Page 38 of Sexting the Bikers
Photos. Dozens of them, some old, some newer, tucked into mismatched frames. People smiling, laughing, drinking, hugging. There’s a story in every one of them.
And then I see him.
Reaper.
Not the man I met yesterday—the one with the dead-eyed stare and a voice that sounds like a loaded gun. Butyounger. Softer.
A teenage Reaper grinning at a backyard barbecue, arm slung around a woman who must be his mother—same sharp eyes, same serious mouth. Another shot shows him crouched down, a big, floppy-eared dog licking his face while he laughs, carefree and unguarded. There’s even one where he’s standing betweentwo adults—a man and woman who look proud and happy—with a birthday cake in front of him and fireflies glowing in the dusk behind them.
This clubhouse…wasn’t always just an outlaw den.
It was someone’s home.
Hishome.
Something happened here. Or maybe after. Something carved out that boy’s heart and replaced it with silence and steel.
And I get it.
Because I’ve seen it too. Felt it. I was raised in the kind of world where mothers don’t always get to kiss you goodbye, and fathers die with unfinished business in their pockets.
My parents were taken by Bratva violence. A car bomb meant for someone else.
They were there. Wrong place. Wrong time.
And now I’m standing in someone else’s history, feeling it in the walls, in the photos, in the ghost of a boy who used to smile.
Reaper’s not just cold. He’s broken.
Just like me.
I’m about to turn back toward the kitchen when voices rise down the hallway—angry, unmistakable. I follow the sound on instinct, keeping close to the wall, bare feet silent on the floorboards. As I round the corner, I stop just before the doorway, out of sight but close enough to hear every word.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Reaper’s voice growls, low and deadly. “You’re telling me now that she washerethe whole night?”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dog’s voice, casual and smug. “Technically, it wasn’t a lie. You didn’t ask therightquestion.”
A rush of heat floods my cheeks, but I can’t stop the small, involuntary smile that tugs at my mouth. I press my hand to my lips just to hide it.
I hear Bishop sigh—low and tired, like he’s watching a slow-motion train wreck and refusing to get involved.
“I asked you where she was,” Reaper snaps, his voice rising now, raw with fury. “And you?—”
“I told you she wasn’t a problem,” Dog cuts in smoothly. “And she wasn’t. Trust me, I had everything under control.”
Reaper’s response is a sharp exhale. I imagine his jaw grinding, fists clenched, maybe pacing like a tiger.
“You’re unbelievable,” he says, low and furious.
“And you’re predictable,” Dog fires back. “Which is why I didn’t tell you. Because I knew you’d do this—blow the roof off. Heck, you didn’t even ask if she was okay.”
I press a hand over my mouth to stifle it, eyes wide. He’s infuriating. Absolutely reckless. And somehow…stupidly funny.
Inside the room, Reaper’s silence stretches just a beat too long.
“Keep pushing me,” he says, voice like gravel.
