Bear (Hell’s Reapers #1)

Chapter 1

brOOKE

Walking down a semi-busy road, I’m heading toward the only garage hiring in Austin, Nevada.

I saw a couple of flyers saying they needed a mechanic fast, and I desperately need the money to get an apartment and start a fresh life here.

I came to this town with twenty dollars in my pocket and the clothes on my back.

I didn’t want to bring anything from my past here, so I left everything with my sister.

My sister always wanted what I had, and I just decided that she could keep it all.

I’ve always been the saver, and she the spender, so I had a couple of things that were expensive, and she had a lot of cheap things.

Let her do what she wants with my stuff.

It was hard not to bring anything, but it was for the best.

Start a fresh life here, and hopefully no one from my past will find me; that’s what I hope, at least

The closer I get to the garage, the more motorcycles I see. When I see that they’re all Harleys, I smile. I really hope that this garage will hire me. I love working with Harleys, but will honestly work on anything as long as it pays.

I look over the garage and see that it is almost two different places.

There is what looks like the main house, which is three stories tall, and on the other side, there is another house with big double doors.

I am guessing the other building is where the garage is, and it looks like it is attached to the main house.

Some of the bikes have riders on them. A lot of the bikes look the same, and I wonder how they know which bikes are theirs. Probably from the license plate, but what if you didn’t have yours memorized? That person could take someone else’s bike and not realize it. I would be that person.

The closer I get to the front door, the more I can feel all of their eyes on me. If I were them, I would look, too. I am wearing black jeans with a long-sleeved gray shirt, gloves, a hat, and a scarf around my neck and part of my face.

My brunette hair is visible, and my eyes are peeking from underneath the hat, but not much else. I look like a troublemaker, someone mysterious with bad intentions, but that’s not me. I just want a job so I can earn money and find a place to stay.

I start to fidget when two muscular men walk toward me. They ooze confidence, strutting in my direction, something I am lacking right now. Their biceps are as big as my thighs, and they could easily kill me if they wanted to.

I falter in my steps and look around. All eyes are on us, and it dawns on me that everyone here is huge, and I am just this small woman who can’t defend herself against any of them. They could make me disappear if they wanted to, and no one would know I had gone missing.

“What are you doing here?” one of them asks with a deep voice.

I shrink back a little before I pull my hand out of my pocket. Before I can so much as blink, dozens of guns are aimed at me as I throw both of my arms into the air, clutching a piece of paper.

Before coming to the garage, I took one of their flyers, walked into a store, and asked for a pen. I wrote my name, that I’m mute, and I wanted the job as a mechanic on the back of the flyer.

The guy who spoke walks toward me and rips the paper out of my hand.

Everyone lowers their guns before going back to what they were doing, but I still feel some of them watching me occasionally.

They probably just want to make sure that I am not going to pull something on the two men in front of me.

The man who took the piece of paper looks at me, but I don’t meet his eyes. You never look a man in the eyes. You don’t know if it will set him off, and you don’t want a madman around.

“You here for the mechanic job? A little thing like you?” he asks, letting out a chuckle.

I nod. The guy looks me up and down as he licks his lips.

With unwanted chills running through my body, I take a step back, feeling uncomfortable with his gaze on my body.

He doesn’t know what lies beneath my clothing.

The ugly scars that litter my body. The rough skin that once used to be soft and silky.

“Stop looking at her and take her to Pres. He’s in his office,” the other guy barks, breaking the guy’s stare.

The guy who was glaring at me lets out a sigh before turning around. “Follow me.”

He starts to walk toward the house, and I trail after him. With every step I take, more eyes follow us. I don’t see any girls hanging around this place, and that only serves to make me more uncomfortable.

Am I going to be the only girl who works here?

I just want to run away, but I really need the job, and I don’t want to work at a diner.

The only other place hiring in this small town, besides the mechanic’s job, was a diner that needs a waitress.

You have to talk to be a waitress. Something I can’t do.

“You new around here? I ain’t ever seen you before,” he asks me over his shoulder.

I wait for him to turn around before nodding, but he didn’t turn around for me to answer him.

He read the paper and knows that I don’t speak, yet he acts like I do.

He probably already knows that I’m new around here.

It is a small town, and I bet everyone knows everyone, and they’d recognize a new face.

He leads me through hallways filled with doors to rooms full of men, all of them looking at me. I feel like they have never had a girl in here with how they are looking at me. The hunger in their eyes as we walk by them. Their eyes roam my body like they’re undressing me.

The guy walks up to a door at the end of the hallway and knocks. I hear a faint “come in” before he opens the door. Sitting behind a desk is this burly man, I’m guessing he is the Pres they referenced earlier.

I take a step back when he looks straight at me. I avert my gaze, attempting to avoid eye contact. He is slightly bigger than the man who brought me to his office.

I bring my hand up and adjust my scarf. The burly man makes me feel like he can see right through it, and I don’t like it. His gaze makes my skin crawl, and I fight the urge to itch it. The man behind the desk turns to the guy who took me here.

“Pres.” The guy bobs his head once.

“Stitch,” Pres says. He turns to me and looks up and down my body. “What are you doing here, princess? Are you lost? Do you need directions?”

I look over at Stitch. He still has the flyer with my information on it. After walking over to the president, Stitch hands him the flyer. With eyes still gazing at me, the burly man reads the flyer and looks up at me with a stone-cold face.

“Sit,” he instructs.

With my thoughts racing a mile per minute, wondering if the president will give me the job, I hesitantly walk toward the chair in front of his desk and do as I’m told.

The scowl on his face gives me the impression that he’s not happy.

All I can do is pray and hope that he is just putting up a facade and will be happy to let me have this job.

“So, you want this job?” He leans back in his chair, looking even more intimidating than he was before.

I nod, and at this moment, I wish so badly that I could explain myself. If I could talk, I wouldn’t be in this situation, but I was dealt this hand, and I have to play it.

The psychologist told me that I have traumatic mutism and will speak when I feel safe and comfortable again. It will be like a switch is flipped in my brain, and I will be able to speak normally again. It’s been over a year since the accident—the last time I spoke.

Right now, I don’t think I am ever going to feel safe again, and I’ve come to terms with the reality that I may never speak again. Sometimes, being mute is nice, but other times it can be a pain in the butt. I find myself missing talking to people and holding a normal conversation.

“How do I know you won’t hurt us? You’re dressed like an assassin, and I don’t know if I can trust you.

Why do you wear all that clothing? Why don’t you take the scarf off?

It is the summer, and I bet you are burning up in those clothes,” the president rapid-fires questions at me, his thoughts carrying him along.

The blood drains from my face. I hate when people bring this up. Why can’t they just leave it alone? I am a tiny person who can’t even defend herself. I couldn’t defend myself back then, and I still can’t. The men in this house could take me down with one hand.

I hold my hand up and pretend to write something, hoping he understands the gesture. With understanding, the president hands me a book and a pen. I flip to a blank page and start writing.

“If I take off my scarf, can I have the job?” I write and hand it back to the president.

I don’t want to take off anything, but if it helps me get the job to show them that I am not a threat, I will. Even if it makes me super uncomfortable. The president reads it before looking up at me.

“It will put me at ease. No one covers up that much without hiding something,” he says, giving me a pointed look.

I shrink back and let out a sigh. I lift my hands, taking a deep breath in before starting to unwrap my scarf from around my neck.

I look to the side, not wanting to see their face when they notice the scars.

When my scarf is completely off, I hear a sharp inhale and someone clears their throat before talking.

“You can put it back on,” the president says.

I quickly wrap it around my neck and look up, not meeting the president’s eyes.

I don’t want to see the pity or make him mad.

I have gotten a lot of sympathy in the last year, and I am sick of it now.

That’s why I had to leave Ohio and come to Nevada.

I look at his shoulder, so he knows I am at least paying attention when he talks.

“Do you have a résumé?” the president asks.