Doc (Dixie Reapers MC #25)

Chapter One

Nova

My little Honda looked pathetic among the gleaming motorcycles, like a child who’d accidentally wandered into an adult party.

I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, as I scanned the Dixie Reapers clubhouse.

Uncle Bats had always warned me to stay away from this place, from his world.

But Uncle Bats was dead, and I needed answers that only his brothers might have.

The folder and notebook on my passenger seat contained everything I had left of my mother -- her research notes, newspaper clippings, and a lifetime of suspicions that had probably gotten her killed. I picked them up, clutching them to my chest like armor.

“You can do this, Nova,” I whispered to myself. “For Mom and Dad.”

I took three deep breaths, counting each one the way my therapist had taught me after the accident. Except it wasn’t an accident. I knew it wasn’t, no matter what the police report said.

Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the parking lot. Men in leather cuts moved between motorcycles, their laughter and conversations a low rumble that stopped abruptly when they noticed my car. I felt their gazes on me, assessing, suspicious.

Uncle Bats had kept me a secret from them, and while I knew of the Dixie Reapers, I’d never been allowed to meet them. Now I was about to shatter that barrier. The thought sent a tremor through my hands, but I shoved the fear down deep where it couldn’t reach my face.

I stepped out of the car, my sensible flats crunching on the gravel. Five feet tall in my best shoes, I’d never felt smaller than I did walking toward that building. The folder and notebook clutched to my chest were my only shield against their stares.

“Hey, darlin’, you lost?” called one man, his tone somewhere between amused and suspicious. Tattoos covered his arms and disappeared beneath the leather vest emblazoned with the Dixie Reapers patch.

I kept walking, eyes forward, spine straight the way my mother had taught me. “Look them in the eye, Nova,” she’d say. “Don’t let them think you’re afraid, even when you are.”

The surrounding conversations died one by one, replaced by silence and the weight of two dozen stares.

I could feel them taking in my brown hair, my hazel eyes, my five-foot-nothing frame that had never intimidated anyone.

I probably looked like a strong wind could blow me over, but they didn’t know about the steel underneath.

They didn’t know I was Mary-Jane’s daughter.

The clubhouse door loomed ahead, guarded by a mountain of a man with a graying beard and hands the size of dinner plates. His cut identified him as a full member, not just a hang-around. He stepped directly into my path, forcing me to stop or walk straight into his chest.

“Clubhouse is members only, sweetheart,” he said, voice like gravel. “Whatever you’re selling, we ain’t buying.”

Tiling my chin up, I met his gaze. “I’m not selling anything. I need to speak with whoever’s in charge.”

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “That so? And what business would a little thing like you have with the Dixie Reapers?”

The men behind me had moved closer, forming a loose semicircle. I could feel them at my back, curiosity and suspicion rolling off them in waves.

“My name is Nova Treemont. I’m Bats’ niece.”

The effect was immediate. The doorman’s expression shifted from dismissive to shocked in an instant. A murmur rippled through the men behind me.

“Bullshit,” someone whispered.

“Bats never had family,” said another.

“He had a sister,” another voice said.

The doorman’s eyes narrowed, searching my face. “Bats never mentioned no niece.”

“He wouldn’t have.” I met his gaze. “He kept me out of… all this. For protection.” I gestured at the clubhouse with my free hand. “But he’s gone now, and I need help. The kind only the Dixie Reapers can provide.”

The doorman studied me for what felt like an eternity, his gaze moving from my face to the items I clutched and back again. I could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, weighing the possibility I was telling the truth against the risk of letting a stranger into their sanctuary.

“Wait here.” He turned and entered the clubhouse.

I stood rooted to the spot, aware of the bikers still watching me. I could feel the curiosity and hostility aimed my way. I kept my breathing even, pretending I couldn’t feel their stares boring into my back.

The doorman returned a minute later, holding the door open. “Come on,” he said gruffly.

I stepped past him into a world my uncle had spent his life shielding me from. The air was thick with cigarette smoke that clung to the furniture and walls. The smell of beer and whiskey undercut everything, along with something else -- something distinctly male and dangerous.

Pool balls clacked on a table where a game paused mid-shot as players turned to stare. Behind a long bar, bottles gleamed under dim lights. Motorcycle memorabilia covered the walls -- license plates, photos.

It should have felt alien, this place my blood relation had called home. Instead, deep inside me, something whispered recognition. As if some part of me had been waiting to find this place my whole life.

The doorman nudged me forward with a hand that could have wrapped around my entire upper arm. “This way.” He guided me deeper into the clubhouse. “They’re waiting.”

I followed, clutching my mother’s research to my chest, aware that I was crossing a threshold I could never uncross. Behind me, I heard someone say softly, “Mary-Jane’s kid? Jesus Christ.”

They’d known my mother then. At least some of them had, and they’d stayed away all these years. Just as Bats had intended.

The thought steadied me as I walked toward whatever waited ahead. I wasn’t just Nova Treemont anymore. I was Mary-Jane’s daughter, Bats’ niece. And I had questions that needed answering, no matter how dangerous the answers might be.

The back room was darker than the main area. Five men sat around a table, their faces half in shadow, their cuts marking them as the officers of the Dixie Reapers. I stood before them, a girl in jeans and a cardigan, feeling like I was facing a firing squad. But I’d come too far to falter now.

The doorman who’d escorted me in gave a brief nod to the man at the head of the table before stepping back, positioning himself in front of the closed door. Message received: I wasn’t leaving until they decided I could.

“So,” said the man at the head of the table. His neatly trimmed gray beard and dark eyes seemed sharp beneath heavy brows. The patches on his cut read, President -- Savior. “You claim to be Bats’ niece.”

It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “I am Bats’ niece. My mother was Mary-Jane Treemont, his younger sister.”

A muscle in the President’s jaw twitched. “Bats was a brother to us for a long-ass time. Never once mentioned a niece.”

“He was protecting me. Keeping his family separate from… this life.”

One of the other men -- younger, with a Vice President patch -- snorted. “Convenient story, sweetheart. Got any proof?”

I unzipped my bag and pulled out a small photo album, sliding it across the table. “Page three. That’s my mother and uncle at her college graduation.”

I watched as the President flipped to the page, his expression unchanging as he studied the photo of a much younger Bats with his arm around my mother.

“Could be anyone.” The VP’s tone lacked conviction.

“Check the next page,” I said. “That’s from my parents’ wedding. My mother, my father, and uncle.”

The President studied the photo longer this time before passing the album to the man next to him. It made its way around the table, each man taking a moment to examine the proof of a side of Bats they’d never known.

“So you’re his niece.” The President slid the album back across the table. “What do you want from us?”

I took a deep breath and placed my folder on the table. “My parents died several weeks ago in what was ruled a car accident. Their car went off the road. Police said my father lost control.”

“And you don’t believe that.” The VP watched me with narrowed eyes.

“No,” I said firmly. “I don’t. My mother was an investigative journalist. She was working on a story.

” I opened the folder, spreading out newspaper clippings and photocopied notes across the scarred wood.

“She was investigating connections between Magnolia County officials and organized crime. Money laundering, illegal gambling, possibly human trafficking.”

The men exchanged glances, their expressions giving nothing away. I’d honestly expected some sort of reaction, especially since this was happening in their territory. My uncle had always been clear that while he might be an outlaw, some things weren’t tolerated.

“Three days before she died, she called me,” I continued.

“She said she’d found something big. Something that would blow the whole thing wide open.

She wouldn’t tell me details over the phone, said she’d show me everything when they came to visit that weekend.

” My voice cracked slightly. “They never made it.”

I pulled out a copy of the police report, pointing to highlighted sections.

“The accident report says the car was traveling at high speed, that my father lost control. But my father never drove fast. He was cautious, meticulous. And the witness statements are vague. No one actually saw the car go off the road.”

“Accidents happen.” An older member with a gray ponytail watched me intently. “Doesn’t mean someone killed your parents.”

I met his gaze directly. “After the funeral, our house was broken into. Nothing valuable was taken, but my mother’s home office was ransacked. Her computer was gone. All her files.”

That got their attention. The men straightened, exchanging glances that spoke volumes.