Scarlett (Iron Reapers MC: Bloodlines #4)

Prologue

CADE MERCER

Rain is pouring like it wants to drown the whole damn town.

I’m soaked, hoodie clinging to my skin, stomach growling loud enough I’m sure someone can hear it.

Seventeen and already good at being invisible, until I’m not.

I slip into the gas station a few minutes ago, heart hammering while I stuff a couple of sandwiches, a bag of chips, and some beef jerky into my pockets.

The clerk is half-asleep behind the counter.

Easy. I need it. Dad kicked me out two nights ago, and the last thing I ate was half a candy bar I found in an abandoned car.

I’m almost out the door when a big hand grabs the back of my hoodie and yanks me back inside. “The fuck you think you’re doing, kid?”

I spin automatically, my fists already coming up, but the punch dies before it starts. The guy standing in front of me is built like a brick wall. Broad shoulders. Thick beard streaked with gray. Hard eyes that look like they've seen every ugly thing the world has to offer and survived it anyway.

Then I see the patch on his cut. Iron Reapers MC. Every muscle in my body locks up. Everybody in Jackson knows the Iron Reapers. Everybody knows Piston Blackstone.

He's the kind of man people lower their voices to talk about. Club royalty. A hard bastard with a reputation that stretches across half the state. The kind of guy grown men think twice about crossing. And right now he's looking straight at me.

He marches me straight to the counter. “Empty your pockets.”

My face burns. Shame and anger twist in my gut. I want to tell him to fuck off, but those sharp eyes pin me harder than his grip. Slowly, I pull out the stolen stuff and drop it on the counter.

“Apologize,” Piston says, voice low and flat.

I stare at the floor, jaw tight. “Sorry,” I mutter. It tastes like dirt.

The clerk looks pissed but nervous with Piston standing there. “I oughta call the cops.”

Piston shakes his head. “He’s just a dumb kid with a shit home life.

Won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it.

” He pulls out his wallet, tosses some cash on the counter to cover what I took, and gives the guy a look that says let it go.

The clerk grumbles but nods and bags up the stuff without calling anyone.

Piston steers me outside. “Get in the truck.”

I hesitate, rain running down my neck. Every instinct screams this is a trap. Guys like him don’t help street rats for free. But the alternative is cops or going back to Dad’s fists and Mom’s needles. I climb in.

“Stay down,” he growls as soon as the door shuts, peeling out as blue lights flash at the end of the block. Someone must’ve still called it in.

My heart is slamming so hard I think it might crack a rib.

The cab smells like motor oil and old leather.

I press against the door, ready to bail at the first red light.

This is it. He saved my ass just to use it.

The words explode out of me. “Look, man… I’m not gonna suck your dick or whatever the fuck you want.

I don’t care how much you pay me. I ain’t doing that shit. ”

Piston doesn’t even look over at first. Then he gives a low, tired laugh. “Kid, I ain’t looking for a blow job. Got a wife I love more than anything, and a daughter of my own.” He glances at me,. “You’re just a scared, hungry seventeen-year-old. That’s all I see right now.”

I stay quiet, still braced, waiting for the other shoe to drop. My hands won’t stop shaking.

Piston keeps driving. “Where’s home, kid?”

I give him a fake address in a nicer part of town, trying to sound normal. “Drop me at the corner. I’m good.”

He drives there without arguing. Ten minutes later we’re rolling through clean streets with big lawns and porch lights. He stops in front of a tidy house, kills the engine, but doesn’t unlock the doors.

“You don’t live here,” he says.

My stomach drops. “What the fuck? This is my stop.”

“Kid, the way you’re talking, the way you’re sitting like you’re about to jump out… you don’t belong here.” His voice is calm, matter-of-fact. “Dad kick you out?”

I stare out at the perfect house that isn’t mine, throat tight. I don’t answer. Can’t. The shame burns worse than the hunger.

Piston sighs and starts the truck again. “Alright. We’re not doing this tonight.” He heads back toward the rougher side of town.

“Name’s Piston,” he says after a while. “You got a real name?”

“Cade,” I mutter.

“Cade.” He nods. “Hungry?”

Starving. But I shrug like it doesn’t matter. “Don’t need your charity.”

“Wasn’t offering charity. My old lady made chili. She ain’t the best cook, but it won’t poison you. You eat, then we figure shit out. Ain’t leaving you on the street tonight.”

Eventually the truck pulls into a normal driveway in front of a solid two-story house, nothing fancy, but warm lights in the windows and bikes parked under a carport. My chest feels weird, tight and fluttery. I don’t trust it. Kindness always has a price.

We walk in and the smell of chili hits me, spicy and real. A woman with kind eyes and her hair in a messy bun turns from the stove.

“Jenny, this is Cade,” Piston says, his hand landing heavy but not mean on my shoulder. “He’s eating with us tonight.”

Jenny smiles like random half-drowned kids show up all the time. “Hey, Cade. Nice to meet you. Bathroom’s down the hall if you want to clean up. Dinner’s just about ready.”

I nod, feeling out of place as hell, and go to wash up.

The bathroom is clean, real soap, and warm water.

I scrub the dirt off my face and hands, avoiding my own eyes in the mirror too long.

Bruises, hollow cheeks. I look like exactly what I am: a fuck-up with nowhere to go.

Part of me wants to climb out the window and run.

The other part is too tired and hungry to move.

When I come back out I just stand in the living room, arms hanging awkward, not sure if I should sit or stand or disappear.

That’s when a little girl, maybe eight or nine years old with long wild hair and Piston’s sharp eyes, comes running in from the hallway.

“Daddy!” she screams, launching herself at him.

Piston catches her easy, scooping her up into a tight hug that lifts her feet off the floor. He laughs low and presses a kiss to her head, looking softer than I ever expected from a guy like him.

He turns her toward me, still holding her. “Scarlett, this is Cade. He’s having dinner with us. Cade, meet my daughter, Scarlett.”

She peeks at me over his shoulder, curious. “Hi,” she says shyly, then hides her face in his neck again.

“Hey,” I manage, my voice rough. Seeing that — big tough biker hugging his little girl — hits something deep in my chest. Jealousy. Longing. A raw ache for something I’ve never had.

Piston sets her down but keeps a hand on her shoulder. “C’mon, kid. Let’s eat.”

We sit around the kitchen table, the four of us.

I keep my hands in my lap at first, feeling huge and clumsy next to them.

Jenny ladles chili into bowls, steaming, thick with beans and meat.

It smells better than anything I can remember.

Piston slides a bowl in front of me with a chunk of cornbread on the side.

Scarlett starts jabbering the second her spoon hits the bowl, talking a mile a minute about some unimportant kid stuff — how her teacher wore mismatched socks today, how the playground slide is still wet from the rain, how she wants a new bike with purple streamers. Normal little-kid nonsense.

But Jenny and Piston listen like she’s telling them the secrets of the universe.

Jenny leans in, smiling wide, asking questions and laughing at the right parts.

“That sounds like Mrs. Harper alright. Did you tell her about your socks last week?” Piston nods along, one arm resting on the back of Scarlett’s chair, eyes soft on her like she’s the center of his whole damn world.

“Purple streamers, huh? We’ll see what we can do, princess. ”

I eat slowly, the chili warm and filling in a way that makes my throat tight. They aren’t faking it. This is real for them. A real family. A real dad who doesn’t swing fists. A mom who isn’t checked out on drugs. A little girl who gets to be a kid without worrying about getting hit or forgotten.

It makes my chest hurt in a way I can’t explain. Part of me wants to hate them for it. The rest of me just wants to stay in this warm kitchen a little longer and pretend I belong.

As Scarlett keeps talking and her parents keep listening like she hung the moon, I wonder if this is all a setup… or maybe the first time in my shitty life someone isn’t about to kick me in the teeth.