Page 6 of Reaper & the Lioness
With this client, I finally had a viable consultancy.
And I could finally pay my bills.
Thane reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick envelope. “First month’s payment,” he said, his voice gravel and smoke.
I fought to keep my face neutral as he handed it over. The envelope was heavy. Cash. Of course, it was cash.
“Rhetta will handle introductions tonight,” Thane said, standing to kiss his wife’s cheek. “Keep her out of trouble.”
I wasn’t sure if the grumbled warning was for Rhetta or me. Thane closed the door behind us, and I followed her back into the main room.
The envelope of cash pulsed in my hand, a tangible reminder of the line I was about to cross. This wasn’t Corporate America, with its paper trails, digital transfers, and off-the-record secrets shared by staffers over coffee. The rules the Mavericks lived by were different, and Thane’s decisions weren’t made in boardrooms or over games of golf. I doubted the man even owned a set of clubs, and, if he did, they were probably used for beating the shit out of anyone who crossed him.
I shook the violent vision from my mind.
“Can we swing by my Jeep? I’d like to lock this up. I don’t want to carry it in my back pocket all night.”
“Sure thing, sugar,” Rhetta said, throwing back the rest of her tequila and sliding the empty glass down the bar as we walked past.
As we stepped outside, I sighed. I was making a conscious decision to entangle myself with an outlaw motorcycle club. But,if I was honest, my former world had never been safe either, the men I’d worked for far from innocent.
I shoved the envelope into the glove compartment, slamming it shut and silencing my hesitations and doubts.
“Time to mingle,” Rhetta drawled, her arm snaking through mine, dragging me toward a grizzled, bearded biker beside a woman in her sixties with short gray hair and deep laugh lines around her blue eyes.
“Don, Maisie, this is my friend, Eva. She’s going to be doing PR for all the businesses.”
I shook their hands. I’d had no idea Maisie’s Bakery was associated with the club until yesterday’s meeting. I’d stopped there several times for a muffin and a latte and salivated at the thought of the sweet bursts of flavor from her baked goods made with local fruits.
“I have a few ideas on how we can help your business,” I said with a warm smile. “Maybe I can drop by for coffee this week, and we can go through them?”
Maisie’s eyes lit up. “I would love that, dear. Business has slowed a bit with the boycott. That means Don is eating all the extra cinnamon rolls.” She patted the beer belly on the biker with a laugh.
He grinned, looking down at her in adoration. “My old lady makes the best cinnamon rolls in Texas.”
I laughed and promised to try one the next time I visited.
Rhetta guided me through the crowd as the clubhouse filled, leading me through a series of introductions like I was speed-dating the entire club. Each greeting offered a snapshot of the lives affected by the boycott.
Jack Patino, a young mechanic barely into his twenties, had grease under his nails and determination in his eyes. The faint scent of motor oil wafted from his clothes.
“Business is slower than a three-legged dog in a marathon,” he confessed with an underlying southern drawl, his boyish face at odds with the weight in his voice. “A lot of people are taking their cars to the big, corporate shop—even though they don’t do shit for the community. I let high school kids use my shop and tools, for fuck’s sake.”
This piqued my PR senses, and I dove in, asking Jack to tell me more about his partnership with the local high school shop teacher. I jotted down a few notes and his phone number on the small notepad I carried in my back pocket.
As another group swept Rhetta away, I found myself adrift in the sea of leather and chrome. The bar beckoned, promising the liquid courage I’d need to get through a night of networking.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked. She looked barely twenty, with pink hair and bright blue eyeliner.
“Whiskey. On the rocks,” I replied, surprised by the smoke in my voice. The night had taken its toll, despite my experience working a room. As an introvert, I found it exhausting to be surrounded by so many people.
A presence loomed behind me with an oppressive aura of danger. The hairs on my neck stood as I turned, finding myself face to chest with a wall of muscle radiating heat and hostility.
My eyes traveled up, taking in the snaking tattoos that covered his arms and disappeared beneath his T-shirt. His right arm featured a dark grim reaper, its scythe poised above a macabre bed of intricate skulls. His left bicep featured the unmistakable emblem of the Marine Corps—an eagle, globe, and anchor.
As the man’s cold gaze bore into my eyes, my intuition told me I stood before someone who had experienced—and likely participated in—more than his fair share of violence.
“Eva Harland,” he said, his tone low and threatening.
