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ONE

JAX

The meeting roomsmells like leather and last night’s whiskey. I’m leaning back in my chair, boots propped up on the table, a fresh cup of coffee steaming in front of me. The table’s massive, hand-built by one of the original Reapers back when the club was still more about weekend rides than managing small-town chaos. Now, it’s the nerve center of our operation, scarred with cigarette burns and grooves from pocket knives.

Mason sits at the head, looking like the king of a gritty empire. His eyes are sharp and calculating. Dagger, his right-hand man and the club vice president, sits to his left, his gaze always observant. Piston, our enforcer, leans back in his chair, cracking his knuckles like he’s warming up for a fight. Tank, the sergeant-at-arms, looks as stoic as ever, arms crossed over his massive chest. Across the table is Rev, the club’s secretary, scribbling notes with the precision of a guy who treats his patch like a full-time job. Blade, the tail gunner, sits next to Rev, chewing on a toothpick and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Hawk, our road captain, and Sledge, one of our heavy hitters, are out on a mission for Mason, leaving the rest of us here to figure out whatever plan our Prez is about to lay down.

Then there’s me, the treasurer. I keep the books clean—or clean enough. If the Reapers were a machine, I’m the one who keeps the oil flowing.

Mason clears his throat, and the room goes silent. His voice carries the kind of authority that makes you sit up and pay attention. “All right, brothers, let’s get down to business. We’ve got a decision to make, and it’s one we can’t put off any longer.”

He looks around the table, letting the weight of his words settle. “Jackson’s been through hell the last few years. The Vipers, the traffickers, the Russians—they’ve all taken their shot at this town, and people are scared. They’re looking at us, wondering if we’re part of the solution or just another problem waiting to happen.”

Tank snorts. “So, what, we’re supposed to play nice and hold their hands? Ain’t exactly our style.”

“No,” Mason says, his tone sharp. “Our style is protecting what’s ours. And Jackson is ours. But we’ve got more to think about these days than just our own backs.” His eyes sweep the room, lingering on each of us. “More than half the men in here have families. If that means bringing the Iron Reapers into the light, I’d like us to consider it.”

Dagger leans forward, his arms on the table. “You’re talking about going legit?”

“Not completely,” Mason says, shaking his head. “I’m not saying we stop drinking and partying or start showing up at church on Sundays. But we need to think long-term. Carlie and I have the twins to worry about, and I know I’m not the only one thinking about the future. If we can build some legal revenue streams—real businesses—it’ll give this club a foundation. And it’ll give our families something to rely on.”

The weight of his words hang in the air.

“Let me make this clear,” Mason continues. “This isn’t about softening the club. It’s about making it stronger. If we go down this road, we keep the Reapers’ edge, but we do it smart. First move, we take on security and bodyguard work. The mayor’s already called us about the carnival coming up in two weeks. She wants us there, providing protection. If we can handle that, it opens the door to private security, event work, and maybe even VIP jobs. And we don’t stop there. I want us to look into other legitimate businesses. Custom bike work, gyms—we’ve already got that. Let’s expand.”

The room stays quiet, the usual bravado replaced with hesitation. Finally, Piston breaks the silence with a laugh. “You’re telling me you want me to babysit a carnival?”

Tank smirks. “Yeah, Piston, maybe you can win a teddy bear for Jenny while you’re at it.”

“Shut it, Tank,” Piston grumbles, though he’s smiling.

Rev clears his throat, his pen hovering over the notepad in front of him. “I don’t disagree with what you’re saying, Mason. But this is a big step. It’s not just about taking on security jobs—it’s about what it means for the club. Are we ready to change the way we operate?”

“I get the hesitation,” Mason replies. “But look around this table. We’ve got brothers with families now. We’ve got people depending on us to make smart choices, not just for ourselves but for them. I’m putting it to a vote. Do we move into security and bodyguard work? And do we start exploring other legal revenue streams? Let’s hear it.”

Blade shifts in his seat, chewing on his toothpick. “I don’t know, Mason. Feels like we’re stepping away from what the Reapers are supposed to be.”

“And what are we supposed to be?” Mason asks, his voice calm but firm. “A bunch of guys living for the moment, or abrotherhood that lasts? Because if it’s the first one, we won’t make it another five years.”

That shuts Blade up.

Piston nods slowly. “I’ll bite. If it means keeping the club strong, I’m in.”

Tank slaps the table. “Same here. But I’m not wearing a damn suit for this security gig.”

Dagger laughs. “Noted.”

Rev hesitates, his pen tapping against the notepad. “All right. I vote yes. But I want us to be careful about how we handle it. No half-measures.”

Blade sighs, tossing his toothpick into an empty coffee cup. “Fine. I’m in.”

All eyes turn to me. I sit back, running a hand over my head. “This is going to be a pain in my ass, you know that, right? Balancing the books for this is going to be a nightmare.”

Mason grins. “You’ll manage.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, waving him off. “Fine. I’m in.”

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