2. Jasper
2
JASPER
Warm air blows out of the air conditioning unit nestled into the corner of bay three inside RGRC, Rosewood Garage and Repair Company. It’s in the center of a trio of auto-focused businesses the Reapers run, on the Reaper compound.
The word compound always scares off out-of-towners, but it’s just an old school way of saying community. Because that’s what the Reapers are. We’re a community within Rosewood, and we have a sort of symbiotic relationship. Mutually beneficial for all.
So we have an excellent group of mechanics at RGRC, plus The Vault and Southern Steel. The Vault is dedicated to restoring classic cars, and Southern Steel is our custom body artwork studio garage. Nova St. James, one of my closest friends, does some of the most coveted auto body artwork in the nation. He’s more selective about his work now that he’s got a family, but he’s still the most talented motherfucker I’ve ever known.
“Goddamnit. It’s fucking hot as balls in here,” Hawke yells.
Outside of Nova, Hawke’s the other person I’m closest to. A thump follows his shout, and I pull out from underneath the hood of the vintage Ford truck to look.
Hawke combs his shoulder-length dark blond hair back into a messy bun at the back of his head, frustration fueling his sharp movements.
Sweat trickles down my back, soaking the worn fabric of my overalls. The heat inside the garage feels like a living entity, pressing down on me with relentless force.
I wipe my brow with the back of my grease-stained hand and squint at Hawke, then the wrench halfway down the workbench that spans the entire back wall, and back to him again.
“You know, if Prez catches you treating his tools like that,” I trail off, leaving the threat hanging.
“It’s my fucking wrench, bro,” he mutters.
I chuckle and reach for my room temperature water bottle next to me. “I don’t think he’ll really give a fuck. Do you?”
Hawke exhales loudly, the heat making my usually carefree friend fucking petulant. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s just so fucking hot in here. Remind me why we can’t open the bay doors again?”
“You know why.” I drain the rest of my water, scrunch up the plastic, and toss it across the room. It hits inside the garbage can with a tinny-sounding thunk.
Because as hot as it is inside this metal box, it’s even hotter outside. And once we open the bay doors, we’ll never be able to get the temperature in here under control. And he knows it as well as I do.
The central air has never worked for long in this garage. Like some kind of fucked-up routine, it’d break, we’d get it fixed, and it would work like a dream for six months or so. Then the cycle started all over again.
Ironically, it’s arctic-cool in the garage’s attached office. Unfortunately, it’s a ten by ten space with a desk, a mini refrigerator, some chairs, and a couch squeezed between two walls. It’s cramped, but it’s not the worst place I’ve ever taken a meal break.
Of course, I could walk across the courtyard to the compound where there’s a fully-stocked kitchen. But the constant hum of noise is overstimulating on the days where the heat frays my nerves.
“Prez said someone’s coming to fix it tomorrow.” I jerk my head toward the giant metal clock in the middle of the wall. “It’s nearly quittin’ time anyway, so just wrap your shit up and let’s get the hell out of here.”
He sends me a droll look over his shoulder. “In other words: stop bitching and get to work?”
I shrug, rolling my shoulders back to ease some of the tension. “You said it, man, not me.”
He scowls with a huff. “Remind me why the fuck we live here then. Because these summers are getting fuckin’ old. It’s too hot to do anything outside unless you have a pool.” He snaps his fingers. “That’s it. I’m gonna bring that to the next meeting. Fuck the AC, we’re gonna get a pool,” he crows. “Imagine a killer pool behind the compound. We have plenty of space.”
“Yeah.” I nod my agreement, feeling a bead of sweat roll down my temple. It’s not a bad idea. Actually, it’s a pretty fucking good one, and I’m not sure why we never brought it up before.
“Nah, dude. Imagine all the girls at the pool. We’d get so many more bunnies, we wouldn’t be able to keep up.” He has a goofy sort of look on his face now, all traces of his earlier frustration gone like they were never there.
Club bunnies have been around for as long as clubs have, but their place in our world is a little different depending on the club and its prez.
When our current prez, Silas St. James, took over the Rosewood Reapers six years ago, he made some big changes. Including nixing the rule about club bunnies needing to fuck every single brother.
Not that I ever participated in that particular Reaper requirement. But I know a lot of the old timers did. Lots of those motherfuckers took advantage of it too. But most of those guys are gone now, dead or otherwise.
I stopped asking questions I didn’t want to know the answers to years ago. Some shit doesn’t need to be wrapped up in a tidy little ribbon, ya know.
Now the bunnies have a choice. They can sleep with whoever the fuck they want, whenever they want to. And the only thing they’re required to do is be respectful of the clubhouse and everyone in it. And in return, they can stay for as long as they want. It’s a pretty good fucking deal if you ask me.
The only thing that will never change is the seemingly widespread belief that fucking a brother or several brothers equals a spot on the back of someone’s bike.
It’s never happened.
That shit is sacred. No matter how straight-laced we are now, giving someone a permanent spot on the back of your bike is akin to proposing.
Silas did a lot of great things for the Reapers since he took over, but cleaning up our clubhouse has to be one of the best things.
That and keeping us on the straight and narrow.
Mostly.
More like we’re on the legal side of shit now, but we’re not afraid to dip our toes over the line if necessary. Like last year when some assholes from another club wanted to incite war by attempting to kidnap Prez’s girl. The club never jumped over that legal line faster in our lives.
“You’re picturing it right now, aren’t you, man? Goddamn, I know I am.” Hawke wistfully sighs.
I wasn’t but now I am. Only it’s not bikini bunnies that come to mind. The image of a pool materializes before my eyes like some kind of mirage. But instead of a horde of bunnies, there’s only one girl that materializes.
Long hair, dark as midnight that sparkles like blackened copper in sunlight. Wearing three tiny black triangles and a smirk that promises she’s gonna make me work for it.
Yeah, I’d be down for a fuckin’ pool if it meant I’d get to see her.
I’m almost embarrassed by the fact that I have to rearrange my dick at just the thought of her in a bikini. Hundreds of willing girls over the years, and yet this asshole only ever genuinely perks up at the mere thought of her.
The one woman who fucking hates me.
I must be some kind of masochist or some shit. Or maybe it’s the chase?
Except I fuckin’ had her, and then I lost her.
A dirty rag hits me in the shoulder, and I glance over to see Hawke grinning like a loon.
“I fuckin’ knew you’d be into it. Hurry up and get your shit done. You gotta sell it to the guys.”
I swipe the rag off the floor, ball it up, and shoot it across the room to the workbench. It lands on top of the pile of rags with a soft thwump.
“Me? It’s your idea, man.”
“Yeah, but you’re the luckiest asshole I know.” He slides his gaze to the rag that now lies crumpled on the workbench, like it equals luck instead of good ol’ fashioned practice.
There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes that I’ve come to realize means he’s about to say something out of pocket too. Sometimes it’s a wager that ends with one of us buying a round for the entire bar and other times it means cliff-jumping into the lake.
“And then you’re gonna take it to the prez.”
And there it is. A laugh stutters out of me.
“I don’t know why you’re so afraid of him.”
Hawke takes a step back, his weight shifting to his back foot. “I’m not afraid . I just think he’s a scary motherfucker.”
Amusement bubbles up inside my chest and I shake my head. “Nah, he’s just a man.”
“With all the respect in the world, bro, you’re wrong. He’s a man with a wife and two kids. One of which is a fuckin’ baby —and his woman was at the center of some fucked-up shit last year. He’s not a man. He’s a fucking . . . bear or tiger or some shit,” he says, waving his hand around to emphasize something. “Whatever. The point is he’s like a beast now. He may not walk around grumbling at everyone anymore, but that’s only because he’s barely here. He spends most of his time stalking the perimeter of his house like some kind of lion on the prowl.”
“So you haven’t thought about this before or anything,” I muse, turning around to look under the hood of the truck once more.
“Hell yeah I have. That’s how I came up with this brilliant, foolproof plan of mine. Everyone in Rosewood fuckin’ loves you, bro. Ergo, there’s no way the prez will say no,” he says it so simply, like it’s common knowledge.
I pause with my hand on the truck’s engine, my head cocking to the side. “Did you just say ergo ?”
“Yes, asshole. Stop trying to distract me because you know I’m right. After Nova, you’re the most charming Reaper we have. Plus, you’re objectively good-looking. People are more likely to agree with conventionally attractive people because they want to please them.”
Nova is the prez’s younger brother and the mouthpiece for the Reapers. We used to get up to all kinds of shit in the clubhouse or in town.
But now our lives look a little different.
Him, holed up with his family most nights, and me, spending more and more nights at my lake house. With my cat.
If I let myself think about it too hard, I get fucking depressed. I’m not an asshole. I’m ecstatic for Nova. He deserves his woman and happiness and all that sappy stuff.
But it’s a little bit depressing knowing I’ll never have that kind of connection with someone. It’s just not in my DNA.
I shake my head, my hair falling over my forehead as I fiddle with a few more things. “You gotta stop watching all those true crime psychological docuseries, man.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
My phone vibrates on the small metal table next to the truck, saving me from having to answer him. I wipe my right hand along my thigh before I pick up my phone.
Naomi: Hey! I was thinking we do dinner and get to know one another? Your place?
I swipe off the push notification and pocket my phone, leaving the text unanswered for now.
What does one even say to a half-sibling they discovered six months ago?