14. Chapter 14
Ican’t seem to stop looking at Reaper’s big hands as he picks up the box. Holy hell, his hands are big. Rough. Tanned. Short nails, neatly trimmed and clean. Did I mention the hands? How big they are? And gorgeous. I don’t know why I didn’t notice them before.
If I wasn’t a hand girl before, I am now. I shudder, then look up to see his him watching in bemusement. “I was thinking about your ears,” I improvise. “The lobes are unattached.” Holy, I’m an idiot.
“Is that a problem?” he replies dryly as he shifts the box so he’s holding it under one arm.
Again I’m stunned at the pure maleness of him. Holding the box like it’s full of air, arms big and long enough to carry it one handed. Big hands (okay, I’ll stop mentioning the hands). “No.” I attempt to move my attention back to his face. “Attached lobes are a deal breaker for me.”
I’ll disclose my lie at confession. If I ever go. I’ll probably forget by then.
He grins. “Dodged a bullet, didn’t I?” He jerks his chin towards my locker. “Lock it up. God forbid someone steals your socks.”
He’s got a dry sense of humor that I decide I like. “Are we gonna check out the stuff in the box?” I ask him.
“In the truck.” He glances around. “Who knows who’s looking at us.”
He has a point. We walk through the campus again, past the main building, which has the cafeteria. It makes me think of the chocolate eclairs. Nothing is as good as my pop’s baking, but the eclairs from the cafeteria have a certain something I like. Maybe it’s all the additives. My body tends to crave them when I’m eating too much salad.
Spot greets us with a happy, “Woof!” when we get back to the truck.
Inside, Reaper sets the box on my lap. “Think we should go somewhere else,” he says as he looks around the parking lot. “Less people, so we can see if anyone’s hanging around.”
“Where’d that be?”
He grins. “A church parking lot.”
“You’re funny,” I say, but ironically.
“A laugh a minute,” he replies as he pulls onto the road.
My hands are itching to see if there’s anything in the box besides my stuff and I run my fingers up and down the edges of the flaps.
“Leave it alone,” Reaper orders.
I press my lips together. If it were anyone else telling me what to do in that tone of voice, I’d tell them to jump off a cliff. The problem is around Reaper, I’m a lemming. If he jumped off a cliff, I’d follow him over.
A few minutes later, Reaper pulls into a church parking lot. Baptist, not Catholic and I press my lips together. It’s not that I’m intolerant of other religions, it’s just Baptists… I don’t know. I can’t figure it out.
Reaper picks up on my mood. “What’s wrong?”
I don’t want him to think I’m insane, so I say, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
He gets out of the truck, takes the box and envelops my hand, helping me out. Jesus, I want to jump his bones. I mean really. This time, I’m talking to you, Jesus. If you’re listening, make my life better. Let me have him. Please. Please. Please.
Spot slides out between us and heads for a lamp post and lifts his leg. I get a little satisfaction from his distain of the Baptist parking lot. Or maybe he’s nondenominational.
“We should take that thing to the pound,” Reaper mutters, his eyes roving the streets. He sets the box on the ground and squats next to it. I do too despite the protest in the back of my thighs. I’m not a squatter. Never have been, so I shift to my knees.
He grabs the lid and pops it open and we look inside. “Fuck!” Reaper exclaims as he snaps his head up and assesses our surroundings again.
There’s a plastic-wrapped brick of white powder cushioned by a few of my shirts and a little negligee that I’d be embarrassed for Reaper to see, except it’s not mine. Thanks so much, Tracy, for the parting shot. Like I wasn’t down already.
Reaper mutters another “fuck”, which brings my focus back to the box. He’s right. Fuck. No apologies. Even a Catholic girl knows the package inside the box isn’t a Christmas present.
“Holy,” I whisper.
He grabs the flaps of the box and shoves them together. “Let’s go,” he says grimly as he jerks to his feet.
“Spot,” I yell as I stand.
“Fuck the dog,” Reaper growls as he gives me a shove towards the truck.
Spot seems to know the intensity of the situation, because he races across the parking lot and is in the truck several seconds in front of me.
Before I’ve got my seat belt on, the truck is in motion. Reaper’s face is hard and expressionless. Like a bear’s. No not a bear. A lion’s. Crap, that’s not right either.
I decide it doesn’t matter as my heart thumps hard in my chest. Not desire this time, but unadulterated panic. I think of Reaper’s lifestyle. How well do I really know this guy? Why should I trust him? Maybe Pops was right, but then if he was right, why would he let me go with Reaper? And God, too. The Big Man wouldn’t, would he? I mean, I have my faults, but I don’t drop babies or trip old people. And Spot seems to like Reaper. A lot. And Reaper did rip up my picture of Ryan Gosling, so that kinda means something.
“Where are we going?” I ask grabbing the dashboard as he speeds around a corner.
“Clubhouse.” He glances at me. “Put your seatbelt on.”
I obediently buckle up. “Why?” Silly question, I know but I get a little emotionally needy around Reaper.
“Because if I crash, you won’t go through the windshield.”
A legitimate answer, but not the one I was seeking. “Why your clubhouse?”
I’m relieved when he says, “It’s safe there.”
When we get to the Hell’s Jury clubhouse, we’re stopped at a chain link gate by a guy who looks like he eats nails for lunch.
“Open it,” Reaper commands.
When the guy turns sideways to undo a bolt at the top, I see the word Prospect on the back of his cut. He opens the gate and looks at me with dark inquisitive eyes as we drive through.
The property is big. Surrounded by a chain link fence. I catch a glimpse of a yard on the left side and a couple of smallish buildings, but the rest is hidden from view.
The clubhouse exterior is surrounded by scaffold and several men are hammering on the roof, apparently replacing shingles.
Reaper glances at them suspiciously. “Fuck,” he mutters. “We’re gonna have to fucking talk in the chamber.”
“What’s a chamber?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer as he climbs out of the truck, plucks the box off my lap and waits while I follow him. “Stay!” he barks at Spot, who slides by him and jumps gracefully to the ground.
“Fuckin’ dog,” he mutters.
It’s not as chaotic inside as it is outside. A small lobby opens up into a room so big, the club could host a ball if it were 1798 and the men wore cravats and tailcoats instead of bandanas and cuts. The walls are freshly painted in a neutral beige, the floor is hardwood, and the room is brightly lit.
A bar that could rival the one at the Death and Taxes Pub in Reno is built into a corner. The bar top, which is several feet long, curves at one end. The array of liquor bottles are reflected by the mirror behind them. “It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
There are tables scattered around and low circular couches like booths.
Opposite the bar, is a games room setup. Pool table, dart boards, three huge TVs on the walls, one of them on, the channel set to a baseball game. In a smaller alcove is a couch and two big chairs, another TV, this one on a stand. Gaming equipment sits on top of the coffee table. There’s also a tall round table with chairs pushed up against a corner. Next to it, a tall bookcase is loaded down with books and what appear to be school supplies. “Is that a…”
“Yeah,” Reaper says as he takes me by the arm and hauls me towards the stairs.
I follow him, but my eyes are still wandering to the people inside. A middle-aged man is slumping in one of the booths, talking to a barely dressed girl who looks up at me and scowls. I’m a gold-medalist scowler and she drops her eyes when they meet mine.
There’s a young woman behind the bar. Short, cute, smiley.
By the wall next to the stairs is a partially finished Hell’s Jury logo that matches the one on the back of Reaper’s cut. One of the members is standing by a table, staring at an array of paint and brushes and some sketches. He’s covered in tattoos and his eyes flick from me to the over-thin woman sitting near him. She’s watching him like he’s her air.
The stairs that lead upstairs have new bannisters that match the hardwood on the floor. At the top are several rooms, some without doors, some in drywall stage.
A Hell’s Jury guy sticks his head out of one of them. He’s a big man, huge beard, short dark hair, and intelligent eyes. His eyes flit to me and he raises his brows in surprise.
“Where’s Hangman?” Reaper asks.
“Outside, at a picnic table. Has a headache.” He grins like he’s enjoying the situation.
Reaper doesn’t return the grin. Instead, he does a 180 and drags me back down the stairs and across the room towards two big French doors leading to the yard I glimpsed earlier. My pop’s house, the one I grew up in, had a small, neglected patch of grass in the back, even before my mom died. I’ve only ever lived there and in my apartment, so this back yard makes the little girl in me want to play.
There are two picnic tables and several round patio tables, chairs tucked under them. A set of cushy outdoor furniture under a hard-topped square gazebo creates an intimate alcove for private conversations or coffee in the morning. A gorgeous barbecue pit that even has a brick pizza oven sits near the wall of the clubhouse.
In the far corner of the yard is a barn, a good-sized paddock and two horses. There’s also a playground - swings, monkey bars, slides - and a horseshoe pit. Two dogs bark joyfully at us.
Spot sees them and takes off toward them. They greet each other like they’ve been friends since grade-school.
A huge forty-something man is seated at one of the patio tables. The other chairs are strewn around the ground like he’s thrown them. The only upright one seems to be a white painted hardwood kitchen chair sitting opposite him across the table.
As we approach, he looks up and scowls. I look back at him. He’s like a block of granite. Strong arms strain against his T-shirt, strong thighs against his jeans. He wears his long sandy blond hair in a braid that trails down his back and his beard has spots of grey in it. He’s got tattoos on his hands and up and down his arms. His fingers, also inked, are graced by heavy gold rings. His cut has a badge sewn onto it. This is the President of Hell’s Jury. This very scary man is the godfather of bikers.
“Not you too, you fuckin’ asshole,” are the first words that leave his mouth as Reaper drags me forward.
“Prez, we got a problem. Need to talk about it.”
Prez all but ignores me as he eyes Spot, whose butt is in the air, his front paws planted on the ground, his tail wagging like an electric fan. He’s barking joyfully, sees Hangman and starts to head over. “If that fucking dog comes near me, I’ll eat him.”
Enough said. “Spot! Go away.”
Spot stops, cocks his head as if considering what to do, then turns back to the other dogs.
“Fuck,” Reaper mutters next to me.
“It’s because he likes you best,” I mutter back. “He figures you’ll go easy on him.”
The President of Hell’s Jury moves his gaze to me. “Who’s this?”
It’s clear he doesn’t scare Reaper, who stands like a statue, arms crossed, eyes dead, expression rock hard. “X this is the prez, Hangman. Hangman, X.”
“Hello.” I say.
Steady on, girl. Steady on, Mama whispers. I think she’s a little worried.
“X,” he sneers. “Where the fuck did you get that name?”
“Reaper gave it to me.” I realize that’s kind of cool and throw a grin at Reaper. He doesn’t return it. Back to Hangman, I say, “It’s really Ximena.”
Hangman stretches his back and moves his neck from side to side. “Yhemina?”
“No,” I correct. “Ximina with an X. You have to breathe the first syllable.” I demonstrate.
“Fuck it. I’m not breathin’ anything.”
He pretty much dismisses me as he glares at Reaper. “What the fuck is going on with you? Showing up with a girl and a mutt. Jesus, I’m too old for this shit.”
“It’s a long story, Prez. And a big problem. Don’t think we should be out here where anyone can hear us.”
He stares around with incredulity, his eyes moving to the men on the roof, then to a guy next to one of the outdoor buildings, who’s cutting a piece of wood on some sort of electrical saw. “We can’t even fuckin’ hear ourselves. Sit the fuck down so we can talk.” He turns to me as he waves at the kitchen chair. “Sit, princess.”
I turn to Reaper. “You forgot to tell me what a gentleman he is.”
“X,” Reaper says with an edge.
I tilt my head and give him the dead-fish eye, then march over to an upside-down armless chair that I assume was ejected from the table by the snarly president. I carry it back to the table and plunk it front of Reaper, then march away and pick up a second chair which I set down as far away from Hangman as I can get, which isn’t really all that far, since it is a small round table.
Reaper drops the box on the table, shifts his chair around and straddles it while I sit primly, pulling mine closer to the table and the safety of Reaper. My stomach growls making me wish I had a cheeseburger.