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

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Shiver

The endless Montana sky stretches out before me, a canvas of deep blue painted with wisps of white clouds.

It's a stark contrast to the neon-drenched Las Vegas Strip we left behind.

As our bikes rumble down the highway, I can't help but feel a sense of relief washing over me.

The open road, the crisp clean air—it's a welcome change of scenery.

"Fuck me, would you look at that view," I call out to Kade and Cobra, my voice carrying over the roar of our engines.

Kade, riding point, throws a glance over his shoulder. "Beats the hell outta the desert, don't it?"

I nod, even though he can't see me.

The serene plains, hills, and endless farmland pierce the horizon.

It's breathtaking, in a way that makes my chest feel tight.

For a moment, I allow myself to imagine this is just another club run— maybe we're heading up to Sturgis for the rally, or taking a scenic route to visit another charter.

But reality crashes back in as I catch sight of Cobra's grim expression in his side mirror.

This ain't no pleasure cruise.

We're here on business, and not the kind that ends with hookers and blow.

We’re here to figure out what the fuck Sally Bernard is doing with Boomer, and to hunt her malicious ass down.

I shout, leaning in closer to Kade as we round a bend. "How much further to Billings?"

"'Bout another hour," he replies, his voice gruff. "You gettin' saddle sore, prospect?"

I snort, shaking my head. "Nah, just wonderin' if my dick's gonna fall off from the cold before we get there."

Cobra barks out a laugh behind me. "Quit your bitchin', little buck. This ain't even cold yet."

"Easy for you to say," I retort. "You got all that blubber to keep you warm."

"Fuck you," Cobra shoots back, but there's no real heat in it.

This kind of shit-talking is how we cope, how we keep the tension at bay.

He has put on twenty or so pounds since he’s been with Izzy, but it suits him.

As we continue down the highway, my mind wanders back to Vegas.

There’s so much shit going on back home, and that’s why we’re here—to get answers.

For fuck’s sake, I hope we find Sally or Boomer while we’re up here.

Sera could have died.

Turmoil and Sera could have lost their baby.

Hell, the fucking bitch killed Sera’s grandpop.

If that isn’t some fucked up shit, I don’t know what is.

Before long the rumble of our engines fades as we approach the clubhouse gate.

A lean figure steps out from the guardhouse, and I recognize him immediately.

Bama.

His golden curls catch the late afternoon sun, making him look more like a surfer than a biker.

"Well, I'll be damned!" Bama calls out, a grin splitting his face. "If it ain't the prodigal sons returnin' home. Y'all are a sight for sore eyes!"

I can't help but chuckle.

His Alabama drawl is thick as molasses, a stark contrast to his California surfer boy looks.

"Bama," Kade nods, "Good to see you. How's things been up here?"

Bama's grin widens. "Oh, you know. Livin' the dream, one coffee run at a time."

As he buzzes us through, I catch a glimpse of a colorful tattoo peeking out from his collar—a snake wrapped around flowers.

Interesting choice for a guy who looks like he should be catching waves instead of riding Harleys.

We roll through the gate, and I can't shake the feeling that we're crossing some invisible line.

The clubhouse looms ahead, an unassuming building that holds more secrets than I can imagine.

"Remember what I said last night," Kade calls over his shoulder as we approach the garage. “Damn blizzard’s coming in. We need to get these bikes tucked away pronto."

The memory of our late-night hotel conversation comes flooding back.

Right, the storm.

Just what we need on top of everything else.

"Roger that," I reply, following Kade's lead as we pull into the garage.

As the door closes behind us, sealing us in, I can't help but wonder if we're locking ourselves in or locking the world out.

I kill the engine and swing my leg over the bike, stretching out the kinks from the long ride.

My eyes scan the garage, taking in the tools, the spare parts, the same scent that reminds me of our club—gasoline, diesel, motor oil, carb and choke cleaner, engine degreaser.

It smells like a full on garage here.

It's familiar, comforting in a way.

No matter where you go, some things never change.

"Home sweet home, huh?" I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

Cobra overhears me and snorts. "For now, at least. Don't get too comfortable, rookie. Something tells me this ain't gonna be a vacation."

I nod, knowing he's right.

We didn't come all this way for a scenic tour of Montana.

There's business to be done, and from the tension I can feel rolling off Kade in waves, it's not going to be pleasant.

"So," I say, trying to lighten the mood, "who's giving the grand tour? Or do we just start opening doors and hope we don't walk in on anything we can't unsee?"

Kade shoots me a look that's half amusement, half exasperation. "Cool it, Shiver. We'll get the lay of the land soon enough. For now, let's just..."

He trails off as the sound of approaching footsteps echoes through the garage.

I tense instinctively, my hand inching toward the knife at my belt.

Old habits die hard, especially in unfamiliar territory.

But Kade doesn't seem worried.

If anything, his posture relaxes slightly.

Whoever's coming, it's someone he trusts. And in our world, that's worth more than gold.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to relax.

The garage bay door clangs shut behind us, the sound echoing off the concrete walls.

I'm about to swing my leg over the seat when a figure emerges from the shadows at the far end of the garage.

"Fuck, it's good to see you here in the flesh, brother," a deep voice booms, and I find myself staring at what could be Kade's mirror image.

Zane, the Prez of the National charter and Kade's twin, strides toward us with a wide grin plastered across his face.

Kade dismounts his bike in one fluid motion, meeting his brother halfway.

They collide in a bear hug that would crush a lesser man, slapping each other's backs with enough force to make me wince.

"Wish it was under better circumstances," Kade mutters as they separate, and just like that, the reunion between two blood brothers takes on a somber edge.

I hang back, giving the brothers their moment.

It's strange, seeing two men who look the exact same carry themselves so differently.

Where Kade is all coiled tension and barely contained urgency, Zane exudes an easy confidence that comes with being at the top of the food chain.

Kade, predictable as ever, cuts straight to the chase. "You seen Boomer, or that cunt Sally Bernard lately?"

I stiffen at the mention of Sally Bernard.

That name's been haunting us since Vegas, a shadow looming over everything we do.

I watch Zane's face carefully, hoping for some hint, some clue that might shed light on this mess we've found ourselves in.

But Zane just shakes his head, his expression turning serious. "We'll talk shop tomorrow, brother. After we've had a few drinks, caught up, got some good food in our bellies and some sleep after your long journey."

I can see Kade's jaw clench, frustration radiating off him in waves. "We need to get moving on this shit, Zane. Time ain't exactly on our side here. Hell, Damon wants answers as fast as I do."

Zane laughs, the sound bouncing off the garage walls. "Some things never change. I see your patience hasn't improved any."

I find myself caught between amusement and anxiety.

On one hand, it's refreshing to see someone who can match Kade's intensity.

On the other, every moment we're not actively looking for answers feels like a moment wasted.

"Look," I interject, unable to stay silent any longer, "I get the whole 'mi casa es su casa' thing, but Kade's right. We didn't come all this way for a scenic tour and a few brewskis. There's business to be done."

Zane's gaze shifts to me, and I fight the urge to shrink under his scrutiny.

But instead of annoyance, I see a glimmer of approval in his eyes. "You're a ballsy little fucker, aren’t ya?"

I’m about to respond when my stomach lets out a growl so loud it could rival a Harley's engine.

Zane chuckles deeply, a smirk playing on his lips. "See, your prospect’s starvin'. We'd better get him some good food."

Cobra, never one to miss an opportunity to rib me, chimes in with a chuckle.

"Little buck over here isn't the only one starvin'! Who's cookin'? Alexa? Ashley? Octavia?"

Just as the words leave Cobra's mouth, the side door to the garage swings open.

Bull, a mountain of a man with a beard that could hide a small child, steps inside.

His eyes sweep over us, taking in the new arrivals.

"Alexa," he says, his deep voice rumbling through the space. "My wife prepped enough lasagna, ziti, salad, and made enough homemade garlic bread to feed a damn army. Come on in and get some grub, and hurry before she yells at ya."

The mention of food has my mouth watering instantly.

As we file out of the garage and into the clubhouse, I'm hit with a wall of noise and warmth.

The main room is packed, bodies everywhere, some familiar faces and many I don't recognize.

A few guys look up as we enter, their expressions a mix of curiosity and wariness.

"Kade! You ugly son of a bitch!" A voice booms from across the room, followed by a burst of laughter and a round of greetings.

I hang back a bit, taking in the scene.

It's strange, being in a different charter's clubhouse.

The layout is similar to ours back in Vegas, but the energy is... different.

Not better or worse, just not home.

Kade, Cobra, and I start making our way toward the kitchen, my stomach urging me forward with another embarrassing growl.

But before we can get there, a woman rounds the corner, her presence commanding attention.

"Uh-uh," she says, her voice stern but not unkind. "You'd best sit your asses down and take a load off. I'll bring some plates out for y'all here in a minute."

I recognize her as Octavia, Zane’s ol’ lady.

It’s not hard to realize who she is with her fiery red hair. It’s as bright as they say.

Her no-nonsense attitude reminds me of my mama back in Sharp, and for a moment, a pang of homesickness hits me.

"Yes, ma'am," I find myself saying, a reflex from my Texas upbringing.

Cobra snickers beside me, but I ignore him, too hungry to care about his teasing.

As we settle into a nearby booth, I can't help but think about how the next couple of days will go.

We came here for answers, not a family reunion.

But as the smell of garlic bread wafts through the air, I decide that maybe, just maybe, we can have both.

I slide into the booth, the worn leather creaking beneath me.

The familiar sound brings a smirk to my face—some things are universal, no matter which charter you're in.

"So," I say, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the table, "how long we plannin' on stayin' up here in Big Sky Country?" I direct the question at Kade, knowing he's the one with the real answers.

Kade leans back, his face a mask of contemplation. "Couple weeks, maybe a month tops," he says, his voice low. "But it all depends on how shit goes while we're up here."

I nod, processing the information. "Sounds good to me," I reply, surprised by how much I mean it. "Gotta say, it ain't exactly breakin' my heart to be away from Vegas for a bit."

The tension in my shoulders, a constant companion these past few weeks, starts to ease.

Montana's vast skies and crisp air are a far cry from the chaos of Sin City.

It's not home, but it's a damn good place to clear my head.

Hell, I never thought I’d think any place was home after I left Texas, but Vegas became that for me.

Octavia's voice cuts through my thoughts, and I look up to see her approaching, two steaming plates balanced in her hands. "Some hot grub comin' right up!"

But it's not Octavia who catches my eye.

Behind her, carrying another plate, is a woman I'd almost forgotten about.

Siren.

Fuck me, but that name fits her like a glove.

I remember meeting her once, years ago when we were all wannabe prospects with more attitude than sense.

But the years... damn, the years have been kinder to her than they had any right to be.

Octavia sets plates down in front of Kade and Cobra, but my eyes are locked on Siren as she approaches.

She's carrying my plate, and for a moment, I forget how hungry I am.

I don’t want to eat my meal.

I want to dive straight into dessert.

"Here you go, Shiver," Siren says, her voice a mix of honey and smoke that hits me right in the gut.

She sets the plate down, and I catch a whiff of her perfume—something subtle and spicy that makes my mouth water.

"Thanks, darlin'," I drawl, my Texas accent thickening as it tends to do when I'm caught off guard. "Looks mighty fine."

I'm not just talking about the food, and judging by the knowing look in Siren's eyes, she's well aware of that fact.

As she turns to walk away, I can't help but think that maybe this stay in Montana might be more interesting than I'd initially thought.

As Siren hands me the cutlery, our eyes lock.

The intensity in her hazel-green gaze makes my breath catch.

I manage to croak out a "Thank you," my fingers deliberately brushing against hers as I take the fork and knife.

The brief contact sends a jolt through me, and I wonder if she feels it too.

Siren murmurs, her voice low and husky. "My pleasure."

Octavia's voice breaks the moment. "I'll make sure your rooms are ready, boys. Siren here will show you to them once you've filled your bellies."

I nod, not trusting my voice just yet.

My mind's racing, thinking about Siren leading me to my room later.

Dangerous territory, that would be.

Cobra, never one to let a moment pass without commentary, pipes up with a grin. "Siren? You callin' men to their deaths or some shit?"

I wince internally.

Real smooth, Cobra.

Siren doesn't miss a beat.

She fixes Cobra with a look that could freeze hell itself, then slowly turns her gaze back to me. "Somethin' like that," she says, her voice dripping with suggestion.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.

Fuck me, but this woman is going to be trouble.

And right now, I can't think of anything I want more.