Page 1 of Doc
Chapter One
Nova
My little Honda looked pathetic among the gleaming motorcycles, like a child who’d accidentally wandered into an adult party.I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, as I scanned the Dixie Reapers clubhouse.Uncle Bats had always warned me to stay away from this place, from his world.But Uncle Bats was dead, and I needed answers that only his brothers might have.
The folder and notebook on my passenger seat contained everything I had left of my mother -- her research notes, newspaper clippings, and a lifetime of suspicions that had probably gotten her killed.I picked them up, clutching them to my chest like armor.
“You can do this, Nova,” I whispered to myself.“For Mom and Dad.”
I took three deep breaths, counting each one the way my therapist had taught me after the accident.Except it wasn’t an accident.I knew it wasn’t, no matter what the police report said.
Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the parking lot.Men in leather cuts moved between motorcycles, their laughter and conversations a low rumble that stopped abruptly when they noticed my car.I felt their gazes on me, assessing, suspicious.
Uncle Bats had kept me a secret from them, and while I knew of the Dixie Reapers, I’d never been allowed to meet them.Now I was about to shatter that barrier.The thought sent a tremor through my hands, but I shoved the fear down deep where it couldn’t reach my face.
I stepped out of the car, my sensible flats crunching on the gravel.Five feet tall in my best shoes, I’d never felt smaller than I did walking toward that building.The folder and notebook clutched to my chest were my only shield against their stares.
“Hey, darlin’, you lost?”called one man, his tone somewhere between amused and suspicious.Tattoos covered his arms and disappeared beneath the leather vest emblazoned with the Dixie Reapers patch.
I kept walking, eyes forward, spine straight the way my mother had taught me.“Look them in the eye, Nova,” she’d say.“Don’t let them think you’re afraid, even when you are.”
The surrounding conversations died one by one, replaced by silence and the weight of two dozen stares.I could feel them taking in my brown hair, my hazel eyes, my five-foot-nothing frame that had never intimidated anyone.I probably looked like a strong wind could blow me over, but they didn’t know about the steel underneath.They didn’t know I was Mary-Jane’s daughter.
The clubhouse door loomed ahead, guarded by a mountain of a man with a graying beard and hands the size of dinner plates.His cut identified him as a full member, not just a hang-around.He stepped directly into my path, forcing me to stop or walk straight into his chest.
“Clubhouse is members only, sweetheart,” he said, voice like gravel.“Whatever you’re selling, we ain’t buying.”
Tiling my chin up, I met his gaze.“I’m not selling anything.I need to speak with whoever’s in charge.”
He chuckled, but there was no humor in it.“That so?And what business would a little thing like you have with the Dixie Reapers?”
The men behind me had moved closer, forming a loose semicircle.I could feel them at my back, curiosity and suspicion rolling off them in waves.
“My name is Nova Treemont.I’m Bats’ niece.”
The effect was immediate.The doorman’s expression shifted from dismissive to shocked in an instant.A murmur rippled through the men behind me.
“Bullshit,” someone whispered.
“Bats never had family,” said another.
“He had a sister,” another voice said.
The doorman’s eyes narrowed, searching my face.“Bats never mentioned no niece.”
“He wouldn’t have.”I met his gaze.“He kept me out of… all this.For protection.”I gestured at the clubhouse with my free hand.“But he’s gone now, and I need help.The kind only the Dixie Reapers can provide.”
The doorman studied me for what felt like an eternity, his gaze moving from my face to the items I clutched and back again.I could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, weighing the possibility I was telling the truth against the risk of letting a stranger into their sanctuary.
“Wait here.”He turned and entered the clubhouse.
I stood rooted to the spot, aware of the bikers still watching me.I could feel the curiosity and hostility aimed my way.I kept my breathing even, pretending I couldn’t feel their stares boring into my back.
The doorman returned a minute later, holding the door open.“Come on,” he said gruffly.
I stepped past him into a world my uncle had spent his life shielding me from.The air was thick with cigarette smoke that clung to the furniture and walls.The smell of beer and whiskey undercut everything, along with something else -- something distinctly male and dangerous.
Pool balls clacked on a table where a game paused mid-shot as players turned to stare.Behind a long bar, bottles gleamed under dim lights.Motorcycle memorabilia covered the walls -- license plates, photos.
