Reapers' Road Motorcycle Club

Hawk

They should've been back by now. It was stupid to send Blaze and Maverick out together. They're probably shooting the shit somewhere they shouldn't be, stirring up trouble. I walk through the club, squinting through the smoke as I make my way out to the front and look out at the deserted terrain. In the distance, a kick--up of dirt tells me they're on the way back.

"You shouldn't have sent Blaze and Mav out together," Ghost says from behind me, proving why we gave him the nickname. He's always showing up silently, out of nowhere.

"You read my mind," I say back, sitting on one of the only rocking chairs on the makeshift poor that isn't broken. "And they better have a good fuckin' excuse for why they're late."

Ghost stays standing, squinting out in the distance. His hand automatically moves to the gun in his holster, like a dog standing at attention. He can see something I can't, but I'm not too worried about it. It's his job to do the intimidating. Mine is to remain calm while I make my enemies beg for their lives.

"Something's wrong," he says as the crew gets closer. "Blaze ain't driving his bike."

That gets my attention. I lean forward in the chair and watch as they stop at the gate, waiting to be let in. I see Blaze yell something to the guard, who looks back to me and shrugs. What the hell has he done now?

I stand up next to Ghost, at attention and curious. A few of the men are outside on their bikes too, casually watching as the stranger pulls up on Blaze's bike, with Blaze on the back looking calm as ever.

I know before he even says a word that he's brought home a stray. Fucking Blaze. His heart is too big for his own good. He's always making other people's messes his problem and finding a way to fix them.

"You better tell Felix to get a room ready." I sigh heavily to Ghost. "Looks like we've got another mouth to feed."

Ghost just shakes his head and heads back into the club. He'd probably rather stay out here and watch me hand Blaze his ass. But when the guys pull up, I already know I'm not gonna yell at Blaze. Because the person driving his bike is a tiny slip of a woman, and before she even takes off her helmet, I can tell she's in some trouble.

There's blood on her shirt and bruises on her arms. When the helmet does come off, I see the matching black eye. She's not just a stray. She's running from someone. Blaze did exactly what I would have done, and that's why he's second in command.

He hops off the back of his bike and runs straight up to me, a casual smile on his face.

"Don't be mad," he starts, already looking sheepish.

"It's fine." I shrug, not taking my eyes off her.

Her dark brown hair absorbs the heat of the sun, hanging in a loose braid over her shoulder. She's not as slight as I first thought, but she does look like she could stand a good meal or two. And when her eyes meet mine, I'm sucked into a pool of emerald green. For all their striking beauty, though, they're cold and sharp, cutting through me like a switchblade.

"You let her drive?" I ask, finally turning to him. "Did you even ask if she knew how?"

"Sort of." He shrugs again, complete nonchalance as always. "You would've too, Hawk. She was like a wounded animal. I would've done whatever it took to get her out of that hot car."

"Is Mav going back out with the truck?" I ask. If she's running from someone, I'm not giving them the breadcrumbs to find her.

"He's just grabbing the keys now," he says as Mav walks past us, nodding.

"Take it to the back shop," I yell after him. "We don't need the sheriff on our ass."

The last part I mutter mostly to myself.

Everyone in the club knows Red is no real threat to us.  He can't take his head out of his ass long enough to be of any real use in this town. But he's annoying as hell, and the last thing I want is him asking about some broken--down broad.

"Bring her to my office," I tell Blaze. "I need to vet her, at least."

"A hundred bucks and a night patrol says you already got Felix fixing up her room," he chuckles.

The bastard knows me too well, but I give nothing away.

"Five minutes," I say, giving the girl another once over before turning back into the club to wait.

Ivy

I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this. I follow Maverick to an old roadhouse. Blaze holds me loosely around the waist, more respectful than I'd expect from a biker. I can't tell if he's a wolf in sheep's clothing, but I don't trust him either way.

I don't trust anyone as a general rule.

We pull up to a gate, and a guard calls down to Blaze, asking if he's okay. The man eyes me suspiciously, and my stomach turns again. I shouldn't be here. I should be a hundred miles away from Ransom, Texas by now, at least. Instead, I'm right back in the middle of it.

I blame the heat and dehydration for not immediately recognizing Reapers' Road. They're pretty well revered around Ransom. As well revered as any motorcycle club can be. They protect the few businesses that manage to thrive in town. Gambling halls, bars, the seedy underbelly.

Really, Ransom is just one big seedy underbelly, and Reapers' Road runs half of it. The other half.... Well, let's just say Reapers' Road is revered for a reason.

That doesn't change the fact that I don't want to be here. I might as well have painted a huge sign in red letters that said, "Come get me," and ran through the middle of town bare ass naked. Being here makes the target on my head even bigger.

But when we finally pull into the lot and I get off the bike, I'm exhausted. It's heat and thirst and the overwhelming ache that comes from running away from a bad situation. I'd kill for a clean bed. Hell, at this point, I'd sleep on a pool table if I had to.

A man is standing on the porch of the club, and he eyes me, though it's hard to tell what he's thinking as he looks at me. He's tall and broad, with a chiseled jawline. He's not unpleasant to look at, and in another life I'd probably send him a drink at a bar.

In this life, though, I can tell he runs things. He assesses me sharply and turns back into the club. Whatever he says doesn't seem to deter Blaze, though, because he just smiles as he jogs back over to me.

"You've been summoned, Poison Ivy," he says cheerfully.

"When the fuck did I get that nickname?" I ask harshly.

"I thought of it on the way over," he smiles. "And your reaction tells me I've hit pay dirt. If looks could kill!"

"You'd have been dead by now." I smirk sarcastically. "And I don't appreciate being summoned."

"I bet you don't," he laughs. "I bet there isn't much you do like. But if you're gonna stay here, you've got to talk to the prez. Them's the brakes."

"Stay here?" I ask in surprise. "No one said anything about staying."

My instinct is to run, but where the hell would I go? I could steal Blaze's bike, but I probably wouldn't make it past the guarded gate. I have no intention of staying here, but the panic is urging me forward, nonetheless.

"Woah, woah, cowgirl," Blaze laughs again. "Just 'til your car is fixed. Don't worry, I'm under no illusions that this is a long--term deal. Even so, you gotta talk to Hawk."

"Fine," I say, crossing my arms. "Lead the way."

It takes all my self--control not to collapse the moment we're through the door. The air is so cold, and the dark interior is such a respite from the blazing sun. But the contrast is so stark, it takes my eyes a while to adjust. When they do, I see at least a dozen men pretending not to watch me curiously. I glare at them all as I pass, just for good measure.

Blaze leads me back past a bar and a boxing ring, through to a space that almost looks corporate. At the end of the hall is a closed door. It's a tactic I'm familiar with.

He's the president, so naturally, he wants to radiate power and control. A closed door shows that there are barriers to get to him, and his time is a gift, not a right.

Blaze knocks on the door and Hawk must answer, because Blaze pushes it open and ushers me inside.

"I'll leave you to it," he tells me with a wink, before shutting the door behind him.

I'm left alone staring down at the president of Reapers' Road. He's reclining in his chair, feet on the desk, watching me carefully.

"Have a seat." He motions for me to give my name.

"Ivy," I say shortly, sitting in one of the chairs in front of him.

He wants me to be nervous or humbled in his presence. There may have been a version of me that was like that once, but she's long gone now. I sit and eye him with distrust, not breaking his eye contact.

"You've had some trouble," he says, his own gaze flicking down to my shirt, then raking over my arms before landing on my eye.

Goddamn it. I knew it was bruised. I didn't have time to grab my makeup when I left.

"Nothing for you to worry about." I try to sound tough, but my voice cracks with dryness.

"Would you like a drink?" he asks, almost kindly.

I glare at him. Because as much as I do, desperately, need something to drink, I don't want to look weak in front of him, and I don't understand this nice guy charade he and Blaze have going on.

"I would like to get the hell out of this god--forsaken town," I bite back.

He laughs then. It isn't cold or condescending. It's a pleasant and unexpected sound in a place like this. He sits up, turns around, and grabs something from behind him. When he faces me again, I blink stupidly at the cold bottle of water in his hand.

He places it on his desk, halfway between the two of us, then leans away, like he's showing me he isn't a threat to me.

"No one here wants to hurt you," he says, gesturing at the bottle. "Believe it or not, we just want to get you on your way."

"For how much?" I ask, grabbing the bottle quickly, afraid it might disappear if I don't.

"Nothing in life is free," he says, measuring his words. "You can stay here while we fix your car, but we'll put you to work. Cleaning, cooking, that sort of thing."

"Because I'm a woman?" I snap.

"Because every prospect has to scrub toilets," he smirks. "We don't treat our guests any differently."

"I don't want to be your guest," I bristle. "Or your prospect."

"What other choice do you have?"

He has me there, and he knows it. I fiddle with the bottle for a moment, trying to decide if I trust him enough to take a sip. It could be poisoned. Taking it could be some sort of silent initiation. But, eventually, the thirst gets the better of me, and my hands unscrew the top without my permission.