Page 2 of Resurfaced Passion

Men were slow. All women knew this. Unless they were guided by the hand and taken to their emotional destination, men hardly arrived at all.

But the truth was; Paige wasn’t all that brave.

Where affairs of the heart and sex were concerned she wasn’t bold in the slightest and couldn’t… she would absolutely die of awkwardness if she had to ask a guy out on a date.

Why would Reaper want a plain Jane like her? Whose only discernible talent was identifying every Krispy Kreme donut just from lick alone, when she’d witnessed the kind of vivacious, extrovert, gorgeous women who partied with the bikers.

That was the kind of woman she wanted to grow up to be. One with body sociability and didn’t cringe about asking for an orgasm or five.

Great. With her confidence dipping, she left her place on the couch and decided to do something productive with the rest of the night.

Sure, it was 11:27 pm on a Saturday night, but who doesn’t pull out a tart pan to make a banana crème pie at nearly midnight? It was a new recipe she’d been tweaking for weeks now and was sure this was the one to put in the diner this coming week. Though she was technically just a waitress doing managerial duties, the moment the boss found out she baked, and baked well, he convinced her into making all the pies, on account of the diner cook being great with eggs and hash but terrible with pastry. Then it advanced to breakfast muffins when the pies were a big hit and now it was most all of the desserts on the menu.

She enjoyed it. But she was living for the day she had her own cake shop.

It was a pipe dream, but girls needed a dream or two.

Reaper and cakes. Her two dreams.

One her passion, the other her weakness.

Only one was obtainable. She smiled to herself pulling out ingredients from her pantry and wondered what the unattainable dream was up to right now.

* * *

Brex Mahoney was the biggest piece of piss walking.

And Reaper, in his thirty-one years of life so far had known at least five dozen.

He hated dealing with the city mayor. He was a braggart and a big mouth, and a goddamn fucking bore to listen to.

Business was business, he kept telling himself as he climbed down off his vintage Harley Davidson and pulled off his leather gloves to shove in his pocket, so he needed to make these next thirty minutes go as fast as humanly possible.

He’d always been the one to deal with Brex, ever since he joined ranks with the Renegade Souls and Rider—his Prez, offered him the patch as Negotiator. It wasn’t a true MC title and pretty fucking funny among the boys, knowing how little Reaper did talk. However, what skills Reaper possessed was the patience of a saint. He could deal with slime balls like Brex, and even the Mexicans on occasion and not lose his cool and slice them in two.

It was why, from day one, Rider sent him out to Brex and many other difficult people they did business with, for the fact there was only a slim chance Reaper would go kamikaze on their asses.

Only one reason would push his buttons and send him into a killing rage and lucky for all concerned, as he took measured steps in his thick soled boots and approached the nondescript building, she was nowhere near here.

Of course, the mayor of the city wouldn’t meet one of the notorious lawbreaking bikers who ran most of their city, in his public office at city hall. That would be too dangerous for the man who wore a devious mask.

How that charlatan kept getting re-elected was anyone’s guess.

He strode through the door, smelled coffee and felt his belly protest that he hadn’t eaten yet. He’d woken late, and that always put him in a bad mood because it meant he had to skip going to the diner and head directly from his two-bedroom apartment and go to the RSMC compound to see what was needed of him today.

If he wasn’t running these kinds of errands, then he worked in the auto shop.

It was the purpose of why he’d put the feelers out to Rider Marinos years back when he arrived in Colorado and needed a job to keep his mind sane. Since he’d worked in his dad’s auto-garage back home in New Zealand from the age of seven, he had the skills to back up his application. What Reaper didn’t know about engines wasn’t worth knowing. He could single handed strip down a wreck of a car and rebuild it into a fucking masterpiece.

Red Light was the only other man Reaper knew who could do the same kind of work. Rider, for a long time had wanted the pair to open up a build shop for the club. Making one of a kind bikes. Because Red Light was a Nomad and preferred the open road, that idea never took flight.

Working in the auto shop kept him mentally ticking over.

Kept his brain occupied when he wanted to descend into misery.

His negotiator skills had been handy for Rider over the years. There was that one lawyer fool who ripped off his clients, hid the evidence in aSoulssafe box and became difficult when it came time to paying his bills. A few select words from Reaper had the man handing over the cash without so much as a protest.

“Is he here?” Reaper asked Joseph, the mayor’s aid and right-hand co-conspirator in all things shady. He was a fair-haired kid, all of twenty-three and cocky as one of the Trump’s. He’d need to be, to hold down that kind of high-powered job, so Reaper didn’t hold it against the guy when Joseph smirked and nodded his head towards the open office on the left.

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