Page 1 of Reaper & the Lioness
Chapter One
Frustration charged through me so strong I could shoot someone. I slammed my phone to the counter, pain searing through my wrist as I aggravated the not-quite-healed fracture.
It was as I’d suspected. The prosecutor had dropped all charges against Hale Abell, and now I owed thousands in legal fees alongside my lost hope for justice.
I glanced at my watch as I dabbed a tissue at the streaks of mascara on my cheeks. The call had lasted longer than I’d expected, mostly because I’d tried to argue with my lawyer before tearfully begging for other options.
Now, I’d risk a speeding ticket. Arriving late to this meeting would make a terrible first impression, and I couldn’t afford to jeopardize the chance of landing a new client. Especially now.
I jogged to my firecracker-red Jeep and peeled out of the driveway. The warm Texas breeze whipped through my open windows as I sped along the backroads. The mid-January temperature had hit the sixties today, a welcome change from the icy Northeast winters I’d endured the past decade.
I breathed in the sweet scent of winter honeysuckle, driving ten over the speed limit until the steel sign with pitted edges came into view. It stood surrounded by open land, swaying grass, and gnarled trees.
The Lone Star Mavericks Motorcycle Club.
Gravel crunched beneath my tires as I turned into the long driveway. My hands shook as I released a long exhale. I rolled my shoulders back, trying to release the crushing sense of anxiety in my chest.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I’d signed questionable clients before. I’d handled crisis communications for a senator after his drunk driving arrest. I’d managed a corporate PR disaster for a Fortune 500 company that was so bad my NDA didn’t even allow me to acknowledge I’d been a part of it. I’d defended countless CEOs who certainly didn’t deserve a positive spin on their actions. Could a group of men who liked motorcycles really be that much worse?
I swallowed hard before shifting the Jeep into park beside the massive pole barn. I killed the engine and stared at the line of parked Harleys.
Two leather-clad giants stood to the side of the building. Smoke curled from their lips as the unmistakable scent of weed seeped through my cracked window. Another biker swaggered over, swigging straight from a fifth of Jack Daniel’s like it was sweet tea.
Jesus Christ. It was barely one in the afternoon. If this was their Wednesday matinee, I couldn’t imagine the midnight show. The Lone Star Mavericks Motorcycle Club was a far cry from the polished corporate world I’d left behind.
When Rhetta Blackwell had asked if I could support the club’s businesses, I’d said yes without a second thought. Now, I wondered what exactly it might entail.
Nervously, I swept invisible lint off my navy pinstripe blazer and turned to stride toward the clubhouse. My spiky heels wobbled on the stones, and I cursed myself for not choosing more sensible shoes.
Rhetta stepped out of the door, soft blonde curls shaping around her face. She radiated confidence with a weathered edge that hadn’t existed in high school.
“You made it! Welcome to Texas, sugar.”
Rhetta hugged me, her black leather vest cool against my skin. In the photos she’d posted to Facebook, she’d referred to the vest as her cut—a piece of biker lingo I’d somehow retained.
I pulled back to look into blue eyes that sparkled with a familiar warmth. “I’m so happy to see you. It feels like it’s been a lifetime. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your wedding last year.”
We’d stayed in touch since high school, but I hadn’t visited Rhetta since she’d moved to Conroe, a growing city an hour outside the heart of Houston. It was her photos—sunlight dappling through the pines onto the still surface of the lake, open fields dotted with wildflowers—that convinced me to move here shortly after the hospital discharged my bruised, broken body.
The impulsive decision had shocked everyone, including myself.
“You missed one hell of a party. But I know you were busy with that fancy job. You were the PR director at that private equity firm, right? There was a major crisis that weekend. It’s why I told Thane we needed to hire you.”
I forced a smile to my face, but my gut turned to a block of ice at the reminder of my time with Abell Enterprises. “I appreciate the referral. Building a solid client base is taking longer than I expected,” I said tightly. The small retainers from a local nonprofit and a few family-owned businesses weren’t enough to pay the bills.
Rhetta’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t press. “Life has really changed for both of us, hasn’t it? I can’t wait to catch up. Maybe we can grab dinner this weekend?”
“I’d love that.” A genuine smile replaced my strained one.
Knowing Rhetta lived nearby, a friend and ally as I rebuilt my life, brought more comfort than I cared to admit. Making new friends in your thirties was a bitch. Making new friends in your thirties in a new city while building a consultancy, fostering a puppy, and getting your shit together? A fucking nightmare.
I hesitated as I walked into the clubhouse behind Rhetta. I’d expected a grimy, smoke-filled den. Instead, a wide-open lounge sprawled before me. Eclectic fixtures hung at varying heights, casting pools of warm light across the space. The high ceiling featured flat-black industrial ductwork crisscrossing overhead, and the polished concrete floors were shiny and clean. The smoky air mingled with the sharp tang of motor oil and the richness of soft leather.
I followed Rhetta’s confident stride as she approached the bar, a massive slab of polished obsidian that devoured the light. A vintage motorcycle, mounted above the bar like a chrome-plated deity, commanded attention. The sprawling liquor selection beneath the mechanical altar rivaled even the ritziest bars I’d visited on the East Coast.
“Can I get a tequila on the rocks and a whiskey for Thane?” Rhetta asked the bartender. “Anything for you, sugar?”
