Page 3 of Reaper & the Lioness
I sat back, pressing the tips of my fingers together, displaying a confident power gesture common in my old world. “The answer isn’t to separate the club from the businesses. It’s to show the interconnection between the club and thecommunity. People need to see how your members create a positive impact.”
Interest flickered in his eyes.
“We’ll show Maisie’s giving fresh-baked bread to the soup kitchen, Jack’s shop giving a car away to a single mom, and the construction company building a ramp for a disabled veteran. News crews will eat it up. It will help the community view your club in a new light.”
Rhetta laughed and crossed her arms. “I told you she’s a PR wizard.”
I leveled a cool gaze at the club president. “It’s not magic. It’s strategy.”
“Darlin’, this ain’t Wall Street or Capitol Hill, or a slick corporation run by suits in a boardroom,” Thane said, narrowing his eyes. “We’re just a bunch of grease-stained locals running shops all over town. It’s more of a goat rodeo than you can imagine. You really think you can wrangle that?”
Irritation flooded my chest at his challenge. I inhaled a centering breath and offered a smile, hoping to shield my annoyance. “I’ve handled PR and crisis management for Fortune 500 companies, global nonprofits, and politicians. I can manage a few small businesses. The real question is, will you allow me to tell the stories that will make an impact? Because if not, I wouldn’t want to waste your time or money.”
Thane stared at me for a beat as he processed my words. It was true. While I needed the money, I wouldn’t beg anyone to see the value I brought to the table. Skeptical clients sucked, and Thane needed to agree with my recommendations if we worked together.
A slow grin spread across his face. “I like you,” he said with a gravelly laugh. “You’ve got balls. What’s the price tag?”
His approval sent an unexpected thrill through me.
“I don’t like to nickel and dime my clients, so I recommend you sign a contract for a $10,000 monthly retainer. In addition to the consulting and ongoing work to improve the reputation of the businesses, I’ll be on call for you twenty-four seven.”
Thane stood, hand outstretched. “Deal. Bring the contract over tomorrow. We’re having a cookout. We can introduce you to everyone then.”
As I shook his hand, excitement and trepidation filled my chest.
I’d come to Conroe for a change, and I was about to get a hell of a ride.
Chapter Two
“You fucking hired someone to do PR?” I growled, my voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. “You didn’t think to run that by us first?”
The cigarette smoke and testosterone-fueled tension in the room stirred memories of my time in the Marine Corps. I leaned against the clubhouse wall, my arms crossed over my leather cut—a constant reminder of the weight of responsibility I carried. As always, Thane nonchalantly shared this decision during Church, our weekly club meeting, with the expectation we’d fall in line.
Thane’s face hardened, his tone laced with irritation. “The businesses are suffering. The members who work for them are fucked if they fail. Not many people want to hire a Maverick right now. And I know you’ve lost at least two contracts this month alone.”
The room fell silent except for the soft clink of ice in Thane’s whiskey glass as he took a sip. His eyes bore into mine inchallenge. The other club officers shifted uneasily, their eyes darting between us.
While they might also disagree, they wouldn’t voice it like this. The club operated under a similar hierarchy as the military, with expectations for respect and authority by rank. I was the only one in the room who could challenge the president this directly. Though he was about fifteen years older than me, he was my best friend, and I’d served as his VP for the past five years.
I’d earned the right to speak my mind.
A twinge of frustration curled in my gut. I’d kept Grimm Construction separate from the club, building it from the ground up since leaving the Corps. However, Thane was right. Work had slowed with the boycott.
Pushing off the wall, I straightened to my full height. “And you don’t think bringing in an outsider is risky? Especially with the Rangers sniffing around our territory?”
The Hill Country Rangers Motorcycle Club predated the Mavericks by nearly a decade, and they’d been a thorn in our side since day one. I remembered one of the club’s founders, Maxwell Morris, endlessly bitching that they didn’t have a shred of respect for our codes. Their lack of a moral compass made the Mavericks look like goddamn choirboys.
Linc, my younger brother who also served as the club secretary, piped up. “Reaper’s got a point. We’re sitting on a powder keg here. A few Rangers were in the Woodlands last night. They stole a Benz, and they’re stripping it down in that old warehouse near our turf.”
The Woodlands stood at the center of our most lucrative theft operation, with no shortage of luxury cars and bikes we could steal to strip down for parts faster than law enforcement could track. We could strip a Range Rover to the frameovernight, the owner none the wiser and the parts sold and scattered before the police report was finished.
“I hacked into the Houston PD system, and reports say they’re also dealing downtown again,” Linc added. “They’re selling fentanyl to high school kids, according to what I’ve read.”
“We need to press them out of Conroe,” I spat. “They’re goddamn drug pushers, and I don’t want them doing business in our territory.”
Our no-drugs policy—a stance I’d pushed for when I became VP—set us apart from other clubs, giving us a twisted sense of honor in this fucked-up world. But it also opened opportunities for rival clubs to grow in our backyard.
Hatchet Perry leaned forward. His bright blue eyes glinted with a hint of anticipation. “What’s the play?”
