Reaper (Hell's Jury MC Book 4)

1. Chapter 1

I’m slouching against the exterior brick wall of Hook’s, a strip joint in Reno that belongs to Hell’s Jury, my one-percenter motorcycle club. Hook’s is popular, not only for the class of strippers we hire, but also because it’s a borderline night club. Nothing seedy about it except the occasional hook-up in the toilets.

My knee’s bent, my foot propped against the rough brickwork. It’s after midnight, mid-September, and hot as fresh dog shit. The scent of marijuana, garbage, and piss waft from the alley a building over, but I ignore it. It’s like my club brother, Jawbone, who never shuts the fuck up. The stink is so incessant it barely registers.

I take a long drag of my cigarette then flick it to the pavement. Tension has me restless and I think of lighting up again. I don’t really smoke. The cigarette is a prop to give me a reason to be outside, meant to make me seem relaxed and harmless. My brothers think I’m chill, but they know that I’m always on guard. I do relax sometimes, but I’m never harmless and it’s gratifying that only the very stupid think otherwise.

I catch a glimpse of my person of interest strolling down the walkway of the club at the same time a chick comes out Hook’s door. Big hoop earrings, hot pants, boots to the knees, little tank and leather jacket that don’t quite hide the goods. The girl on the other hand….

Yeah, I’m a laugh a minute.

Club girl stops for a moment and glances around like she’s looking for someone, then her big brown eyes settle on me.

She holds my gaze as she beelines towards me. Fuck, not the time, little girl.

“Move on,” I mutter to her when she’s within hearing range. Any other time, I might’ve been interested in what she was about, but I have things to do and, if I’m being honest, hook-ups aren’t really my thing.

She doesn’t move on. Instead, she stops directly in front of me, her hands on her hips, her neck bent so she can see into my face. She’s a short one, nice curves, straight long glossy charcoal black hair that hangs mid-way down her back. Mexican, I guess, and fiery too, if the pursed lips and blazing eyes are any indication.

“I gotta talk to you,” she says.

Irritated, I stare over her head like she isn’t there, my eyes focused on the mark who is now exchanging a little baggie of the white stuff for a couple of browns. I recognize the buyer. A regular at the club. That pisses me off. An asshole buying drugs from a dealer who isn’t sanctioned to be selling in the area. Time to knock a few heads.

I push off the wall and start toward my quarry when little Miss Bad-timing blocks my way.

I shoot her a glare. “You got a death wish?”

Appears she does. “I gotta talk to you.”

As if stating it twice will get my attention. “I’m busy,” I snarl. “Get the fuck outta my way.”

She doesn’t budge.

I don’t generally manhandle women, but this one is tempting me. “Leave,” I say in a voice that makes grown men shit their pants.

She holds her ground. “I’m not leaving until we talk, so quit being an asshole.”

I scowl at her. “We know each other?” I wish like fuck Hook’s bouncers were with me to solve the problem, but I left them inside. I wanted to go it alone tonight, crack a head or two, release some tension. It’s been a fucking long week and it’s only Monday.

She shakes her head. “We don’t.”

“Didn’t think so. You wanna talk to me, learn a little respect.”

I seek out my marks, but they’re long gone. I have no idea who the dealer is, not a Blackbeard that’s for sure. Anyone from the Jury’s rival bike club would show up in full regalia. Whoever he is, the bloody fool is going to get dead fast if he keeps dealing on Jury turf. The buyer will be easier to track, and the disloyal prick will have a few less teeth by the time I get through with him.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, then shove my way past the chick and head towards the door.

“Hey!”

I pause and turn back to the crazy bitch who’s yelling at me like she’s suicidal. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” I raise my voice enough that she can hear me, but the few smokers milling around won’t.

She steps up to me, gets in my space. “You’re the capo supremo, are you not? The big guy behind the protection racket you got running in Sagebrush?”

Capo supremo? Does she think she’s in Italy? I assess her from her toes to the top of her head – it doesn’t take long. She’s too fucking short and curvy to be a cop. “I’m a legitimate club owner.” I motion toward Hook’s with my hand.

Apparently, this holds no water. “From what I’ve heard, you’re a Jack-of-all-trades.”

What the fuck is she going on about? “You’re wasting my time. What d’you want?”

“My pop pays you protection. I need some.”

I laugh sardonically. “You don’t get to your point real quick, you’re gonna need protection all right.”

“My pop is Paul Belmonte. He runs the Italian Bakery in Sagebrush.”

Italian Bakery? “Which one?”

“How many Paul Belmontes are paying you protection?” Not really a question. Her smart mouth is grating on my nerves.

“Which one?” I add a razor-sharp edge to my words.

“Belmonte’s, like my pop’s name.” She says it slowly like I’m an idiot.

I know it. “Not a bakery.” It’s splitting hairs, but Belmonte’s has the best calzones I’ve ever eaten.

“It’s a bakery,” she insists. “I should know.”

“Serves coffee and calzones.” I pause. Sandwiches too. Muffulettas like you get in New Orleans. I’m right. Still, by the set to her chin, she’s not gonna admit it.

She swipes at her nose like she’s getting fed up with me. “Where do you think calzones come from? The Mario Brothers?”

“I did think that,” I reply in a dead voice.

She opens her mouth, closes it, then narrows her eyes. “Funny man. Doesn’t change the fact that my pops pays you protection and I need some.”

Paul Belmonte has his act together, always pays on time, understands the ways. Unlike his daughter who’s eyeing me like I’m shit on her shoe.

“Paulie send you down here?” I add a threatening growl to my voice.

She shakes her head but doesn’t back off. “He doesn’t know I’m here and I don’t want him to. His ticker’s not so great these days and he’s got enough to worry about what with making a go of the bakery.”

“He need to borrow money?” I’m toying with her. Her pop knows better than to borrow money from the Jury. Smarter than average.

“No,” she says stamping her right foot. “I already said, he doesn’t know I’m here.”

Two middle-aged women dressed and made-up like they’re trying to pass for 20-somethings step out the side door and give me an appreciative glance. One smiles at me as she lights a cigarette. I don’t smile back.

I return my attention to the annoying little Latina. Or maybe she’s Italian. Must be Italian because her dad is. “How about we go inside, get a drink. I’ll even buy.” It’s more to avoid the women who are taking more than a passing interest in me than my desire to spend any more time with short stuff.

She checks out the women I’m looking at. “You own the place. You don’t gotta buy.” Her eyes narrow and I have this sense she doesn’t like them, or maybe anyone.

“Sure, I do. Everything costs, even protection.”

I turn my back and head to the door, not checking to see if she’s following. Don’t have to. She’s wearing an overpowering vanilla scent and I suppose I should appreciate it, because it’s like an early warning system. Next time, I’ll know she’s coming in enough time to duck and cover.