Page 5 of Reaper & the Lioness
Linc shrugged. “I dug through her emails and text messages. They keep a pretty solid boundary between their work and friendship. She shuts him down hard anytime he sniffs around her clients. He generally respects it. Doesn’t push her for more information.”
“What the hell are they yapping about all the time then?” I demanded, not buying this squeaky-clean bullshit for a second. Someone with deep connections to a reporter was the last thing the club needed.
Linc’s expression darkened. “The Abells. Eva and her buddy are on a crusade. Ever since her attack, she’s been trying to dig up dirt and get other women to expose Hale for the bastard he is. And, from what I’ve found so far, it’s a rabbit hole of hush money and NDAs.”
Thane stood, clearly done with the debate. “Eva’s coming to the cookout. You can get a read on her then. It’ll be fine. Rhetta will keep her focused.”
“And if she sees or hears something she shouldn’t?”
“Then we’ll deal with it. Like we always do.”
Chapter Three
Ilobbed another ball across the yard. My foster puppy, Hawk, launched after it on gangly legs.
“That’s it, buddy. Wear yourself out.”
I’d scrolled through multiple calls for puppy fosters from the local rescues and shelters since moving to Texas. The promise of puppy breath soothed my aching need for connection. Shortly after submitting the application, the shelter had offered me a young German shepherd mix.
I laughed when I met Hawk at the shelter. The inexperienced staff were either wrong or lying. Years of watching my dad train military working dogs gave me confidence that this tornado of fur, claws, and fangs was a full-blooded Malinois.
The pitter-patter of Hawk’s oversized paws on the hardwood floors, the jingle of his collar tags, and even his occasional howls eliminated the oppressive silence that had filled my home when I moved here. While the quiet was a welcome change from the urban chaos I’d survived for years in my Washington, D.C., studio apartment, Hawk’s presence helped soothe my naggingdoubts that abandoning my high-profile PR career had been a colossal mistake.
As he played, my mind drifted to the freshly printed contract on my kitchen counter. Apprehension curled in my chest as I recalled the deep dive of news clips and public information I’d read after meeting with Thane. The Mavericks were outlaws. Real-deal one-percenters with a history of violence.
But I would be working with the club’s members and their legitimate businesses, not the club itself.
And Ireallyneeded the money.
I glanced at my watch and sighed. Time to go.
“Come on, little guy,” I said as I attempted to wrangle the ten-week-old terror that the shelter called a puppy.
Hawk bounded back, drool dripping from his chin. His whiskey-colored eyes gleamed with mischief as I grabbed for the ball. I cursed under my breath as the tiny menace swerved out of reach to begin an impromptu game of tag. Dirt flew from his paws as he ran laps around my yard.
After a few minutes of chaos, I finally bribed Hawk close enough with a treat to scoop him up. He yipped in excitement and overstimulation, nipping at my hands and face as he squirmed in my arms.
“I promise I’ll be back in a few hours,” I murmured, nuzzling the spot between his ears and pressing a kiss to his tiny snout. The sweet scent of puppy fur mixed with the earthy smell of the yard filled my senses. “We can play ball again before bed.”
As I carried him into the kitchen, my eyes fell to the bills stacked on the counter. My stomach clenched as I considered the latest—a new air conditioner installed last week after the original one had taken a shit. My severance and PTO payout was gone, and I’d begun to dip into my savings to pay my new mortgage. My checking account dwindled with each unexpected repair the lazy home inspector missed.
But not anymore. The contract with the Mavericks would keep me out of the red.
I pushed Hawk into his crate, my heart twisting as he let out a plaintive whine. I hated leaving him home alone, but I trusted he would fall asleep when I left.
The Mavericks’ parking lot was packed this evening, with bikes and trucks lining the drive. Heavy rock blared from the speakers, and a small group of bikers stood around a fire pit, drinking beers and smoking.
I tugged at the hem of my leather jacket. I’d aimed for biker chic but had landed squarely in “corporate queen attempting to be edgy,” wearing my Loft jacket with gold zippers and Lucchese cowboy boots. I looked like a teenager playing dress-up in a world of grit, grease, and gasoline.
I might have been out of my element, but it wouldn’t be the first time. The Mavericks were no different than the dirty politicians and greedy CEOs I rubbed elbows with at fundraising galas in Washington, D.C. Strip away the leather and ink, and you’d probably find the same hunger for power, thirst for respect, and desire for control.
I squared my shoulders. My job hadn’t changed. I was here to tell stories that built bridges between worlds. Whether those worlds were separated by political ideologies or lifestyle choices, it didn’t matter. Still, as I approached the gathering, the butterflies in my stomach turned into angry hornets.
Rhetta materialized from the crowd, greeting me with a hug that reeked of cigarettes and sweet amber perfume. She wore her cut again, and I noticed the bottom rocker across her back. “Property of Thane.” I internally cringed at the patriarchal statement.
“Glad you made it, sugar,” she drawled, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she took in my attire. “Come on, let’s get business out of the way first.”
She led me through a gauntlet of curious stares before we arrived at Thane’s office. He scanned the contract with unnerving speed. I held my breath, half expecting him to change his mind and rip it in half, but instead he reached for a pen and signed at the bottom of the page, the scratch anticlimactic to my spiraling anxieties. He handed it back to me and smiled.
