Siren’s Salvation (Reapers Rejects MC: Second Generation: Nevada #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Siren

Present Day…

The bass thumps through my chest as I weave through the crowd, dodging flying elbows and sloshing drinks.

The clubhouse is packed wall-to-wall with leather-clad bikers, ol’ ladies, some of the older club kids, and wannabe patch bunnies, all here to ring in the New Year with the Reapers Rejects MC.

Multicolored lights flash across grinning faces, and the air is thick with the mixed scents of whiskey, champagne, and whatever beers the brothers and sisters are drinking.

There’s so much noise and things going on in here.

I’m not normally the type who gets overstimulated, but there are so many extra people here today.

I need some fresh air and a moment to clear my head.

Slipping away from the crowd, I make my way outside, the cool Montana night air a welcome relief on my flushed skin.

I reach into my pocket, fishing out the joint I rolled earlier.

It's some of the good stuff Dex and I have been growing on the far end of the property.

As I light up, I can't help but smirk.

If only the old-timers knew what we were really doing.

They don’t have a fucking clue, but we wanted to make sure we got it right before we pitched the idea to them.

It could be a great success, or Zane and Blackjack are going to make us burn it all down for not discussing it with them first.

I take a long hit, the smoke curling up into the night sky.

It's oddly peaceful out here, alone with my thoughts and the distant roar of celebration inside the clubhouse.

I heard that back in the day, this farm used to produce corn, wheat, and they’d rent fields out to other farmers.

There were some rumors about beef cattle, but I’m not sure how true that is.

We have beef cattle on about twenty acres right now, and hogs, but just enough to sustain the families within the club.

The unused land could be put to much better use growing cash crops like marijuana.

Taking a deep drag, I savor the familiar burn in my lungs.

Who would've thought Blackjack's son would turn out to be such a green thumb?

Then again, maybe it's in the blood—Blackjack's always been good at cultivating things.

As the smoke curls around me, my eyes adjust to the darkness.

There’s a load of laughter coming from around the corner.

That's when I spot them—three figures huddled near the edge of the clubhouse.

I can make out Noelle's blonde hair catching the moonlight.

With her are Aggie and Davina, passing something between them.

I don’t know what it is, but these girls aren’t up to anything good.

I was a young, rebellious teenager once too, so I can only imagine what they’re passing back and forth.

I take one more hit of my joint before stubbing it out and pocketing the remains.

Time to put the kibosh on this shit.

As I march toward the group of them, my boots crunch on the gravel.

Noelle takes a long swig from a bottle before passing it to Aggie.

Yep, just like I thought.

I can’t even be mad at them.

I was doing the same shit when I was around their ages.

I call out, my voice cutting through the night air. "Do your parents know you're drinking?"

The girls jump, startled by my sudden appearance.

Noelle nearly drops the bottle, fumbling to hide it behind her back.

Aggie and Davina exchange panicked looks, their eyes wide with fear.

Noelle tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder, a move I've seen her mother pull countless times.

God, she is Ashley’s daughter through and through.

The confidence in her stance is pure liquid courage. "Of course they do. It's New Year's Eve. Relax, Siren. It’s not like we’re thirteen sneaking a drink."

I arch an eyebrow, studying her face.

The slight sway in her posture, the glassy sheen to her eyes—she's already had more than a few sips.

I slip my hand into my pocket, fingering the joint I've just put out.

The irony isn't lost on me.

"All right," I say, keeping my voice level. "Well, you won't mind if I go have a chat with your mom then, will you?"

Noelle's face doesn't betray her, but I catch the slight twitch in her jaw.

She's good, I'll give her that.

But Davina?

Ha. Not so much.

The younger girl starts visibly shaking, her eyes darting between me and Noelle.

I turn my attention to Aggie and Davina, Natalie's girls. "Or maybe your girls' mom?"

That does it.

Davina crumbles like a house of cards. "Please don't tell her," she blurts out, her voice cracking. "She doesn't know and we were just trying to have a little bit of fun."

I shake my head, a heavy sigh escaping my lips.

Christ, how many times was I in their shoes?

Sneaking booze, thinking I was invincible?

But now I'm on the other side of things.

I’m a prospect.

Someone who's supposed to look out for the club and its family.

"Look," I say, running a hand through my long black hair, "I get wanting a little bit of fun, but you give me that bottle now or I go talk to all your folks. And there’s no negotiating with me. You do it now, or I blow your shit up."

The girls exchange panicked glances, their strength crumbling.

Noelle, still clinging to her false confidence, scoffs. "Come on, she won't talk to them."

I arch an eyebrow, my hazel-green eyes locked on Noelle's face.

This little girl does not want to play with me.

I will fuck up her shit faster than she can get me to stop.

The tension in the air is thick as ever, and I can feel my tattoos—the colorful dragon on my right upper arm and the Kraken below it—almost pulsing with the energy of the moment.

Davina, her voice trembling, contradicts her friend. "Yes, she will."

Her eyes are wide, fear evident in every line of her face.

Aggie, caught between the two, hisses at her sister. "Shut up, Davina!"

I've had enough of this back-and-forth.

With a quick movement, I snatch the bottle from Noelle's hand.

The vodka sloshes inside, a reminder of just how much trouble these girls could be in.

"You'd be smart to listen to your little sister," I say, my voice low and firm. "Now I'm gonna go tell your folks, and I'll guarantee you Davina is going to be the only safe one."

Noelle's face contorts with anger. "Geeze, you don't have to be a bitch!"

The words hit me like a slap, and for a moment, I'm transported back to my days in the Bronx, hearing similar insults hurled at my mother.

I open my mouth to retort, but a deep, authoritative voice cuts through the night air. "Noelle, you'd better tell me what in the hell has gotten into you."

My heart drops as I recognize Blackjack's voice.

The VP of the club—and Noelle's father—stands in the doorway, his imposing figure silhouetted against the light from inside.

Noelle's face goes ghost white, all her cockiness evaporating in an instant. "Dad, I... we were just... it's not what it looks like," she stammers, tripping over her own words.

Blackjack's eyes narrow. "Prospect," he says, addressing me, "tell me what happened."

I clear my throat, suddenly very aware of my position as a prospect.

I need to handle this carefully. "I found the girls drinking, sir," I explain, gesturing with the bottle in my hand. "I made a deal with them—if they gave me the bottle, I'd keep it under wraps."

Blackjack shakes his head, disappointment etched on his face. "She was gonna save your hide, and you go and call her a bitch."

He turns to his daughter. "Noelle, get your ass back to the house right now and relieve the babysitter. I'm sure your little brothers and sister will be tickled pink to see you."

Noelle huffs, clearly not done with her tantrum.

Blackjack's voice drops dangerously low. "You better stop with that sass, little girl."

As Noelle storms off, I'm left standing there, bottle in hand, caught between my role as a prospect and my empathy for these girls.

I can't help but wonder if I've done the right thing, or if I've just made enemies with the next generation of the club.

Davina clears her throat, her voice small and timid. "Am I in trouble?" she asks, eyes darting between Blackjack and me.

I can see the fear in her eyes, the way her hands tremble slightly at her sides.

Blackjack's stern expression softens a touch as he looks at the youngest girl. "I think you were just trying to be cool, sweetie," he says, his voice gentler than before. "Noelle and Aggie were the masterminds here, and I'm sure your Dad will think that too."

I watch as relief washes over Davina's face, her shoulders visibly relaxing.

It reminds me of my own teenage years, always trying to fit in, to be part of something.

I feel a pang of sympathy for her.

Aggie, on the other hand, lets out a grunt, crossing her arms defiantly.

She's clearly not as remorseful as her sister.

Blackjack turns his attention to her, his voice firm once again. "You should probably head back home too, young lady. I’ll be talkin’ to your folks shortly."

As Aggie skulks off, Davina looks around uncertainly. "Where should I go?" she asks, her voice small.

Blackjack smiles at her, nodding toward the clubhouse. "You can go back inside to the party. Keep bein’ good, kiddo."

I watch as Davina scurries away, leaving me alone with Blackjack.

The silence stretches between us for a moment, and I can feel the weight of his gaze on me.

I shift uncomfortably, suddenly very aware of the half-smoked joint in my pocket.

God, I could use another hit right now.

Once Davina is out of earshot, Blackjack turns to me, his eyebrow raised.

"So, you were gonna keep their secret, huh?" Blackjack questions, his voice filled with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.

His brown eyes bore into mine, just waiting for me to flap my jaws.

I meet his gaze evenly and shrug, struggling not to swallow hard and show him I’m nervous.

"They're just kids, Blackjack," I defend myself, trying to keep my voice steady. "Kids doing stupid things. You and I both know we've done worse."

He doesn't answer right away, instead choosing to study me for a moment.

His eyes flicker over my face, like he’s sizing me up.

It's as if he's weighing the validity of my words against what he knows about me—what he thinks he knows about me.

After a moment of silence that feels like an eternity, he finally speaks again. "That may be true," he concedes grudgingly.

He rakes a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and cackles, “Guess we should start gettin’ used to these kids being rebels. Just didn’t think my girl would be one of ‘em.”

I can’t help but bark out in laughter at him.

He arches a brow, “Something funny, prospect?”

Licking my lips, I carefully choose my words. “She’s your kid, so she’s the VP’s kid. It’s just as bad as being a preacher’s daughter. They’re gonna rebel more than the rest because they know they can get away with more. Hell, any of the officer’s kids I’m sure are gonna be wild childs.”

Blackjack shrugs, “Nah, don’t think Davina has it in ‘er. That Aggie on the other hand, man.”

He shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. “She’s a firecracker just waiting to explode.”

"A ticking time bomb," I agree, exhaling slowly. "But, I think she needs guidance, not punishment."

Blackjack nods thoughtfully. "You might be onto something there, Siren." He looks at me with tired eyes. "You've got a way with the teens in the club. I notice that. I see it. All the old heads do. The kids, they get pretty damn chatty with you."

My heart pangs at that.

While it's true that I have good relationships with most of the club kids, I don’t know if it’s a positive thing.

I brush off the compliment. "Sure, because they think I'm cool."

Blackjack grins knowingly. "Not just that, they respect you."

I let out a pained sigh and reach for the half-smoked joint, needing its soothing balm more than ever now.

"Somehow, I highly doubt that," I concede reluctantly, bringing the joint to my lips.

I light it and take a drag before continuing, “They think I’ll let ‘em get away with shit. Tonight was proof in the pudding.”

His grin fades, replaced by an all-too-serious expression. "I’m gonna teach you a hard lesson though. They might respect you, Siren, but tonight… what happened, that's not respect. That's manipulation."

I let out a short laugh, brushing a rebellious strand of hair from my face.

"Welcome to the world of teenagers." The bitter taste of truth in my mouth has me reaching for the joint again.

Blackjack's gaze stays on me, unblinking and unnerving under the dim light.

The silence stretches, filled only by the distant sounds of music and laughter echoing from inside the clubhouse.

His bluntness stirs something within me that I'm not ready to acknowledge.

He finally breaks the silence. "Maybe they're more like you than you think."

Now it's my turn to be serious.

I meet his gaze square-on, my fingers tightening around the joint. "What does that mean?"

He leans back against the railing, crossing his arms over his chest in a relaxed pose that’s at odds with the intensity in his eyes. "Just what I said, Siren. You've been through hell and back. You're strong because of it."

I open my mouth to deny it but no words come out.

It's a simple fact I've been trying to escape: I am who I am because of my past ... my mother, my sister Stiletto, and now the club.

All these pieces mold together to make up Siren—someone who cuts straight to the chase and doesn't take shit from anyone.

The realization hits me hard, like a punch to the gut.

Suddenly the night air feels too cold and the joint between my fingers burns too hot.

And Blackjack, the old bastard is too damn perceptive.

Shaking off the unexpected bout of vulnerability, I toss the spent joint away into the darkness and push away from the railing. "I'm calling it a night, VP."

I walk away and his words echo in my head over and over.

Maybe he's right.

Maybe these kids see a reflection of their own struggles in me.

But that doesn’t mean I know how to help them—hell, I’m still trying to figure out how to help myself.