Page 14 of Resurfaced Passion

“Yo, quiet man. You wanna come to Otis’ later?” Whistled Snake and Reaper lifted his head to look over at the bodyguard working on a sweet as fuck Harley. Looked vintage, maybe from the 70’s. Reaper loved old shit. Music, cars, houses.

“Maybe.” He replied noncommittal.

He could do with a drink and not sit at home like a sad piece of shit, hanging out with the guys would be a welcome change. He was watching so much TV that Netflix didn’t even bother asking if he was still watching, just told him‘I got you, buddy, grab another beer.’

On a run a few hours later, he parked his bike in a bay just outside a florist shop. Baskets and buckets decorated the outside on the sidewalk. To anyone else it looked like what it was. But Reaper wasn’t interested in flowers, even if his brain told him to send some to Paige, every single time he was here.

She liked daffodils, lilies and peonies. She liked anything pretty that would make her smile. Paige smiled a lot. It was one of the things he loved about her.

The bell above the door tinkled on entry and the elderly woman behind the counter looked up from assembling a bouquet of flowers.

She smiled, recognizing him. Reaper nodded and kept on walking through the back room, down a long corridor, he took a staircase of fourteen steps and knocked on the door at the very end.

The woman wouldn’t let anyone know he was there if she was asked, just like she wouldn’t ever mention what was behind the door. She was paid enough to not see a thing.

See, the florist was just a front. One of many shops owned by the RSMC and it was a legitimate business that brought in a good revenue, but the true purpose for the building was found underground in a large windowless room holding five tables only.

The six chairs around the table were occupied by businessmen and women despite it only being early afternoon. All of them feeding their gambling addiction.

No one looked over at Reaper, too intent on the cards they held and the chips in front of them. He wondered which of those dickheads were betting their house, their cars, their whole lives, to the pot in the middle.

He skirted around the edge of the room and found Marcel in the back on the phone. The smaller man looked up and told whoever he was talking to that he’d call back.

He’d orchestrated the gambling dens for the club for years but the only thing Reaper or any of the boys needed to know about the New Yorker, with his slicked-back black hair and gold chains hanging from his neck was, not to get too fucking close and definitely not stand down wind of him. The guy had wicked bad breath to the point Reaper wondered if he ever got laid. The woman would need a fucking hazmat suit if she went there.

“My man! Here again so soon.” The crinkles lofted sardonically high on his forehead. His power trip running all the illegal games was in full force. He sometimes rocked up to the RSMC parties like he was Snoop Dogg.

Reaper couldn’t fault him for his job though, he was damn good at it.

“Same time every day. What do you have for me?”

The guy walked over to the safe hidden behind a picture and punched in the combination and came out with a cloth bag he handed over. It felt heavier than yesterday.

“This everything?”

“For now, yeah. They’re still playing. You gonna sit at a table today, man? You never stick around.”

Without their treasurer, Texas, to keep a running tally of what was going in and out, it had landed on all of them to track the illegal earnings these past few months. Rider had yet to give the treasurer patch to anyone else. Reaper wondered if he ever would, or was the prez waiting for Texas to come back miraculously with his tarnished reputation and tattered loyalty intact again?

His absence was felt around the club.

Reaper knew more than most what it felt like to only realize how much you missed someone when they were no longer reachable.

It was like the guy had fallen off the face of the earth. No one had seen him around town. His loft, which the guy owned, was deserted and had been since he’d rode off from the club the very last time and his cell phone was no longer in service.

If anyone could find Texas, it would be Lawless or Grinder, but if either had tried then they weren’t saying.

Reaper felt bad about that whole situation. He’d meant to reach out to Texas after it all went south. He couldn’t say he understood what he’d done, but Reaper knew all about loyalty to people you loved. By the time he’d gone by Texas’ loft, he’d already disappeared.

Closing the cloth bag, Reaper shoved it into his jacket and zipped up to the chin. He didn’t bother answering Marcel seeing as how he never sat at the tables, that was Arson’s vice, not his.

Reaper’s addictions were not financial, they ran more towards the flesh.

“Catch you tomorrow,” he muttered on his way out. The job was boring and monotonous, but it kept his focus, gave Reaper something to do.

His life boiled down tothenandnow.

And some days he didn’t think he could cope with the now.

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