REBECCA
The novelty wore off somewhere around the second drunken fistfight and the third proposition. Now the Black Canyon Reapers’ clubhouse is just another workplace. And a terrible one at that. I've worked in diners, garages, gas stations, and once spent three miserable weeks cleaning motel rooms.
None of them prepared me for tending bar at a biker clubhouse. Not because the work is difficult. But because apparently, grown men lose all common sense the second alcohol enters the equation.
The jukebox in the corner blasts old rock music loud enough to rattle the bottles behind the bar. Pool balls crack together. Laughter erupts near the dart boards. Somebody is arguing about motorcycles. Somebody else is arguing about football. The two conversations sound suspiciously similar.
I wipe down the counter and pretend I'm not counting the minutes. Again. Not because I'm waiting for anyone. Definitely not because a certain blue-eyed pain in my ass is supposed to show up tonight.
I wipe harder, not that it'll do any good. But it stops me from glancing at my phone for the umpteenth time. Still nothing. No new messages from Valentina. No updates from Charly. No breakthroughs.
Just another day in the hunt for Rachel. The thought leaves the same hollow ache in my chest it always does. Four years. Four years of chasing ghosts. Four years of dead ends. Four years of waking up every morning wondering if today will finally be the day I find my sister.
The front door opens, and Alessio Vitali steps inside, rescuing me from my dark thoughts.
A shiver runs through me. The sight of him still does things to me.
His dark hair is slightly windblown from the ride over.
The leather cut hanging over a black t-shirt should look ridiculous on him. It doesn't. Unfortunately.
I still prefer him in one of those expensive suits that probably cost more than most people's houses.
But dark jeans? Dark jeans are definitely working for him.
The man somehow manages to look dangerous standing completely still.
His gaze finds mine immediately. Always.
It's infuriating. And embarrassing. And a little bit thrilling.
Okay. More than a little. One corner of his mouth lifts.
A slow grin curves his lips. Lips I just kissed this morning and would trade my soul right now to kiss again and let them take me out of this hellhole.
Looking at him makes me think about things I absolutely should not be thinking about while serving drinks. I glare. His grin widens. Asshole. He taps the cardboard package tucked beneath one arm. Then winks.
My stomach does an annoying little flip. Oh damn, my clit is throbbing, just from that smile and wink. He's so goddamn cocky and arrogant, it does things to my ovaries nobody should be allowed to. It also seems to turn my brain and legs to mush.
His grin deepens; the smug bastard knows exactly what he's doing.
The door to Razor's office opens—it's really nothing but a filthy backroom—and Razor appears. "About fucking time."
Alessio shrugs. "Traffic."
"You're in the middle of nowhere."
"Exactly."
Razor stares. Alessio stares back. The two men seem to have some kind of silent asshole contest. Eventually Razor snatches the package. "Office."
Alessio winks at me as he passes the bar, and his fingers brush my wrist. Just for a second. Nobody notices. Except me. My pulse immediately misbehaves.
Then he's gone. The office door closes behind him. Leaving me staring after him like an idiot. "Jesus."
I jump. A biker sits at the bar. Greg. One of the few Reapers who doesn't immediately make me want to carry pepper spray. "What?"
The big biker grins. "You've got it bad."
I nearly throw a coaster at him. "I do not."
"Sure."
He takes a pull from his beer. "Whatever helps you sleep."
I busy myself wiping a previously cleaned section of counter. "Need a refill?"
"Need you to stop blushing every time Pretty Boy walks into a room."
I point at him. "You're my least favorite customer."
"Liar."
He slides his empty bottle forward. I grab another. Then point it casually toward the back of the room. "You know, I saw a woman in here the other day."
The reaction is immediate. Greg's grin disappears. "What woman?"
I shrug. "Blonde."
His eyes narrow.
"Pretty."
Now he looks downright uncomfortable. I lean against the counter and say in a conspiratorial voice, "The weird part was her eyes."
His gaze sharpens. "Yeah?"
"The same color as Alessio's."
A heavy silence follows, the kind that tells me I'm onto something.
I smile sweetly, putting up my most innocent pout. "Who is she?"
Greg studies me for several seconds. Trying to decide how much to say.
Eventually he mutters a curse. "What did Alessio tell you?"
I roll my eyes. "Nothing." I deepen the pout. "He didn't believe I saw her."
Greg drains half his beer. He holds out another five, the perks of the bar: cheap beer. Apparently, he's going to need more alcohol for this conversation. Smart man.
"So who is she?" I ask again.
"Bad news."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"Bad. Fucking. News."
The words come out flat. Certain. A chill crawls down my spine. "Helpful."
"I'm serious."
His eyes flick toward Razor's office. Then toward the back hallway. Then back to me. And for the first time since I've known him, I see something close to fear. Not concern. Not annoyance. Fear. "Stay away from her."
My stomach tightens. "Why?"
Greg lowers his voice. "Because every time she shows up," he sucks in a deep breath and takes a long sip of his beer, "people disappear."
The music seems louder suddenly, the laughter, the clink of bottles, but at the same time it fades into the background. I stare at him. Trying to decide if he's exaggerating.
The answer is probably not. "Who is she?"
Greg shakes his head. "Nope."
"Greg—"
"Nope."
"Come on."
"Nope."
I groan. "You're impossible."
"Occupational hazard."
Before I can continue interrogating him, movement catches my eye.
Across the room, Lenny, Alessio's father, slides into a booth.
Alone. Looking older than he did two days ago.
The sight hits me unexpectedly hard. Maybe because now I know.
Now I know what happened to Alessio. Or at least part of it.
The mother who vanished. The father who drank.
The boy who learned nobody was coming. No wonder he became Alessio.
No wonder he trusts nobody. No wonder he looks at the world like it's something to survive instead of enjoy.
Greg follows my gaze. Then sighs. "Looks like Lenny needs a beer."
I grab a bottle. My pulse quickens. Because Greg might know stories. But Lenny? He might know secrets, and he knows the truth.
If there's one thing I know about lonely old men—old people in general, really, as I learned from a three-month stint on staff at a nursing home—it's that they're usually willing to talk.
Especially after a few beers. Especially when someone sits down beside them and pretends to listen.
I smooth down my shirt, pick up the bottle, and head toward the booth.
Time to see what Alessio's father knows.
By the time I reach the booth, Lenny hasn't even looked up. Perfect. Exactly the way I like my sources. Unsuspecting.
I plaster on my brightest smile and slide the beer across the table. "So you're Alessio's father?"
Lenny's gaze drags over me. Slowly. The kind of look that makes my skin crawl. "You're Alessio's squeeze?"
Smooth. Real smooth. I ignore his hateful comment and pull out my sweetest smile. The one customers mistake for genuine. "I like your son."
Lenny snorts. "Yeah. All the little cunnies do."
He takes a long swallow of beer and looks me over again. I have to fight the urge to physically recoil. As hard as I search, I can't find a single thing that reminds me of Alessio. Thank God. Not the eyes. Not the posture. Not the voice. Not the intelligence. Not the quiet danger. Nothing.
It's like somebody took all the worst parts of humanity, stuffed them into a leather vest, and sat them across from me.
"So," I try lightly, "how does a girl keep his attention?"
He leans back on the ripped fake leather bench and points at his cock, "Sit down here, and I'll show you."
I clench my toes in an effort not to recoil and hit him.
Instead, I pretend to be the sweet girl he's mistaking me for.
After a moment, his grin turns crude. "You can't. None of you little cunnies can.
No matter how pretty." His eyes glue to my breasts, and his laugh is ugly.
"No matter how hard they try." His eyes turn mean.
The kind that enjoys making people uncomfortable.
"Since his mama ran off, he doesn't trust any bitch. "
Something sharp twists through my chest. It's uglier than simple anger.
This man right here is the exact poster child of why Alessio became Alessio.
The ice. The walls. The suspicion. The need to control everything around him—all because the people who were supposed to love him first couldn't be trusted to stay.
My father destroyed our family in a single night. One spectacular explosion of violence. Quick. Brutal. Final.
Lenny did the same thing one day at a time. One beer. One cruel comment. One slap. Until a little boy learned the lesson every child should be spared: You're on your own.
Looking at Lenny now, I wonder which is worse. A father who destroys your life in one terrible night? Or a father who spends years teaching you that nobody is coming to save you?
Suddenly I understand Alessio a little better.
The way he watches every exit. The way he checks on me every ten minutes.
The way he stationed half a small army around this bar.
The way he acts like caring is a weakness while caring entirely too much.
It isn't possessiveness. Not entirely. It's fear.
The kind that settles into your bones when the people who were supposed to protect you become the reason you need protecting in the first place.