Chapter Six #2
“Nice to meet you, Kettle.” When she doesn’t react, I let the smile fall and say, “Oh, come on, June. It’s just a month. You’re brave enough to survive in the big, bad biker’s lair for a measly four weeks.”
“It has nothing to do with bravery.”
“Good, then let’s go.” I gesture to the Jeep.
She doesn’t budge. “I’m not leaving my car here. And I don’t have any clothes or anything!”
If I wasn’t annoyed, I might’ve smiled at her acceptance. “Then I’ll follow you to your place, and you can pack before we head back. But you’d better hurry. The crew is eager to meet their fearless leader’s new girl.”
“I’m not your girl!”
“I couldn’t tell my family that you want to kill me, could I? You wouldn’t last an hour.”
“So you told them we’re dating?” She sounds more appalled at our cover story than about joining the Saints.
“Most of them. No one would believe you’re a prospect. You can’t even ride.”
“You’ve said that before, but how could you possibly know I can’t?”
“Can you?” She presses her lips together in response. “Well then. Ready to go?”
Five minutes of arguing later, I’m following a very angry serial killer to her house. Her closest neighbor isn’t far, but the high stone walls provide plenty of privacy. When I start following her inside, she whirls around and says, “You’re not coming in.”
“Fine, but I’m going through your bag. Don’t want you bringing any pesky drugs or weapons.”
In response, she stomps to her front door and slams it shut behind her.
I lean against the Jeep while I wait. Sooner than expected, June returns, locks the door behind her, and strolls to the Jeep, glaring at me the whole way.
I silently hold out my hand, and she thrusts over the large duffle bag, huffing in irritation.
With a chuckle, I carry the bag to the back seat and unzip it to examine the contents.
Ignoring the lacy underwear and surprisingly large bras takes an incredible amount of self-control.
Once finished with my search, making sure to feel the seams for hidden compartments, I turn to face June, who has her arms crossed.
“Arms out,” I order.
“What?”
“I need to pat you down.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You think I’m stupid enough not to check you for weapons or drugs? Arms out, little reaper.”
“Stop calling me that.” She scowls.
Fuck, she’s cute.
“Arms.”
She finally obeys, though not without grumbling, and I start the pat down.
I’m extra thorough, rubbing every inch of her arm and cupping her breasts.
She tries slapping my hands away, but I ignore her, feeling along her bra over her shirt for the tell-tale feel of a weapon tucked away.
Next, I pat down her waist and legs, dragging my hand slowly over her crotch.
My own groin tightens as I imagine doing this without all the clothes in the way.
“Hurry up, pervert,” she bites out.
I move my hands down her legs, making no effort to speed up the process. At her calf, I feel what is unmistakably the handle of a knife. I lift up her pant leg to reveal the hunting dagger strapped to her leg.
“I’m not going to your house without at least one weapon for self-defense,” she says in response to my raised eyebrow.
“No one is going to hurt you. Either at my house or the clubhouse.” Still squatting, I look up to see her frown. I like this view, especially what’s in front of my face.
“Like I’d believe you. It’s a biker gang. You’re not exactly known for your respectful treatment of women.”
I stand, deciding that I need a clear head, and being in that position was doing me no favors.
“First of all, it’s a Motorcycle Club, not a ‘biker gang.’” She opens her mouth, but I barrel forward before she can speak.
“Second, don’t make assumptions based on a generalized stereotype.
Third, even if we lack certain social customs, we do have rules.
A code of conduct every member lives by and would never break.
One of those rules is that you respect your fellow members and don’t touch their property, specifically their bike or their girl.
Since they all think you’re my girl, no one would dare touch you. ”
“I’m not your property.”
“Why am I not surprised that’s the only part you care about? It’s just a saying, little reaper. No need to go all murderous.”
She crosses her arms, not balking as she stares me down without a hint of fear. “I don’t know anyone in your club, and your rules mean nothing to me. I’m not giving you my knife.”
Part of me, the part most influenced by James, wants to argue. But I like the idea of her walking around with a giant dagger strapped to her leg. It makes me feel better to know she’s armed and ready to defend herself, even if I trust all my members.
“Fine,” I agree. Then, the corners of my lips climb up. “Look at us, making progress. We came to that compromise so much faster than the last one.”
She rolls her eyes and doesn’t respond before turning and climbing into the passenger side of the Jeep. Neither of us speaks until I’ve pulled out of the driveway.
“How will I get to work every day?” she asks.
“I’ll take you.”
“Really? You’ll drive me half an hour every day to my office and pick me up every evening?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
“You really have nothing better to do with your life?”
“I like riding, little reaper. You should know that about me by now.”
“Why are you calling me that?”
I glance at her and am momentarily stunned at the sight of her piercing blue eyes and dark blonde hair flapping in the wind. “Isn’t it obvious?” When she doesn’t respond, I say, “Your last name is Graves. And you’re a killer. Thus, reaper.”
“I get that. But why? ”
“It’s a nickname. You’ve never had a nickname?”
“Of course, I’ve had nicknames,” she mutters in a not-quite-believable way.
“With a name like Graves, I’d expect several nicknames. Especially considering your hobbies.”
“I don’t know what hobbies you’re talking about.”
I smirk, curling my fingers gently around the steering wheel when I turn onto the main road. “You know, your taste for thrills. You’re an adrenaline junkie.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are,” I argue. “I’ve seen your posts online about skydiving and rock climbing and shit. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Most of the Saints are adrenaline junkies. That’s a large reason why they started riding in the first place.”
“And you?”
I steal another look at her. She’s started relaxing, even pulled a leg onto the seat. “What about me?”
“Are you a biker because you’re an adrenaline junkie?”
“Among other reasons.” I say it with the unspoken order not to ask any more questions. Of course, she doesn’t look like she’s about to heed the warning, not with that curiosity swimming in those ocean eyes.
“What are the other reasons?”
“I think you’ll like riding,” I say instead of answering. Her frown shows she didn’t miss the evasion. “You’ll like the rush.”
“I’ve ridden before. My foster dad would take me to school on a bike.”
“You were in foster care?” Though I looked into June’s life, I didn’t go past her high school years, when she lived with her mom and stepdad.
“For a few years when I was a kid. My mom was in prison.” There’s more to the story, I can tell, but the flat tone makes it evident she doesn’t intend to share.
“I was in foster care, too,” I say, surprising myself.
Besides James and Luna, I don’t talk to anyone about my childhood.
But something in my chest yearns to talk to June; to tell her she’s not alone with a bad childhood.
At least eighty percent of the Saints have some fucked up story.
“My mom died when I was twelve, and my dad bailed not long after. Since I was a teenage boy, and a poorly behaved one, no one wanted me. By the time I aged out of the system, I’d been in thirteen different foster homes.
Some were okay, but most were as bad as you’d expect. ”
The rumbling of the Jeep’s high profile tires fills the silence, and I expect to see pity on June’s face, or judgment that I perfectly fit the stereotype. But when I look at her, all I see is casual acceptance and understanding. Maybe a hint of curiosity.
“You ever consider therapy?”
I laugh, shattering the uncomfortable silence. “They made me see a counselor in high school and at juvie.”
“Well, yeah. But I mean as an adult. You should try therapy with a clinical psychologist.”
“Ten minutes together, and you’re already ready to throw me in a padded room?”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so obtuse. You must know therapy is more than that. Everyone could benefit from talking to a professional, whether you have a complicated web of trauma or not. And don’t forget that I’ve been watching you for months. Much longer than ten minutes.”
“Do you offer all your victims a pre-murder therapy session?”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are. What about you? Too good for therapy?”
“I do go to therapy.”
I glance at her in surprise. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“And what does your therapist have to say about your… murderous tendencies?”
She clears her throat. “We all have vices.”
“Yes, we do,” I say before turning on the radio and ending the conversation.
Twenty minutes later, I’m parking the Jeep at the end of a long line of bikes in the clubhouse’s front yard.
“Looks like everyone is here,” I say, counting sixteen total bikes. Before jumping out of the Jeep, I look at June. To my surprise, she looks genuinely nervous, biting at a hangnail on her thumb.
Realizing I’m looking at her, she pulls her hand away and fills her expression with fake, but admittedly believable, confidence.
I smile. “Time to officially meet your new family, little reaper.”