Reaper's Property
Authors: Joanna Wylde
Reaper’s Property
Marie doesn’t need
a complication like Horse. The massive, tattooed, badass biker who shows up at
her brother’s house one afternoon doesn’t agree. He wants Marie on his bike and
in his bed. Now.
But Marie just
left her abusive jerk of an ex-husband and she’s not looking for a new man.
Especially one like Horse—she doesn’t know his real name or where he lives,
she’s ninety percent certain he’s a criminal and that the “business” he talks
with her brother isn’t website design. She needs him out of her life, which
would be a snap if he’d just stop giving her mind-blowing orgasms.
Horse is part of
the Reapers Motorcycle Club, and when he wants something, he takes it. What he
wants is Marie, but she’s not interested in becoming “property of”.
Then her brother
steals from the club. Marie can save him by giving Horse what he wants—at home,
in public, on his bike… If she’s a very, very good girl, she’ll get lots more
of those orgasms only he can offer, and he’ll let her brother live.
Maybe.
A Romantica®
contemporary erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave
Reaper's Property
Joanna Wylde
Dedication
I want to express my appreciation to Raelene
Gorlinsky, the editor and publisher who wouldn’t give up on me, and my test
readers, Mary and Alicia. Thanks also to my husband who is endlessly supportive
of all my creative efforts. Finally, a special thanks to my first editor,
Martha Punches, who has continually encouraged me to keep writing even though I
took so many years off. Martha, you were right about past progressive tense
verbs, and I was wrong…
Chapter One
Eastern Washington,
Yakima Valley
Sept. 17—Present Day
Marie
Crap, there were bikes outside the trailer.
Three Harleys and a big maroon truck I
didn’t recognize.
Good thing I’d stopped by the grocery store
on the way home. It had already been a long day and the last thing I wanted to
do was to run out and buy even more food, but the guys always wanted to eat.
Jeff hadn’t given me any extra beer money and I didn’t want to ask him—not with
his money troubles. It wasn’t like I paid rent. For a guy whose entire mission
in life was to smoke pot and play video games, my brother Jeff had done a lot
for me over the past three months. I owed him and I knew it.
I’d already grabbed some beer and ground
beef that’d been on sale. I’d planned on burgers, buns and chips for the two of
us, but I always made extra, for leftovers. Gabby had given me a watermelon
she’d picked up in Hermiston that weekend. I even had a big potato salad all
made up for the potluck after work tomorrow. I’d have to stay up late making
another one but I could handle that.
I smiled, thankful something in my life was
going right. Less than a minute to plan and I’d figured out a meal—might not be
gourmet, but it wouldn’t embarrass Jeff either.
I pulled up next to the bikes, careful to
leave them plenty of room. I’d been terrified of the Reapers the first time
they’d come over. Anyone would be. They looked like criminals, all tattooed and
wearing black leather vests covered in patches. They cussed and drank and could
be rude and demanding, but they’d never stolen or broken anything. Jeff had
warned me about them lots of times but he also considered them friends. I’d
decided he was exaggerating about the danger, for the most part. I mean Horse
was dangerous enough, but not because of any criminal activity…
Anyway, I think Jeff did some web design
for them or something. Some kind of business. Why a motorcycle club needed a
website I had no idea, and the one time I’d asked him about it he told me not
to ask.
Then he’d scuttled off to the casino for
two days.
I got out of the car and went around back
to grab the groceries, almost scared to see whether Horse’s bike was in the
lineup. I wanted to see him so bad it hurt but wasn’t sure what I’d say if I
did. It’s not like he’d answered my text messages. But I couldn’t help myself,
I had to check for him, so I grabbed my groceries and walked over to the bikes
to scope them out before going inside.
I don’t know much about bikes, but I knew
enough to recognize his. It’s big and sleek and black. Not all bright and
decorated the way you sometimes see bikes on the freeway. Just big and fast,
with giant, fat tailpipes off the back and more testosterone than should be
legal.
The motorcycle was almost as beautiful as
the man who rode it. Almost.
My heart stopped when I saw that bike,
right on the end. I wanted to touch it, see if the leather of the seat was as
smooth as I remembered, but I wasn’t stupid enough to do that. I didn’t have
the right. I really shouldn’t even be excited to see him, but I felt a rush
knowing he was right inside my trailer. Things weren’t smooth between us and I
honestly didn’t know if he’d even acknowledge me. For a while he’d seemed
almost like my boyfriend. The last time I’d seen him, he’d scared the crap out
of me.
Even scary, the man made my panties wet.
Tall, built, with shoulder-length hair he
kept pulled back in a ponytail, and thick black stubble on his face. Stark,
tribal cuffs ringed his wrists and upper arms. And what a face… Horse was
handsome, like movie star handsome. I’d bet he had women coming out his ears,
and the fact that he’d spent more than one night in my bed made me all too
aware that his beauty wasn’t just above the belt. The thought of his below-belt
assets led to a brief but intense fantasy about him, me, my bed and some
chocolate syrup.
Yum.
Shit. Dessert. I needed dessert for
tonight. Horse loved sweets. Were there any chocolate chips? I could do
cookies, so long as there was enough butter.
Please don’t let him be pissed
at me
, I prayed silently, even though I was pretty sure God wasn’t
interested in prayers where the promise of fornication played such a prominent
role. I reached the door and juggled the bags, sliding most of them onto my
right arm so I could turn the handle. I walked in and looked around the living
room.
Then I screamed.
My baby brother knelt in the center of the
room, beaten raw and dripping blood all over the carpet. Four men wearing
Reapers’ cuts stood around him. Picnic, Horse and two I didn’t know—a big,
built hunk of a man with a mohawk, tattoos on his skull and about a thousand
piercings, and another who was tall and cut, with light-blond hair in short
spikes. Horse studied me with the same cool, almost blank expression he wore
when we first met. Detached.
Picnic studied me too. He was tall with
short, dark hair that looked far too stylish to be on a biker and bright blue
eyes that pierced right through a girl—I’d met him at least five times. He was
the club president. He had a great sense of humor, carried pictures of his two
teenage girls to flash whenever he got the slightest opportunity and had helped
me shuck corn the last time he’d come to visit.
Oh, and he also stood right behind my
brother with a gun pointed at the back of his head.
“Marie, you did the right thing,” Jeff
said, holding an ice pack to my cheek. “That cocksucker deserves to die. You
will never, ever regret leaving him.”
“I know,” I replied, miserable. He was
right—why hadn’t I left Gary earlier? We’d been high school sweethearts,
married at nineteen and by the time I hit twenty I already knew I’d made a
terrible mistake. It took until now, five years later, to realize just how
terrible.
Today he’d backhanded me right across the
face.
After that, it only took another ten
minutes to do what I hadn’t managed in all our time together. I threw my
clothes in my suitcase and left his abusive, cheating ass.
“I’m kind of glad he did it,” I said,
looking down at the scarred formica table in my mom’s trailer. She was taking a
little vacation at the moment in jail. Mom’s life is complicated.
“What the fuck, Marie?” Jeff asked, shaking
his head. “You’re fucked in the head, talking like that.”
My brother loved me, but he wasn’t exactly
a poet. I offered him a wan smile.
“I stayed with him for way too long, just
taking it. I think I might have stayed forever. But when he hit me, it’s like
it woke me up. I went from being terrified of leaving to just not caring
anymore. Honestly, I don’t care, Jeff. He can keep everything—the furniture,
the stereo, all that shit. I’m just glad to get out.”
“Well, you can stay here as long as you
need to,” he said, gesturing around the singlewide. It was small and dank and
smelled kind of like pot and dirty laundry, but I felt safe here. This had been
my home for most of my life, and while it might not have been a picture-perfect
childhood, it hadn’t been too bad for a couple of white-trash kids whose dad
took off before they hit grade school.
Well, good until Mom blew out her back and
started drinking. Things went downhill after that. I looked around the
singlewide, trying to think. How was this going to work?
“I don’t have any money,” I said. “I can’t
pay you rent. Not until I get a job. Gary never put my name on the bank
account.”
“What the fuck, Marie? Rent?” Jeff asked
again, shaking his head. “This is your house too. I mean, it’s a shithole, but
it’s
our
shithole. You don’t pay rent here.”
I smiled at him, a real smile this time.
Jeff might be a stoner who spent ninety percent of his life playing video
games, but he had a heart. Suddenly I felt such incredible love for him that I
couldn’t keep it in. I dropped the ice and launched myself at him, giving him a
fierce hug. He wrapped his arms around me awkwardly, returning it even though I
could tell it confused and frightened him a little.
We’ve never been a touchy-feely kind of
family.
“I love you, Jeff,” I said.
“Um, yeah,” he muttered, pulling away from
me nervously, but he wore a little smile. He walked over to the counter, opened
a drawer and pulled out a little glass pipe and a baggie of weed.
“You want some?” he asked. Yup, Jeff loved
me. He didn’t share with just anyone. I laughed and shook my head.
“Pass. I’ve gotta start job hunting
tomorrow morning. Don’t want to flunk a drug test.”
He shrugged and walked into the living
room—which was also the dining room, the entryway and the hallway—to sit on the
couch. A second later his ginormous big-screen TV flickered to life. He clicked
through the channels until he hit wrestling, not the sport but the kind where
they wear funny costumes and it’s like a soap opera. Gary was probably watching
the same thing back at our house. Jeff took a couple hits and then set down the
pipe and his favorite death’s-head Zippo on the coffee table. Then he grabbed
his laptop and flipped it open.
I grinned.
Jeff’d always been the shit when it came to
computers. I had no idea what he did to earn money—although I suspected he did
as little of it as he could get away with and not starve. Most people, Gary
included, thought he was a loser. Maybe he was. But I didn’t care, because
whenever I’d needed him, he’d been there for me.
And I’ll always be here for
him
, I promised myself. Starting by getting the place cleaned up and buying
some real food. So far as I could tell, the man lived on pizza, Cheetos and
peanut butter.
Some things never changed.
Oh, and everything she touches turns to
utter chaos and drama.
Jeff doesn’t flush the toilet either, but
for some reason it didn’t bother me as much. Probably because he’d not only
given me the bigger bedroom, he’d also shoved a surprisingly large wad of bills
into my purse that first morning and kissed me on the forehead for luck when I
went out job hunting. I needed to find work despite sporting a nasty bruise on
my face from Gary’s little love tap.
“You’re gonna kick ass, sis,” Jeff said,
rubbing his eyes. I was touched he’d gotten out of bed to see me off. He wasn’t
exactly a morning person. “Buy me some beer on the way home? And some of those
coffee filter thingies… I ran out, and now I’m outta paper towels too. I don’t
know if TP will cut it and I need my caffeine.”
I winced.
“I’ll take care of the shopping,” I said
quickly. “And the cooking,” I added, glancing toward the kitchen sink, which
was piled high with dishes. And pots. And something green that might just hold
the cure for cancer…
“Great,” he muttered, then turned and
stumbled back toward his room.
Now it was two weeks later and things were
looking up. For one, I’d made enough progress in the house that I wasn’t afraid
to sit on the toilet any longer, or use the shower. My next project was the
yard, which hadn’t been mowed in at least two years. I’d also gotten a job at
the Little Britches Daycare, which was run by my old friend Cara’s mom, Denise.
Cara and I had fallen out of touch when she’d gone to college, but I’d seen her
mom around occasionally and always asked after her. Cara’d worked her way
through law school and had a job in New York at some hot-shit firm. Her mom
showed me pictures sometimes and Cara looked like a TV lawyer to me, all
designer suits and fancy shoes.
Not me though. I’d had grades as good as
hers, but I’d been in looooove with Gary, so I blew off college. Great
thinking.
Anyway, Denise asked cautiously if I was
still with Gary, eyeing the foundation I’d spackled over my bruise. I told her
about my new living arrangements and that was that.
So I had a job now and while it didn’t pay
much, I liked working with the kids and had even started doing some babysitting
in the evenings for different families who brought their children to Little
Britches during the day. Jeff loved having me around because I cooked and
cleaned and did the laundry. I’d done all that for Gary too, but he never said
thanks.
Nope, he just bitched about how I’d done it
wrong.
Then he’d gone off and fucked his whore.
I got off work at three that day, so I came
home and made bread. Over the years I’ve perfected my technique—I start with a
basic French bread recipe, but I add a ton of garlic, Italian herbs, five
different kinds of cheeses and an egg-white glaze. The recipe makes two big
loaves and I planned to serve it with spaghetti topped with fresh tomatoes from
Denise’s garden and my signature spinach salad. Of course we couldn’t even come
close to eating that much bread, but I planned to take the second loaf to work
tomorrow for the girls.
Denise had a huge garden behind the center,
and she’d told me to help myself. I planned to take advantage of it as much as
I could before the season turned. I had this fantasy that I’d do some canning
but it probably wasn’t realistic. I’d left all my equipment at Gary’s place,
and I wasn’t ready to go back there. He hadn’t gotten in touch with me since I
left (which made me happy), and I’d heard around town that he’d already moved
Misty Carpenter into our bed (which made me want to puke).
I liked to think of Misty as THE WHORE,
which I wrote in all caps for all emphasis whenever I texted someone.
I set the bread out to rise on a tray on
our old picnic table outside and decided to get going on the weeds around the
porch. It was hot, so I popped on a bikini top (which I must say, I filled out
nicely, despite my smallish cup size). I grabbed some old work gloves I’d found
in the shed and poured myself some iced tea, rolling down the windows on my car
so could I blast the radio. Then I set out to commit some serious acts of
violence against all weed-kind.
