Don’t You Pucking Dare (The Blackridge Reapers #2)

Chapter 10

I press my fingers to my lips, remembering how she tasted in the garden. Three nights, and I still wake up hard, sweat-soaked, replaying her whimpers, the way she arched against the wall, how perfectly she broke for me. Lola fucking Kemper. She’s going to be easy to destroy— Rick Kemper's precious daughter, my ticket into the Reapers.

The late afternoon shadows stretch across campus as I track her familiar path to the library. She's a creature of habit, my little Duchess. Same route, same time, same perfect posture as she clutches her books to her chest. My phone captures every moment, every subtle shift of her hips, every nervous glance over her shoulder.

For the assignment, I tell myself. For revenge.

I’m just glad I get to play with this toy before completely destroying it.

I watch her disappear into the library before heading to O'Malley's. The bar reeks of spilled beer and desperation, hockey memorabilia covering every surface like shrine to violence. Perfect hunting ground for the Reapers.

Jackson and Noah already claimed our usual corner, nursing something that looks more like motor oil than beer. "Brother. Caleb's incoming. Jack's got fresh meat in the bathroom. Something about testing new equipment."

The casual way he mentions it sends ice through my veins. These guys don't just break rules— they obliterate them. And here I am, toying some innocent girl, pretending it's all for the greater cause.

Maybe I belong here after all.

I order whatever's on tap, knowing it'll taste like piss but do the job. Noah nurses his drink, that killer's calm settling over him as we wait for the others. Jackson is staring at the screen above the bar.

Jack emerges from the bathroom, tucking something into his pocket. The girl hanging off his arm has that glazed look they all get around him, like she's already forgotten whatever happened behind that closed door.

"Private conversation," I tell her.

She pouts, turning to Jack. "You're letting them dismiss me?"

He whispers something in her ear that makes her eyes go wide. She retreats to the bar without another word, sliding onto a stool like a good little puppet.

The door swings open and Caleb stalks in, looking murderous. "This better be worth leaving the Bradshaw triplets."

"I've got the Berkeley sisters' number," I offer, already reaching for my wallet.

His scowl transforms into a predator's grin. "Sacrificing fresh meat for me?"

"Consider it payment for interrupting your fun."

Jackson, Jack, and Noah watch our little transaction with dark amusement. These are the kinds of deals we make— trading women like baseball cards.

"Now," I lean back, "about my assignment."

"Assignment?" Jack's smile is all teeth. "Is that what we're calling that fresh tight pussy?"

"I saw you in the garden," Noah adds softly, his accent thickening. "With your little mouse."

"You fucked her already?" Jackson asks, but I ignore him, not wanting to hash it out.

I lean forward, beer forgotten. "I need eyes on her roommate. Kiah. Purple hair, combat boots, doesn't shut up. She's the only thing standing between me and Lola's space. Jack?"

Jack's eyes light up with that familiar gleam. "You want me to keep her occupied?"

"Just long enough for me to get what I need." The lie tastes bitter. Truth is, I want more than just access to Lola's room. I want to own every part of her.

"Consider it done." Jack's already plotting, that sick mind of his spinning possibilities. "Though you might want to hurry. My toys don't usually last long."

Noah nods, silent but deadly. Jackson’s nod is a sign of approval we’re moving onto the next step. Even Caleb's on board, probably thinking about his consolation prize with the Berkeley sisters.

"Test that number," I taunt him. "Make sure I'm not screwing you over."

"If you are..." Caleb pulls out his phone, threat clear in his voice.

Perfect. They're all exactly where I need them to be. Pieces moving into place to win this game.

Jack, Noah, and Caleb file out of O'Malley's, leaving a wake of whispers. Nobody wants to be around when the Black brothers have a talk.

"Spill it." I lean forward, jaw tight, eyes staring straight into my brother’s. "What vital fucking information did you keep from me while sending me to the Reapers?"

Jackson's hands grip his wheelchair's arms, knuckles white. The injuries aged him, turned my indestructible older brother into something harder, colder. "This goes deeper than the Reapers. Though they're a big fucking piece."

I shrug, having already thought about it. "Dad."

"Yeah." He runs a hand over his face, looking every bit the broken man they tried to make him. "Didn't tell you because it wasn't relevant then."

"And now?"

"Now you need to understand why they came after me." His voice drops. "Dad didn't just expose Kemper's operation— he fucked with it. Made it personal. They always go for family first."

"So you were what, a warning shot?"

"An obstacle." His laugh is as bitter as the dregs in my glass. "But you— you're Dad's golden boy with the hockey career and the perfect future."

"What the fuck are you saying? I have a target on my back?"

"You've got an in with Noah, and his family's reputation makes the Reapers untouchable. Get Rick Kemper into their playground, and you're protected. They'll handle the rest."

"That simple?"

"If you're already fucking his daughter?" He leans forward, eyes sharp as broken glass. "Yeah, that fucking simple. Just don't get sloppy."

And on that note, ladies and gentlemen, my demons get to come out and fucking play.

O'Malley's stale beer smell clings to my jacket as I head to the locker room. My brother's words about revenge echo in my head, but I've got bigger plans. Lola's just the start—a beautiful distraction while I position myself exactly where I want to be on the ice.

The locker room buzzes with pre-practice energy. Dylan's at his usual spot, giving me that silent nod as I walk in. Jack's trying to burn holes through me with his glare—let him try. Noah keeps his head down, methodically taping his stick. Zane and Caleb huddle around a phone, probably watching last night's NHL highlights and laughing.

"How long have you been with Gigi?" Thatcher asks Dylan while pulling on his practice jersey.

Dylan just shrugs, focused on his skate laces.

"Damn, bro. How the fuck did you get her?"

Caleb looks up from his phone. "Cause he's the fucking man. Look at him."

"He does get all the chicks," Thatcher laughs.

"You need to come to the parties, Dylan. Your girl was there without you." Thatcher's pushing it, but Dylan just keeps lacing up his skates, jaw tight.

I strap on my pads, already planning my move. A year behind the net was enough.

Zane catches my eye. "How's purple hair?"

"Like tuna," Jack spits.

The guys cringe, shaking their heads. I chuckle, letting him dig his own grave.

Coach Jacobs is in rare form today, voice echoing off the rafters as we hit the ice. His whistle shrills every thirty seconds like he's trying to burst eardrums.

"Black, stay at your post!" he barks when I drift toward center ice.

I glide over to him, ice spraying. "Put Thatcher there. I want defense."

"You don't get a say." His face is already turning red.

"Not asking." I keep my voice steady. "I'm done being a fucking wall ornament. I want some real action this practice."

"You get plenty of action, and you're damn good at what you do!"

"Thatcher!" I call out like this was the plan all along. "You're in the net. I'm taking your spot."

Thatcher hesitates, looking between me and Coach. But he knows better than to question it. Smart boy.

First drill, I show them exactly what they've been missing. While Thatcher flounders in the net like a fish on ice, I'm breaking up plays before they start. Every check lands. Every pass connects.

"Holy shit," Caleb whistles after I strip the puck clean from Jack. "Since when can you move like that?"

I smirk, damn it feels good to be acknowledged.

Thatcher's getting destroyed in goal. His reflexes are too slow, and he keeps dropping into butterfly way too early. When Zane's soft wrister somehow gets through his five-hole, even Coach has to look away.

"Fuck me," Thatcher groans, flat on his back for the fifth time. "How do you make this look so easy, Black?"

I skate past him, enjoying the way Coach's clipboard can't hide his impressed expression. "It is. You’re dropping too early. The anticipation is important to time."

By the end of practice, everyone's seen it. The way I read the ice, anticipate plays, create opportunities. This is what I was built for—being in the action, not just watching it. Now back in the locker room, I get dressed for the real fun. Lola has it coming for her.

Breaking into Lola’s sanctuary is almost too easy. The code Jack extracted from Kiah opens the door like an invitation. These dorm halls feel sacred at this hour— all these little birds in their nests, never knowing there's a predator among them.

Her scent hits me the moment I step inside. Strawberry and cotton, pure Lola. Everything about her space screams control— perfectly made bed, sheet music arranged by the composer, even her pens lined up by color. My presence here feels like a violation. Good.

I pull on gloves, moving to her vanity. Her hairbrush yields long strands of chestnut silk. Perfect DNA samples to remind Rick Kemper that his precious daughter isn't as untouchable as he thinks.

But it's the letter tucked inside her drawer that stops me cold. Worn edges, creased from countless readings. The paper feels fragile in my hands like her heart must have been when she first read it.

Lola,

Consider this a warning disguised as a letter. Your existence is a complication I never wanted…

Fucking Rick Kemper, playing protective father while hiding from his own sins. The Reapers found him easily enough— he just didn't think his daughter was worth the risk.

The letter reveals everything: why she holds herself so rigidly, why she lets men touch her but never claim her, why she pours herself into music instead of people. Daddy's perfect little girl, abandoned and trying to maintain control.

I tuck a few strands of her hair into my pocket, right next to her father's letter. Two weapons, both sharp in different ways.

The doorknob turns.

I move on pure instinct, sliding into her closet just as the door opens. The crack gives me a perfect view of her sanctuary— my hunter's blind.

Lola walks in looking shattered, something raw in her expression that makes me wonder what mood she’s in. She strips off her jacket, revealing those perfect tits in that tight tee. The window beckons her like a stage, and she throws it open, letting twilight spill across her skin.

Then she reaches for her cello.

The instrument settles against her like a lover as she positions herself in the window frame. She's putting on a show for the whole world, my private little musician now on display. Something dark and possessive coils in my chest.

Soon, she'll learn that some performances are meant for an audience of one.

Her bow slides across strings, releasing something ancient and haunting. Vivaldi's Winter—I recognize it from somewhere in my past. But she plays it like she's bleeding the notes into existence, each sound a confession of pain.

I could watch her forever like this, my private concert in stolen time. She has no idea I'm here, no idea that while she pours her soul into music, I'm plotting ways to destroy her.

With one hand, I pull out my phone and type a message to Noah.

Brody: Found a letter from Rick Kemper. Time to show Rick Kemper what happens when you lie to the Reapers and to your own daughter.