Текст книги "Reaper's Fall "
Автор книги: Joanna Wylde
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PRAISE FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING REAPERS MOTORCYCLE CLUB SERIES
“Raw emotion and riveting characters, I fell in love from page one!”
–Katy Evans, New York Times bestselling author
“Sex that blisters the imagination, resulting in a thrill ride as raw as it is well written.”
–Publishers Weekly
“Joanna Wylde has a great voice in this genre.”
–USA Today
“Hooked me so hard that I could not put it down.”
–A Bookish Escape
“If you like . . . [a] grittier romance, definitely check this one out.”
–Smexy Books
“I loved this book. It’s raw, gritty, and incredibly sexy . . . Very real and very dangerous, and I couldn’t stop reading. The sexual tension is off the charts . . . Prepare to get seriously hot under the collar. Sexy, dark, realistic, and yet romantic.”
–SeattlePI.com
“This was just the fix I was looking for.”
–The Book Vixen
“Smokin’ hot! . . . I continue to recommend this series as a real peek into a different kind of life.”
–RedHotBooks.com
“The perfect balance of badass alpha hero, feisty kickass heroine, supernova-hot erotic sex scenes, real genuine emotions, and love and brotherhood.”
–SinfullySexyBooks.com
“Raw and intensely erotic.”
–The Book Pushers
Berkley titles by Joanna Wylde
Reapers Motorcycle Club
REAPER’S LEGACY
DEVIL’S GAME
REAPER’S STAND
REAPER’S FALL
Silver Valley
SILVER BASTARD
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2015 by Joanna Wylde.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY® and the “B” design are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
For more information, visit penguin.com.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19180-8
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wylde, Joanna.
Reaper’s fall / Joanna Wylde.—Berkley Trade paperback edition.
pages ; cm.—(Reapers motorcycle club ; 4)
ISBN 978-0-425-28064-5
I. Title.
PS3623.Y544R42 2015
813'.6—dc23
2015025747
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley trade paperback edition / November 2015
Cover art by Tony Mauro.
Cover design by George Long.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For Dawn Dawn and Colleen.
Every writer needs a nurse and a lawyer in her corner, and I got the two most badass ones available.
Thank you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you very much to everyone at Berkley who made this book possible, especially Cindy Hwang. Thanks also to Jessica Brock, the Goddess of Publicity who not only works hard to sell my books, but also gives my online readers’ group fabulous, shiny stickers. They like the stickers. A lot. (I’m also a huge fan of the stickers, but I’m far too cool and fabulous to ever publicly admit that.)
I owe much to Amy Tannenbaum, my incredible agent who I’m fairly certain is secretly a superhero. Someday I’m going to catch her riding a unicorn while wielding a rainbow sword against all who oppose me. (Okay, probably not, but she’s really good about returning my emails and never makes fun of me even when I’m crazy.) Amy, you kick ass. I’m pretty sure you’re already aware of this fact, but it never hurts to repeat it.
My writing friends keep me sane(ish) and I couldn’t do it without you. Thanks to Rebecca Zanetti, Cara Carnes, Kim Jones, Renee Carlino, Katy Evans, and the ever dreadful Kylie Scott. I love all of you except for Kylie, whom I tolerate.
Every day, I’m supported by amazing friends online, including the Sweetbutts, the Junkies (dino-power!), Hang Le, Kandace, Danielle, Lori, the other Lori, Milasy, and Lisa. “Thanks” seems fairly inadequate for all that you’ve given me.
Special thanks to Matt “Boo” Hintz, who taught me all about paint, boards, matte medium, the art world, and Willie G. I’m still fangirling a little that you were willing to talk to me.
Finally, thanks to my long-suffering husband and kids, who still love me despite my writing career. I’m not sure how you put up with me, but it’s much appreciated.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Thank you so much for giving my book a chance. As with the previous books in my series, this one has been read by a woman who has lived the MC life for accuracy, although I never let reality get in the way of telling the story I want to tell. For that reason, it’s worth noting a few realities that I’ve deliberately chosen to ignore while writing it.
In this book, the words “jail” and “prison” are used interchangeably by several characters. In real life, they’re two very different places, but for the sake of word variety I’ve opted to ignore that.
Rodeo is a complicated sport that I’ve described in a very simplistic way for the sake of brevity. Please know that I made a deliberate choice to streamline my description of events.
Finally, I’d like to make it clear that any officials or law enforcement personnel portrayed in my books as corrupt are not there because I believe they’re corrupt in real life. My stories would be very boring if there was never any conflict, which means someone has to be the antagonist. Because of the nature of the stories, that antagonist is often connected with law enforcement. Please know that in my own life, I have the utmost respect for the law enforcement officers who risk their lives daily to protect the people of Coeur d’Alene. Thank you so much for your service.
CONTENTS
PRAISE FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING REAPERS MOTORCYCLE CLUB SERIES
BERKLEY TITLES BY JOANNA WYLDE
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
BONUS EPILOGUE
SUGAR AND SPICE
PROLOGUE
CALLUP, IDAHO
PRESENT DAY
PAINTER
“Fuckin’ hell,” Horse said, looking out across the crowded clubhouse. I paused, beer halfway to my mouth, turning to follow his gaze. “Painter, brother, you gotta stay calm—”
That’s when I saw her.
Melanie Tucker.
No.
This wasn’t happening. Maybe I was hallucinating, because I couldn’t imagine a reality where she’d actually be this goddamn stupid. I dropped my beer bottle, glass shattering as I stalked across the room. Everything narrowed, my vision fading to red.
“Hold on, son,” Picnic growled. I respected the hell out of him, loved him like a father . . . but there wasn’t a damned thing the Reapers MC president could’ve said to slow me down in that instant. That’s because the mother of my child stood in the clubhouse doorway, eyes wide and scared. She knew she’d fucked up.
Standing next to her was a man. A biker. Hangaround? He’d wrapped his arm around her like she belonged to him.
Yeah. He put his hands on my Melanie.
Except she wasn’t mine and hadn’t been in a long time. Her choice, so fuck her very much. But that freedom she’d wanted so badly came with one rule and she’d just broken the shit out of it. No bikers. Yet here she was with this cockwad asshole, some douche who thought putting on leathers gave him the right to exist.
In an MC clubhouse, no less.
This was a problem. A big fuckin’ problem. That terror on her face was totally justified, because she was about to witness a goddamn murder. And no, that wasn’t just a figure of speech. In ten seconds I had every intention of ripping the dick off his body, feeding it to him at knifepoint, and then jerking it back out his ass before repeating the process.
A hand wrapped around my arm, silently warning me—my president, trying to calm me down. I shrugged it off, tuning out whatever the hell Pic was trying to communicate as I lunged forward, catching the little prick by the front of his shirt. I jerked him savagely into the center of the room. A rushing sound filled my ears and in the distance I heard Mel scream. Then my fist connected with his face, sweet pain tearing through my knuckles as time slowed.
I love fighting.
Not just winning, but the rush of energy, the sweetness of the pain, and the incredible focus that hits when your entire existence narrows to one moment of terrible purpose. It’s primal and beautiful, and it’d never felt better than it did in the instant Melanie’s new boyfriend went down.
I followed him, pounding his face into hamburger and savoring the fountain of blood exploding from his nose. Fuckin’ cathartic as hell—his life was over. More screaming cut through the fog of violence.
Damn straight, she should be screaming. She should be fucking afraid.
“You asshole!”
I smiled, because from Mel it sounded sweet as hell. She’d called me an asshole ten thousand different ways over the years, ranging from enraged hatred to whispered insults between kisses. It worked for me, too. I was a total asshole, but for once she’d just have to suck it up and deal with the consequences.
She’d broken the fucking rules by bringing him here.
No bikers.
Simple, right? One condition I’d given her. No. Fucking. Bikers. All she had to do was keep her ass out of my world, because so long as I didn’t have to see her sucking someone else’s cock, I could pretend it wasn’t happening.
Not a complicated concept.
Arms came around me, strong arms dragging me off my victim before I could finish killing him. Then I heard Puck’s voice in my ear.
Puck.
My best friend. Puck, who’d taken my back for a year and a half in prison. I’d trusted him with my life inside, and I trusted him now. I should be listening, but I really, really wanted to end this cockwad’s life.
I shrugged Puck off, determined to finish it.
“He’s not worth it, bro,” Puck gritted out. Melanie was still making noise. Between us, her pussy of a date moaned and cried, whimpering about how he didn’t want to die. Yeah, you better beg for your life, bitch. “You kill him here, you’ll never see your kid again. Whatever shit goes down with you and Mel, you gotta think of Izzy.”
Fuck. I took deep breaths, forcing myself to calm as I stood over the man, staring between him and Melanie.
Had to focus.
The image of my beautiful, fuzzy-haired blonde baby girl flashed through my mind. Izzy. I’d do it for Izzy. I ran a hand through my hair, holding back the fire raging through me.
“Get him out of here,” I finally managed to growl out. Nobody moved as the man rolled to one side, whining like the little cunt he was. Fucking pussy hadn’t even managed to get in a hit. A distant part of me noted he wore leather with Harley Davidson patches, but no MC colors. Who did he think he was, coming to the Silver Bastards clubhouse? This wasn’t a game. “Get him out of here before I kill him!”
“Fuck,” Horse muttered, stepping forward to grab the douche by the armpits. A path cleared as he started dragging the man toward the door. Melanie shouted at me again, and I turned on her, stalking forward. This was it—I’d had enough of her shit. She wanted to play games? Perfect, because I loved to play, and she knew damned well I liked to play rough.
Melanie was about to get one hell of a reality check.
Picnic stepped in front of her, arms crossed as he stared me down.
“Not happening, son.”
“It’s none of your business,” I snarled. I was right, too—so what if his old lady loved the little bitch? He’d been standing between me and Melanie for way the fuck too long, and this little scene tonight wasn’t club business. Melanie was mine to deal with. There wasn’t a man in the room who had the right to say otherwise, including my president.
“She’s the one who came here,” I reminded him.
“I didn’t even know where we were going!” Melanie yelled from behind him. “It was just a date, you asshole!”
Red filled my vision again. My jaw clenched, and I smelled the blood on my hands. “He’s a fucking biker. You broke the rules, Mel. Get over here.”
“Not happening,” Pic said, his face grim. “I am not dealing with this tonight. Painter, get your ass home. Melanie, you’re with me.”
The air around us cooled. The brothers—Silver Bastards and Reapers both—had been watching all along, but now there was a new, quiet intensity in the air. This had just gone from a confrontation between me and a woman to a confrontation between two full members, and we didn’t usually air that shit outside the chapel. Pic might be the president, but like I said, this wasn’t club business.
He needed to step back. Now.
Suddenly Mel shoved him out of the way, although how she did it I had no idea—she weighed maybe a dime and a quarter soaking wet, the little witch.
“What I do is none of your goddamned business!” she shouted.
I caught Pic’s eye and he shrugged, knowing he was beat. “Fuck it. I’m done with both of you.”
About time. I gave Mel a slow smile, savoring the moment she realized what’d just happened. We might be in another club’s house, but the Silver Bastards were brothers to the Reapers. Pic had spoken because Mel was tight with his old lady, but he’d been overstepping. If she’d kept her mouth fucking shut, she might’ve walked out of here. Now? Not so much.
“I’ll give you a ride home, Mel,” I said with soft menace, enjoying the sudden shock in her face. “We can talk when we get there. Privacy, you know?”
She glanced around, eyes wide. She knew half the men here tonight, but they could be strangers for all the good that’d do her now. Ruger. Gage. Horse. Puck. They all stared back at her, eyes cold. Not one of them would lift a finger to protect her—not from me.
“Fuck . . .” she whispered. Yeah, enjoy your reality check, baby.
“Maybe we’ll do that, too,” I said, thinking about that hot, sweet pussy of hers. Hadn’t felt that for years now, but I still dreamed about it every goddamned night.
I reached for her, jerking her into my arms as she screamed. Nobody moved. Seconds later I had her over my shoulder, hauling her out into the night. Her hands pounded my back, which was adorable because she didn’t stand a chance.
Little Melanie was all grown up.
I’d spent five years dancing to her tune, but that shit was over. In my mind, she’d lost her freedom the instant she threw her leg over another man’s bike.
Now all I had to do was fuck some sense into her.
CHAPTER ONE
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA, STATE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY
Dear Levi,
You know, someday you should really tell me how you got started with your artwork. It seems like I share everything with you, but you never tell me anything real about yourself. It’s kind of weird. I keep thinking that I should stop writing to you, because it’s not like we even really know each other. (I still don’t quite understand why you let me borrow your car all this time, but I really appreciate it—I make sure the oil is changed and stuff.) Then something will happen and I find myself wanting to tell you about it, so I write again.
Anyway, you don’t have to write back if you don’t want to. I know you think I’m just some kid, but I’m twenty years old now and I’ve lived through my own shit.
Okay, so I had to stop writing for a while. Jessica stopped by—we’re getting a house together this semester. (Um, just so you know, she told me. About you and her, I mean. She said it didn’t mean anything, but I can’t help but wonder if you still think about her like that.) She’s doing really well, by the way. We just finished summer session, and she got a 3.00 GPA, which kind of kicked ass. I’m super proud of her, because she has learning disabilities, so it’s not like that was easy. I have good news, too—they told me today that I’m getting a full tuition/books scholarship, which means I can use the rest of my financial aid to live on. I won’t have to work this year, so I’m loading up on the credits. If everything goes right, I’ll transfer to the University of Idaho in January, a whole semester early!
So . . . something happened that I wanted to tell you about. I met a guy. He’s cute, and we have the same birthday—isn’t that funny? We went to this party at a house downtown and they were singing “Happy Birthday” to him and then Jessica started singing “Happy Birthday” to me and things sort of grew from there. We’ve been on a couple dates now, and he just asked me if it could be exclusive.
What do you think about that?
I mean, do you think that a guy should be asking that after such a short time? I know, I should probably talk to Loni about it, but she totally worries all the time, and . . . anyway . . . I just wanted to know your opinion.
Should I start dating him for real? Any reason I shouldn’t?
Melanie
PS—thanks for the drawing you sent—it almost feels like I’ve been there. Every time I see one of your sketches it blows me away. I can’t imagine being able to create something like that.
I folded the letter carefully, looking out across the yard. The air was warm—perfect, really—and I thought about Idaho, where you couldn’t sit outside like this for most of the year.
The only good thing about prison was I hadn’t frozen my ass off last winter. People back home saved all year to try and find some sun during the cold months, but I’d gotten my snowbird “vacation” for free. In the distance, Puck wandered toward me, his path apparently aimless. I knew better. He had shit to distribute, and it was my job to watch his back and make sure nobody noticed anything while he made his rounds.
That’s when Prince Fester of the Fuckwits ran up to me, grinning.
“You get a new letter from Melanie?” he asked, eyes bright. I shrugged my shoulders, trying to ignore him. This idiot was me and Puck’s cellmate, and I gave serious thought to shanking his ass at least twice a day.
“She send any pictures?” he asked, licking his lips. I fought back a snarl.
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth. I catch you touching her picture again, I’ll kill you. That’s not a joke, Fester. Puck and I already planned out exactly how we’re gonna do it.”
His smile faded, his feelings obviously hurt. Jesus help me, just one little slice . . . that’s all I want. Just one swipe of the knife to take out his tongue. “You don’t mean that.”
I didn’t answer, because the man had the brain of an eight-year-old. A vicious, dangerous eight-year-old who’d been committing armed robbery half his life, but trust me—he was seriously lacking in the IQ area. Puck was always telling me to be patient with him, and I tried. Seriously. I tried fuckin’ hard, but sometimes it took everything I had not to cut his tongue out for real.
“So, I had this idea,” he said, leaning up against the wall next to me.
“Shut the fuck up and go away.”
He frowned. I ignored him until he shuffled off like a kicked puppy, keeping my eyes on Puck as he drifted toward a cluster of skinheads. Always thought that was funny. They called him a mongrel behind his back, but when he had product they were happy to forgive Mr. Redhouse for his many sins against the Aryan race. I’d have laughed if I wasn’t so busy making sure nobody murdered him.
Just two more weeks.
Two more weeks in this shithole, then I’d be headed home to Coeur d’Alene. Back to my bike and my club. My brothers.
Melanie.
Pretty Melanie, driving around in my car because I’d felt guilty about leaving her alone without transportation that last night . . . Christ, thought I’d be loaning it to her for a couple days, and now she’d had it for a year. Ridiculous, but who was I kidding? I liked the idea of her in my car—of her thinking of me every day. Of her owing me.
Not like I needed the damned thing in prison.
I reached down, feeling the letter in my pocket, wondering what the hell I should tell her about the asshole trying to get into her pants. Wanted to say she should blow him off—he wasn’t good enough for her. She was too young, too soft, and too pretty for some twenty-year-old cocksucker looking to get his rocks off. He didn’t care about her, either—he just wanted to get laid. They all did. Maybe he’d grow out of it someday, although I had five years on him and I hadn’t yet.
I had no right to an opinion, though. She hardly knew me. We’d spent maybe eight hours together total, and trust me when I say there weren’t any happy endings. I’d given her a ride home, watched a movie with her. Taken her to dinner to get her out of the club’s way—it wasn’t even a particularly nice dinner, not like she deserved. She was nothing to me.
Fucking hell.
Puck glanced in my direction, offering a jerk of his chin. Deal was done. I pushed off the wall, wandering slowly toward him. Fester tried to follow me, but I shut him down with a dirty look. Just another day, exactly like every other I’d spent in here the last thirteen months.
Except it wasn’t.
Today I’d learned some prick was sniffing around Mellie, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about it. For all I knew he was fucking her right now, balls deep, telling her how much he loved her.
Jesus.
She’d probably fall for it, too.
Mel,
You know, I write these fuckin’ letters to you, but they’re fake. I ask about your friends and your school and whether you’re meeting people. It’s bullshit, Mel.
Here’s my reality.
Yesterday I stabbed someone before he could stab me. Puck and I sold some shit to a bunch of white supremacists and we turned around and sold the same damned thing to some Mexicans. We had pudding with our dinner for dessert.
Then I jacked off three times thinking about you.
Those are the highlights. Like a fairy tale, right?
Remembering you keeps me going, which makes no fucking sense at all. I hardly touched you. I still think about what you smelled like when you sat next to me on the couch, though. You were just this little thing and you shivered under my arm. I know you were scared of the movie and I could’ve picked something else, but I wanted the excuse to hold you.
That’s when I started thinking seriously about us fucking.
I had this vision of shoving you into the cushions face-first, then ripping down your jeans and pushing so deep you’d feel it in the back of your throat. That’s the kind of guy I am, Mel, and that’s why you should stay the fuck away from me.
You give me the chance, I’ll pin you down and keep pumping no matter how hard you try to get away. I dream about it every night, I jerk off to it, and today I gave serious thought to killing a man because he has the same fantasies about you as me. That first night, I promised London I wouldn’t touch you, but my cock had already been hard for hours. Good thing she showed up when she did—saved your ass. How’s that for luck?
When I took you to dinner, I was going to be good. Tried to be good. I know you didn’t understand why I asked you out or what it meant. They needed you out of the way, Mel. That was my job—to keep you busy. And I promised London I wouldn’t pull shit on you but she’d been lying to us all along and I kept wondering if that meant my promise didn’t count anymore.
Pretty damned sure it hasn’t counted for a while now.
You were talking and smiling and blushing. My dick was so stiff it nearly snapped in half when I tried to stand up. Took everything I had not to throw you on my bike and ride off with you . . . I want to tie you up and come in your ass and shove my cock down your throat until you choke. I want your hair in little-girl pigtails so I can hold on tight while I fuck your face. I want you to cry and scream and give me everything. I want to fucking OWN you. How’s that for reality, Mel? You still want my advice about boys?
I’m coming home soon. You should run away while you still can, Mel. I’ll make you dirty, so dirty you’ll never be clean again. I’ll make you pay me back the hard way. You think you’re all grown up, but you’re not. There’s so much I could teach you . . . do to you. Jesus, if you only knew, you’d never write to me again.
You should move to Alaska.
Change your name.
Good luck, though, because I’ll find you and take you and—
Fucking hell.
I dropped my pencil, wondering why I’d thought this was a good idea. I wasn’t going to send it, of course. I’d send her some friendly little note and tell her she should be dating and having fun. But some part of me thought writing my real thoughts out might fix my obsession. Instead my dick was like a rock. Again.
Still.
Always.
I started shredding the paper into thin strips, because no fuckin’ way I wanted Fester to read it. He always scrabbled through our garbage like a rat. Puck didn’t need to see it, either. He was my brother—best brother I could have, and he’d proven it a thousand ways since they locked us up—but damn if he needed to know how pussy-whipped I’d gotten.
Right . . . Who was I kidding?
Puck was probably laughing his ass off about it right now.
I grabbed another piece of paper, thinking I should write her a real letter. Congratulate her on her grades and then tell her she should find a decent boyfriend. The words wouldn’t come, though. Too busy thinking about her lips, I guess. They were round and pouty. Created by God expressly to suck cock. My cock. Right on cue, it went from hard to painful, a pillar of concrete in my pants, desperate for some action.
“I drew you a picture,” Fester said, offering me a goofy grin from his bunk. He held up a piece of paper covered in bright orange and red crayon. The red was blood seeping out of stick-figure bodies he’d drawn. I had no fuckin’ idea what the orange spirals were supposed to be. Maybe the voices in his head?
He liked to talk about his art with me, like we had something in common. Sometimes I could almost see where he was coming from. Scary fuckin’ thought.
“Leave my brother alone,” Puck told Fester, his voice hard. He was already down for the night, reading some history book. World War II snipers—he loved that shit. “Lights out soon anyway. Put away your crayons and go to bed, cocksucker.”
Fester giggled, and I stood painfully. My bunk was only three steps away, but each one hurt worse than the last. Felt like my dick might split wide open, there was so much blood trapped in there. I collapsed onto my back, waiting for the lights to go out.
That’s when I’d jerk off.
Again.
We all would.
Fester better not get jizz on my pictures of Mel. I really would kill him. The lights went off with a thudding noise, like something out of a movie. Never understood that—didn’t seem like flipping a switch should be so loud.
Downright ominous.
Seconds later my hands were on my pants, shoving them down as I lifted my hips. My dick sprang free and I wondered for the thousandth time how I’d be able to keep my hands off her when I got home.
Fester grunted in the darkness as I grabbed my meat.
Christ.
Two more weeks.
If I had any decency at all, I’d leave her alone. Yeah. I could do it. I’d probably imagined how beautiful she was anyway. Men built all kinds of crazy fantasies on the inside—always fell to shit when they got out again. Mel was just another bitch, one with too much baggage. I didn’t really want her. Sure as hell didn’t need her.
Right. Who the fuck was I kidding?
