Lucky (Iron Reapers MC #8)

Chapter 1

ONE

SAVANNAH CROSS

Thursday nights belong to trivia. Not dates. Not errands. Thursdays are sacred, which is why I’m already halfway through my first beer when I slide into our usual booth at Jake’s, shoulder-checking Noah on the way in like physics is a suggestion.

“Move your long legs,” I tell him. “Some of us are fun-sized.”

He snorts, scooting anyway. “Babe, you’re not a Snickers.”

I laugh, loud and easy, the sound spilling out before I can stop it. It still surprises me sometimes how freely it comes now. “No. I’m a Milky Way. Sweet, a little messy, and absolutely worth the calories.”

Eli chokes on his beer. Lena presses her lips together like she’s trying not to smile and failing. Noah just shakes his head.

“I regret knowing you,” Noah says.

“Liar,” I reply, lifting my bottle. “You’d miss me immediately.”

Lena grins and taps the laminated trivia card against the table. “Okay, children. Focus. This is week six. We are not losing again because you two get distracted arguing about height statistics.”

“We lost last week because Noah insisted the answer to everything was ‘The Beatles,’” I say.

“That is a statistically sound strategy,” Noah replies. “They show up everywhere.”

Our team name is already written on the board behind the bar in thick black marker.

QUIZTOPHER NOLAN.

It was my idea. I remain proud. Some people peak in high school. I peak in team names.

The bartender drops off another round before we even ask. That’s how you know you’re regulars. He gives me a look as he sets the beers down.

“Pacing yourself tonight, Savannah?”

I smile sweetly. “Absolutely not.”

He laughs and moves on, and I feel that familiar flicker of comfort settle in. Being known here. Being expected.

The place is loud but not chaotic. TVs along the walls play a basketball game on mute, the crowd noise blending into the hum of conversation. Someone cheers at a screen. Someone else is already arguing with the trivia host about rules like this is a courtroom drama.

And then there’s the other team.

I notice them the same way I always do. Not because they’re new. Not because they’re loud. Because they aren’t.

They’ve been playing all season too. Same nights.

Same back tables. The Iron Reapers take up two tables pushed together near the back, leather cuts worn or draped over chair backs, patches dark and unmistakable.

Beers lined up like they’ve been there a while and plan to stay.

Only a handful of them are actually playing.

The rest stand behind them, watching, heckling, laughing low.

They don’t perform. They don’t need to.

I tell myself I’m not staring. I tell myself I’m just taking inventory of the room like I always do. Old habits don’t die. Still, something in my stomach tightens in a way that has nothing to do with beer and everything to do with awareness.

“Okay,” Lena says, leaning in. “Categories tonight are Movies, Geography, Sports, Music, and a mystery round.”

“That mystery round is going to ruin us,” Eli says.

“I live for chaos,” I say, taking a long pull of my beer. “Bring it on.”

The trivia host taps the mic. “Alright folks, welcome back. Pens ready. Round one.”

I feel the familiar spark light up in my chest. Not competition exactly. Something looser. Joy with structure. A game I know how to play.

The first question flashes on the screen.

“What actor voiced both Mufasa and Darth Vader?”

“That’s James Earl Jones,” I say immediately.

Noah scribbles it down. “Savannah coming in hot.”

“I contain multitudes,” I reply.

From the back of the bar, the Iron Reapers’ table erupts at a different question. Deep laughter. A sharp clap on wood. I glance over before I can stop myself and catch one of them leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the screen like he already knows how this ends.

There’s nothing flashy about him.

That somehow makes it worse.

By question four, I’m leaning forward, elbow on the table, gesturing with my pen like I’m conducting an orchestra. “No, no,” I say as Noah writes something down. “It’s not Brazil. It’s Argentina. Think about the shape.”

“You think about the shape,” he shoots back. “Brazil is right there.”

“I will die on this hill,” I tell him. “And I will be right.”

Lena sighs. “I love you all, but sometimes I wonder how we ever win.”

“We win because Savannah is loud enough to intimidate the answers into being correct,” Eli says.

“Exactly,” I say. “Fear is a powerful motivator.”

By the end of round one, my beer is empty and my voice is already a little hoarse. I don’t care. I’m laughing too hard, leaning into Lena when she makes a face at the screen, high-fiving Noah when we nail a question about obscure NBA team relocations.

“See,” I say, pointing at the TV. “Basketball knowledge is useful.”

“You just like yelling at grown men on screens,” Noah says.

“That is a separate and equally valid hobby.”

When the bartender drops off another round without asking, I raise my brows at him. “Ryan, are you trying to get me drunk?”

He shrugs. “You tip well.”

“Fair.”

By round three, I’m warm. Loose around the edges. My laughter comes faster, louder, less filtered. I’m mid-sip when I feel it. That prickle between my shoulder blades. The unmistakable sensation of being looked at.

I glance over, casual. Just another sweep of the room.

One of the Reapers catches my eye.

He doesn’t stare. Doesn’t grin. He just lifts his beer slightly in acknowledgment.

Then he winks.

It hits low and sudden, heat curling through me before I have time to decide how I feel about it. Annoying. Interesting. Dangerous in a way my body remembers before my brain weighs in.

“Well,” Lena says lightly. “That happened.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, absolutely lying.

The question pops up.

“In what year did the Berlin Wall fall?”

“Eighty-nine,” I say, then pause. “Right?”

“Yes,” Lena says.

“No,” Noah says at the same time. “Eighty-eight.”

I stare at him. “You’re wrong.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” I say, pointing my pen at his chest. “I know it in my bones.”

“You didn’t live through it.”

“Neither did you.”

Eli raises his hands. “I love when you two fight. It’s like watching siblings who actually enjoy each other.”

“Noah,” I say, leaning closer, lowering my voice dramatically. “If you overwrite my answer, I will steal your fries next time we’re here.”

He considers this. Slowly crosses out his answer.

“Power,” Lena mutters.

When the host calls time, I sink back against the booth, laughing, feeling that light, floaty buzz settle in. The good kind. The kind that doesn’t blur the world. Just softens the edges.

This is what my life looks like now. Thursday nights.

Beer. Friends who know me well enough to argue with me and still trust my instincts.

No one watching what I say. No one correcting my tone.

No one asking me to be quieter, smaller, easier.

Two years divorced and back home, finally taking up space without flinching.

I lift my bottle again, clinking it against the others. “To Quiztopher Nolan,” I say.

“To Savannah being right,” Noah adds.

“Always,” I agree.

From the back of the bar, the Iron Reapers laugh again, low and easy, like they’ve been there the whole time. I don’t turn around.

But my body knows exactly where they are.

By the end of the night, I’m buzzed enough that the edges of the room feel soft but my brain is sharp as hell. That’s my sweet spot.

“And in an absolutely shocking turn of events,” the trivia host says into the mic, “we have a tie.”

The bar groans and cheers at the same time.

“Tied for first place,” he continues, grinning like this is his favorite part of the job, “Quiztopher Nolan…”

I fist-pump so hard I almost elbow Noah in the ribs.

“…and The Reaper-cussions.”

The back tables erupt. I twist in my seat despite myself.

Only four of the Iron Reapers are still playing now. The rest stand behind them, beers in hand, heckling freely. The four at the table look focused. Cuts still on. Pens ready. One of them rolls his shoulders like he’s about to step into a fight instead of a trivia question.

“Did they seriously name themselves The Reaper-cussions?” I ask.

“That’s objectively good,” Eli says.

“I hate it,” I reply. “Respectfully.”

One of the bikers laughs loud, tipping his bottle back. Another leans over the table, tapping the trivia sheet with his knuckle like he’s counting beats.

“They look serious,” Lena murmurs.

“Good,” I say, draining the rest of my beer. “So am I.”

The host lifts a hand. “Alright. Sudden death rules. One question. Write your answer. No talking once the question’s up.”

“No talking?” Noah whispers. “Savannah, you’re doomed.”

I lean across the table, eyes bright, heart thudding in a way that feels alive instead of anxious. “I thrive under oppression.”

The room quiets. Even the TVs seem to dim like they know something important is about to happen.

The question flashes onto the screen.

What is the only U.S. state capital without a McDonald’s?

“Oh,” I breathe.

“Oh no,” Noah says.

I don’t hesitate. “Montpelier,” I say, already writing it down.

Noah blinks. “You’re guessing.”

“Am not,” I reply. “I read weird articles.”

“That tracks,” Lena mutters.

Across the room, one of the Reapers leans back, chewing on his pen. Another shakes his head slightly, writing something else. The one at the end pauses, glances up at the ceiling like he’s pulling it from memory.

My heart starts to thud harder. Don’t second-guess. Don’t shrink now.

The host calls time. “Pens down.”

I grip the edge of the table, suddenly very aware of how loud my laugh has been all night, how much space I take up, how much I want this stupid win.

“Quiztopher Nolan,” the host says, “you answered… Montpelier.”

“Yes,” I whisper fiercely.

A few people clap.

“The Reaper-cussions answered…”

There’s a pause. A dramatic one. The bartender leans in like this is the Super Bowl.

“…Montgomery.”

I bark out a laugh. “Idiots.”

Noah gasps. “Savannah.”

“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all.

The host grins. “Which means our winners tonight are… Quiztopher Nolan!”

The bar explodes. I’m on my feet immediately, cheering, throwing my arms around Lena, nearly knocking Eli’s chair over. Noah lifts me an inch off the ground like we just won something real instead of a bar tab and eternal bragging rights.

Across the room, the Reapers react with groans and laughter, good-natured but loud. One of them claps slowly, exaggerated, like he’s impressed despite himself. I catch the movement but don’t look directly.

“Champions!” Noah yells.

I grab my beer and raise it high. “To trivia supremacy!”

“To Quiztopher Nolan!” Lena adds.

“And to Savannah knowing weird facts for no reason,” Eli says.

“Everything I know has a purpose,” I reply, laughing hard enough my cheeks hurt.

Behind me, I hear one of the bikers say, “We’ll get ’em next week.”

Another answers, “Hell yeah.”