Page 23 of Reaper & the Lioness
My irritation rose. “Is this really necessary? I’m perfectly capable of handling a farmers’ market on my own. We don’t even have a media interview today. I’m just shooting content for Instagram.”
“Don’t take it personally. We’re just making sure our investment pays off,” he said as his eyes scanned the market as if he were looking for insurgents.
“I don’t need a watchdog.”
I turned to storm away, but his calloused hand wrapped around my arm. He roughly pulled me back to face him, and I squinted in the bright sun as his eyes met mine.
“There’s more going on here than you know. I’m not just here to observe. I’m here to protect. Thane wants me to shadow you whenever you’re working with the Mavericks. Get used to it.”
“Protect? Care to elaborate on that cryptic bullshit?”
“No. Just do your job, and I’ll do mine.”
I yanked my arm away and began to press past him until I noticed the gauze wrapping his left bicep. A spot of blood stained the bandage wrapped around an intricate tattoo.
“What happened to your arm?”
Reaper smirked. “Gunshot.”
I reeled back in surprise. “How?”
He let out a dark chuckle. “Presumably from a gun.”
I rolled my eyes, but my heart began to race. “Is that why you’re here? Are we in danger?”
“You’re always in danger when I’m around.”
I doubted a community market would be ideal for a shootout, so I adjusted my camera bag and pressed past him.
“Fine. Stay out of my way.”
As I stormed by, I could sense his eyes on me, and I couldn’t shake that there was indeed more to this situation than met the eye.
Despite my outward irritation, an unfamiliar flicker of comfort eased into my mind at the idea of being protected. The thought unsettled me. I’d learned the hard way that self-reliance was the only true safeguard. Entrusting my safety to others had always been a dangerous gamble—and I’d too often been dealt a losing hand.
Yet, as Reaper’s watchful gaze followed me through the market, I wondered if having someone at my back might not be such a bad thing. My past taught me I couldn’t anticipate every threat, and maybe having an annoying, overbearing biker at my back wasn’t a completely terrible idea.
I quickly pushed the thought aside to focus on the job at hand.
The only person I could only truly rely on was myself.
The booth for Maisie’s Bakery displayed bags of fresh-roasted coffee beans, sourdough bread, muffins, and cinnamon rolls. Four child-sized tables were set beside it, overflowing withcraft supplies. Maisie grinned and waved at me before returning her attention to the children before her.
I understood why Thane thought this would be perfect for social media. Maisie’s black cut contrasted with the rainbow explosion of craft supplies. She warmly greeted many shoppers by name as they stopped by to say hello.
I adjusted my tripod and positioned my phone to capture the scene. Kids surrounded one of the tables with Maisie kneeling beside them. Their faces lit with joy as they adorned miniature cardboard motorcycles with glitter, stickers, and paint.
I hunted for golden moments—the ones that could punch through the noise and actually make people feel something. They say a picture can paint a thousand words, but I think social media has changed that. People skim, they swipe, they doom scroll. My job was to make them stop just long enough to feel something. Curiosity. Amusement. Hope. Maybe even a flicker of empathy. If I could get them to see the Mavericks as something other than the villains, I’d call it a win.
Maisie guided a little girl’s hands with infinite patience as they attached pipe cleaner handlebars to a pint-sized chopper. The girl held up the pink glitter-covered bike to show her parents before hugging Maisie.
This scene would form the heart of our narrative.
I began to record a new video clip that I would use to create a reel when a shrill voice cut through the cheerful chatter.
“This is unacceptable! The market should not allow a motorcycle gang here. All you do is bring violence and crime to Conroe!”
Danielle, the woman spearheading the boycott, stormed toward the booth. Her ruddy face contorted with rage as she pointed an accusing finger at Maisie.
