Blade (Iron Reapers MC #6)

Chapter 1

ONE

LOGAN “BLADE” JAMESON

Ten years ago

My gut twists the moment I see her storming across the parking lot toward the clubhouse, headlights slicing through the night behind her.

Tessa’s got that determined look on her face, the one she gets when she's ready for a fight, and the second she spots me leaning against the brick wall, her eyes narrow into dangerous slits.

“Ah shit,” I mutter under my breath, flicking the toothpick I've chewed down to splinters onto the cracked pavement. Rev chuckles from beside me, raising an eyebrow as he watches Tessa close in. “Trouble in paradise, brother?”

“Shut the fuck up,” I grumble, pushing off the wall. He laughs harder, slapping my shoulder as he heads back inside, leaving me to deal with the storm coming straight at me.

She stops inches from my chest, lifting her chin to glare at me, hair wild from the wind and jaw set tight.

“You’ve been ignoring my calls,” she accuses, her voice sharp enough to slice right through me.

“Been busy,” I answer, keeping my voice cool, distant. It’s easier that way. I know what she wants, what she's been asking for, more than just late nights, tangled sheets, and casual words. But I don’t have it in me to offer her anything real. Real gets messy. Real gets dangerous.

Her hands clench into fists by her sides. “You’re always busy. You always have time for the club, but never me.”

“Tessa, ”

“Don’t.” She holds up a hand, stopping me cold. Her voice wavers just enough to make something inside my chest tighten. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I told myself I wouldn’t chase you, but goddammit, Blade, you make it impossible.”

I scrub a hand over my jaw, frustration burning hot in my veins. “Look, now’s not the time for this shit.”

“When is the time?” she challenges. “When it’s convenient for you?”

Before I can respond, the clubhouse door swings open. Mason steps out, urgency etched into every line of his face.

“Blade,” he calls sharply. “Let’s roll.”

“Give me a sec,” I tell him, but Mason shakes his head, eyes cold as steel.

“Not a request, brother. We need you now.”

Tessa glares at him, clearly not giving a damn about protocol or the patch on Mason’s chest. “We’re talking.”

Mason levels her with a stern look, then flicks his eyes back to me. “Now, Blade. This can't wait.”

Tension crawls up my spine. I know that look from Mason, and it never means good news. I reach out, grabbing Tessa’s elbow gently, pulling her closer so only she hears me.

“You need to go home.”

She jerks her arm away, defiant. “Don’t brush me off.”

I grind my teeth, irritation and worry clawing at my chest. “I’m serious, Tess. Go home, lock your doors, and stay the hell inside.”

“Blade, ”

“Dammit, Tessa, for once can you just listen?” My voice snaps louder than I intend, rough around the edges, desperate. I take a breath, forcing myself to soften my tone. “Shit’s going down. Go home. Now.”

She searches my eyes, something flickering behind hers, hurt, anger, maybe even fear, but she just shakes her head, stepping back.

“Fine,” she whispers. “Whatever.”

She turns sharply, walking back toward her car, heels crunching against gravel.

A heavy feeling sinks into my gut. I want to follow her, grab her, tell her I’m sorry for being such a stubborn bastard, but Mason’s stare drills into my back, reminding me where my loyalties lie. The club first, always.

Mason grips my shoulder tightly as Tessa slams her car door, the engine roaring to life. “She’ll get over it,” he murmurs, watching her pull away.

The unease won’t leave me. It’s tangled deep in my bones, a raw ache that won’t fade.

Tessa’s taillights blaze red as she slows at the compound gate. My eyes linger, something instinctive tugging at my chest. Just as she turns onto the road, the world shatters.

The explosion splits the air with a deafening roar, flames erupting violently, ripping her car apart. The ground shakes beneath my boots as smoke billows upward, twisted metal raining down in glowing embers.

My heart stops.

“Tessa!” Her name tears from my throat, raw and guttural. Before anyone can stop me, I’m sprinting, boots pounding the pavement as flames consume what's left of her car.

Rev’s voice echoes behind me. “Blade! Wait, ”

I don't. Can’t. Heat scorches my face, smoke choking me, but all I see is her shattered windshield, mangled metal, the burning wreckage of everything good I'd ever allowed myself to touch.

Hands grab me from behind, dragging me away as I scream her name again, voice breaking, splintering under the weight of loss.

“No,” I roar, fighting against Rev’s hold. “Tessa!”

But there's no answer, just fire crackling like bitter laughter.

I collapse to my knees, gravel biting into my skin, pain ripping through me so deep I can't breathe.

I failed her. The realization hits me hard, cruel and undeniable.

This is why I never gave her more. This is what I was afraid of, what I knew would happen if I let her in.

Mason’s voice is grim, quiet behind me. “Get him up. We need to handle this.”

But nothing he says matters. All I hear is the silence where Tessa should be. I know the truth, someone like me doesn’t get to love. My world isn’t made for it and it never will be.

Church’s loud tonight. The kind of loud that usually sets me at ease. The chapel room’s filled with boots on concrete, laughter bouncing off the walls, and a whole lot of attitude that only comes when the club’s comfortable and the week hasn’t gone to complete shit yet.

I sit near the end of the table, beer sweating in my hand, but I’m not drinking it. I keep staring at the wood grain like it’s trying to tell me something.

“Earth to Blade.” Rev elbows me in the side, grinning. “Where the fuck’d you go?”

I grunt, barely lifting my eyes. “Nowhere good.”

Rev laughs because he knows exactly what that means. Ten years. Same night every damn year. I don’t need a calendar to know when it’s coming. My memories make sure of that.

Mason sits at the head of the table, calm as always.

The man could be running a war or a church bake sale and his face wouldn’t give away a thing.

Dagger’s to his right, built to take a door off its hinges with his shoulder.

Next to him is Piston, cracking up at something Tank said.

Tank’s our Sergeant-at-Arms. Quiet. Steady.

Willing to ruin lives if he has to. Mason’s left side is Switch, our Road Captain, the guy who spends more time thinking about routes and risk than eating.

And then there’s Rev, our Secretary, trying not to look as amused by everything as he always is.

Me? I’m the Tail Gunner. Last bike in the line. First one to take the hit if shit goes sideways. I’m good at watching the club’s back because I never expect anyone to watch mine.

Church moves fast. Routes. Business. Money. Boring administrative shit layered over the threat of violence like a pretty tablecloth. It’s muscle memory at this point.

Mason wraps the meeting and half the guys head home. Rev and I stick around because Mason wants bodies at Perdition tonight. Something about keeping eyes open. Checking the temperature of the town. Whatever.

We take the back way into Perdition, the bar vibrating with music the second we walk in.

The place feels alive, full of leather and smoke and bodies pressed too close.

Rev heads straight for the bar like the whiskey is calling his name.

I follow because right now I don’t trust myself to go anywhere else.

Rev nods once, sliding his empty glass toward Kimber.

She moves toward us, her stride steady and matter-of-fact.

Kimber’s pushing fifty, a hardened hangaround who planted roots in Perdition years back and never bothered leaving.

Ink wraps up her arms like barbed wire, heavy makeup doing its best to mask the years spent living rough.

Her voice is gravel and smoke, clothes chosen for comfort more than appeal.

She doesn't flirt, doesn't saunter, just pours drinks and calls bullshit like it is.

“Another round, boys?” she rasps, already grabbing the bottle without waiting for an answer.

“Keep ’em coming,” Rev says.

She eyes me with a look that sees through my shit as she pours heavy-handed. “Drinking to forget ain't exactly working for you.”

I meet her eyes, haunted, tired. “Ain’t drinking to forget. Drinking to live with it.”

She nods slowly, pouring a little extra before moving away.

Rev downs his fresh glass in a single swallow, eyes glossy from liquor. “You ever think about moving past it? Finding something new?”

I shoot him a bitter glance, whiskey burning a hole straight through me. “Everything I touch turns to shit, Rev. Learned that the hard way. Someone new ain’t in the cards.”

The room spins a little as my blood runs hot from whiskey, memories bleeding through the cracks of my self-control. I shove away from the bar, feeling unsteady, world tilting beneath my boots.

Rev glances up sharply. “You good?”

“Gotta piss,” I mutter, stumbling toward the back hall, past the thud of heavy bass, leather jackets, and hazy smoke. I shove through the bathroom door, splashing cold water on my face once I'm done, trying to clear my head. It doesn't help for shit.

When I push back out into the crowded main room, noise and chaos slam into me hard. My vision blurs for just a second, then narrows dangerously when a flash of dark curls catches my attention.

Across the bar, a woman stands with her back to me, curves wrapped tight in denim and leather.

A man next to her has one hand gripping her waist, the other sliding lower.

She’s trying to twist away, clearly not into it, and something inside me snaps like a fucking tripwire.

My pulse pounds violently. All I see is Bri.

I'm moving before I can think straight, whiskey and rage pushing me through the crowd. “Get your fucking hands off of her,” I growl, grabbing the asshole’s shoulder and spinning him around.

I punch him in the jaw, feeling the crack in my knuckles as he drops, hitting the floor hard with a grunt.

The woman spins, eyes wide in shock and fear, and my gut drops like a stone. She’s not Bri.

“Jesus!” she shrieks, stumbling back into the bar, knocking over a couple stools. “What the hell is your problem?”

Fuck. I step back immediately, adrenaline turning sour. “I thought you were someone else.”

She glares daggers at me, chest heaving, eyes wild with anger and panic. “You crazy asshole!”

Rev’s there suddenly, hand gripping my shoulder, pulling me backward. “Blade, what the fuck?”

“Thought it was Bri,” I mutter again, stunned, guilt clawing at my insides. “Fucking hell.”

Kimber leans across the bar, assessing the chaos with cool indifference. “Trouble again, Blade? Damn, honey. You need glasses or a leash.”

Rev shoves me toward our seats, voice low and tight. “Sit your drunk ass down.”

I collapse onto the barstool, my heartbeat racing in my ears. My hands tremble slightly, blood smeared across busted knuckles. I reach for my glass, gripping it hard, trying to anchor myself back in reality.

Kimber tosses a rag onto the bar in front of me, shaking her head. “Blade, you need to clean your shit up.”

I wipe my knuckles absently, barely feeling the sting. The room returns to normal, music filling the silence, crowd murmuring their way back into the rhythm of the night. My breathing slows, but my mind’s still a fucked up mess.

Rev watches me warily. “You’re losing your grip, brother.”

I glance at him and laugh bitterly. “Never had it to begin with.”

Kimber refills my whiskey silently, giving me a dark look. I toss it back, desperate for numbness.

Rev sighs, signaling Kimber to leave the bottle. “Guess we’re getting fucked up tonight.”

“Guess so.”

We drink in silence, the ghosts crowding closer. I let them in, too tired to keep them out. Ten years, and I’m still running from a past that never lets go.