crowded bar.

The surprised look from the bartender.

The cool air of the hallway leading to the restrooms.

The solid thunk of the bathroom door closing behind us, the click of the lock.

And then her hands are on me, in my hair, tugging me down to her level.

Our lips crash together in a kiss that has nothing gentle about it.

It's all teeth and tongue and pent-up need.

I press her against the wall, my hands finding their way under her tank top, skimming over warm skin.

"Wait," she gasps against my lips. "Condom?"

I reach for my wallet, extracting the packet I always carry.

Always prepared.

Kelsey watches me with heavy-lidded eyes as I tear it open.

Then her hands are on my belt, unfastening it like there’s a timer above us, tugging at my jeans.

I return the favor, my fingers hooking into the waistband of her jeans, pulling them down over her hips.

There's no time for slowness, for savoring.

This is raw and primal, a meeting of bodies seeking release, escape.

I lift her against the wall, her legs wrapping around my waist as I thrust into her.

She bites down on my shoulder to muffle her cry, her nails digging into my back through my shirt.

"God, yes," she moans against my neck as I set a punishing pace. "Don't stop."

I have no intention of stopping, not when she feels this good wrapped around me, not when every sound she makes drives me closer to the edge.

I lose myself in her, in the rhythm we create together, in the building tension that’s like nothing I've experienced before.

Each thrust draws a gasp from her lips, her fingers digging deeper into my shoulders.

The bathroom's fluorescent lights flicker above us, casting harsh shadows that somehow make this feel even more raw, more real.

"Harder," she breathes against my ear, her voice ragged.

I comply, shifting my grip on her thighs, angling her body to take me deeper.

The new position makes her cry out, her head falling back against the wall with a soft thud.

I press my lips to her exposed throat, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse race beneath my tongue.

The small space fills with the sounds of our breathing, our bodies moving together, creating an erotic soundtrack that only heightens the intensity.

My muscles burn from holding her up, but there’s no way in fucking hell I’m stopping now.

Not even if the building was coming down around us.

"Look at me," I command.

Her eyes flutter open, that whiskey brown darkened to almost black with desire.

The connection between us in that moment transcends the physical—it's like something electric arcing between us, dangerous and addictive.

I can feel her body beginning to tense, her movements becoming more erratic.

My own release builds at the base of my spine, a white-hot pressure threatening to consume me.

Still, I hold back, determined to watch her come undone first.

"Let go," I urge, sliding one hand between us to where we're joined, finding that spot that makes her arch against me. "Let go for me, Kelsey."

Her response is immediate—a broken cry, her inner muscles clenching around me in waves, her entire body trembling in my arms.

The sight of her coming apart is what finally pushes me over the edge.

When she comes, her body tightening around mine, I follow her over the edge, my release hitting me with an intensity that leaves me gasping, my forehead pressed against the cool tile wall beside her head.

For a moment, we stay just the way we are, breathing hard, bodies still joined.

Then reality starts to seep back in.

The uncomfortable position.

The fact we’re in a public bathroom.

The fact that I barely know this woman who's somehow managed to get under my skin in the space of an evening.

I ease her down, both of us adjusting our clothing in the small space.

There's an awkwardness now that wasn't there before, a shift in the energy.

"That was..." I start, not sure how to finish the sentence.

"Yeah," she says, running a hand through her now completely disheveled hair. "It was."

She turns to the sink, splashing water on her face, careful around her bruised eye.

I watch her in the mirror, noting the way she's rebuilding her walls right in front of me, piece by piece.

"I should go," she says finally, meeting my eyes in the reflection. "My roommate will wonder where I am."

"Can I see you again?" The question surprises me as much as it seems to surprise her.

Kelsey turns to face me, something unreadable in her expression. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because men like you are dangerous," she says simply.

"I wouldn't ever hurt you." The words come out more intense than I intend.

She gives me a sad smile. "Not intentionally, maybe. But you would. That's what people do—they hurt each other. And I've had enough hurt to last a lifetime."

With that, she unlocks the door and slips out, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of her perfume and more questions than answers.

I wait a few minutes before following, but when I make it back to the bar, she's nowhere to be seen.

Vanished into thin air like she was never there at all.

As I walk to my bike, I tell myself it's for the best.

I'm leaving in a couple of days anyway.

Going back to Mexico, back to prospecting, back to my uncomplicated life.

I don't need the distraction of a woman with secrets and walls and eyes that seem to see right through me.

But even as I kick my Harley to life, I know I'm lying to myself.

Something tells me Kelsey from Tart isn't going to be easy to forget.

And for the first time in my life, I find myself wondering what it might be like to stick around longer than a night.