Page 11 of Reaper & the Lioness
Jack regularly opened his shop to a few local high schoolers, giving them the space, tools, and mentorship to help them restore an old Ford Bronco. The story I’d pitched to the local news highlighted how a Maverick gave back, significantly impacting his community.
As we practiced for the interview, the story took shape. Jack’s journey from local high school grad to young yet respected business owner made for a compelling narrative, but his mentorship was what really shone. His eyes lit up when he talked about teaching the boys the basics of restoration and helping them breathe new life into the old Ford.
“If they veer off-topic, especially about the Mavericks, use the response we practiced,” I advised, adjusting his collar. “Keep it simple and redirect to the restoration project.”
Jack nodded. “Got it. Stick to the talking points.”
I patted his arm. “I know you usually don’t wear it while working, but we should have the reporter capture some b-roll of you talking to the kids while you wear your cut. It will help us show your affiliation to the club without calling it out.”
A flicker of pride crossed his face, briefly overshadowing his nervousness.
I squeezed his shoulder in reassurance. “You’ve got this. Just be yourself.”
Jack’s warm and genuine demeanor would be great on camera. I hoped his would be the first of many stories to show the community the softer side of the Mavericks—the side Reaper insisted didn’t exist.
I stepped away with Hawk and started my Jeep to let the air crank on high. I settled the pup in the back, safely locked in his crate with a peanut butter–filled toy. Following the attention and excitement, I expected him to drift off to sleep in minutes.
The news van pulled up, and I greeted the reporter and her crew as they unloaded their gear from the back.
The thunderous roar of a Harley shattered the relative calm, drawing all eyes to the sleek matte white bike with black pipes pulling up beside the news van. The scythe emblazoned on the gas tank left me with no doubt about the rider’s identity.
My heart performed a series of traitorous flips as Reaper dismounted, his presence dominating the space. His black cut and inked arms offset the crisp white T-shirt he wore beneath. Instead of a helmet, he wore a backward baseball cap.
The reporter tensed, fear flashing in her eyes. She strode away behind her cameraman, eager to put as much distance between her and Reaper as possible. While Jack offered a warm,welcoming vibe, Reaper’s presence was chilling in the Texas heat.
I ground my teeth. “What are you doing here?”
“Thane asked me to come.”
Irritation swept through me. “Why?”
He offered a saccharine smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Because it’s my job to be here, according to the prez. So here I am.”
I sighed. I couldn’t argue with Thane. At least, not yet. “Fine. Just keep your distance. You’re making the reporter nervous.”
I spun on my heel and walked away without giving him a second glance. I didn’t find it surprising Thane wanted a club representative present, but sending his VP seemed excessive.
Despite Reaper’s looming presence, the story came together nicely. The high school boys raved about the hands-on, real-world skills they’d learned throughout the project. Jack’s personal account of how the shop teacher had been a lifeline for him just a few years ago, inspiring him to pay it forward, added a touching depth to the narrative.
Reaper stepped beside me as the crew captured b-roll of the boys and Jack talking and laughing in front of the shop. The reporter glanced up at his imposing form and voiced an excuse, saying she needed to check in with her producer.
“I think she’s scared of you,” I said dryly.
Reaper smirked. “Of course she’s scared of me. What I want to know is why you aren’t.”
I met his gaze, unflinching. “Because the true monsters are usually the ones you least expect. They hide behind smiles, handshakes, and bibles, not leather and patches.”
The setting sun cast a warm light across the wood floors in my home office as I hunched over my laptop, sifting through a digital labyrinth of police reports, employee announcements, and email leads.
My eyes burned from hours of screen time. I’d already spent a day on video calls, meeting with clients and talking to editors. But I couldn’t stop my investigation at night. Each piece of information added another fragment to the mosaic of Hale Abell’s mistreatment of women, and I believed we had nearly enough information to break the story.
A soft whine drew my attention to Hawk. He stared at me with his soft brown eyes. I reached out to scratch behind his ears, guilt twinging in my chest. Sometimes I became so deeply entrenched in my work that I’d forget I had a puppy—at least while he napped. If I didn’t take him out to play soon, he’d either piss on my floor or find his own entertainment by chewing on something he shouldn’t.
“Sorry, buddy,” I murmured. His tail thumped against the floor, a plea for attention. “I promise we’ll go for a long walk in a few minutes. I just need to talk to Matt, and then I’ll be done for the day. I promise.”
He let out a low whine. As if on cue, my phone screen lit up as the cheery tone rang through the air. I took a deep breath before throwing in my earbuds.
“Hey, Matt.”
