Men all over the room voiced their approval. Deke shook his head, and Ruger knew him well enough to realize he was pissed. He’d been beat, and Deke wasn’t used to losing. And Toke? He was practically vibrating, he was so pissed off. At least he kept his mouth shut—kid like that had no business speaking here.
“We’re all gonna pay for this,” the Portland president said. “But we’ve hashed it out. No reason to keep talking at this point. Let’s vote and get it over with.”
“Anyone got a problem with that?” Shade asked. Ruger shot a look at Toke, concerned. Nobody spoke up. “Okay, then. All in favor?”
A chorus of “ayes” echoed around the room, which held close to forty men.
“Opposed?”
Only six guys disagreed, four from Portland and two from Idaho Falls. No surprise, Toke was one of them. That was unfortunate, Ruger thought, given Hunter’s location. Not that he gave two fucks about the man, but he liked him better than any other Jack he’d met. What he’d told them about the cartel added up—it was a big problem, one they’d have to deal with sooner or later. Ruger didn’t want their shit in his territory, and neither did his brothers. Might as well let the Jacks be their cannon fodder.
“We gonna have a problem here?” Shade asked Deke bluntly.
“They keep out of our way, we won’t have a problem,” Deke said after a pause. “Right or wrong, we’re Reapers. We stand together.”
“Gonna hold you to that, brother,” Shade replied.
“The girls have been workin’ hard, putting together food for us,” Picnic said, rising to address the room. “Pig won’t be ready for another hour, but the kegs are tapped. Thanks to everyone for comin’ up here. We always appreciate the company. Reapers forever, forever Reapers!”
“Reapers forever, forever Reapers!” echoed through the room, rattling the windows. Toke didn’t look happy, but Ruger knew he’d do his part. Men stood to talk, some heading downstairs to the party, others standing in clumps.
“A word?” Picnic asked Ruger before he could escape. He stopped, turning to his president.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Em’s pretty hungover this morning,” Pic said, eyes speculative. “How about your girl?”
“Not my girl,” Ruger grunted. “And no idea—didn’t go home last night.”
“Really?” Pic asked, raising a brow. “That ’cause you had business here or ’cause things are fucked up at the house? Em seems to think they’re fucked up. That gonna be a problem for the club?”
“Em sure talks a lot,” Ruger said, narrowing his eyes.
“Em still hasn’t figured out she can’t fool her daddy when she’s drunk,” Picnic said. “It’s useful to me. She seems to think you’re claiming this girl for your property. Says you told her she can’t talk to any other guys. What’s the story?”
“Not sure that’s any of your business,” Ruger replied, his tension growing. “Sophie knows the situation and so do I. That’s enough.”
“That’s great, so long as we don’t have any misunderstandings,” Picnic said. “If she’s yours, fine. She’s not? Lot of guys here today, guys who aren’t usually around. You can’t explain the situation to me, how do you plan on explainin’ it to them?”
“Won’t be a problem,” Ruger replied, his voice firm. “Made things clear to her and she knows what she needs to do.”
Picnic eyed him thoughtfully.
“Send her home,” he said. “Bring her around for a family party, start small. See how it goes. This is throwing her into the deep end and that’s gonna backfire on you.”
“Scare her off, you mean?” Ruger asked. “That might be best. I don’t know what the hell I want with her—”
“You want to fuck her,” Picnic said bluntly. “You can tell when your dick gets hard, did you know that? Probably tough for you to understand, seeing as most of the time you’re just jacking off, but most men like to stick their cocks—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Ruger said, wondering whether it’d be a bad move to punch out his president in front of so many witnesses. Probably. Might be worth it.
Picnic laughed.
“So you gonna send her home?” he asked. Ruger shook his head.
“I send her home, she wins,” he said. Picnic raised a brow.
“What is this, junior high? You’re the man, lay it out for her.”
Ruger took a deep breath, forcing himself to think instead of just lashing out. He needed a good fight or something, some way to blow off the tension. There’d be boxing later. That would do it … hopefully.
“I lay it out, she wins,” he admitted finally, scowling and running a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. She called me on my bullshit and I can’t talk my way out of it. I make her leave, it’s like I’m saying she was right about the club being dangerous and a bad influence for Noah. Not to mention making me look like a fuckin’ pussy in the process, because I can’t handle having her around.”
“One, you’re a dumbass,” Picnic said. “Two, she’s right. Club is dangerous for an unclaimed woman, particularly tonight.”
“I get that,” Ruger said. “That’s why I’m gonna protect her. You got a cure for the dumbass thing? That part’s kickin’ my butt, gotta admit.”
“Nope,” Pic said, clapping a hand to Ruger’s shoulder. “But I know something that’ll make you feel better about the situation.”
“What’s that?”
“Pulled pork sandwich,” Pic replied. “Beer. Then—if you’re smart, which I’ll admit is a stretch—you’ll take your girl somewhere and fuck her ’til she can’t walk straight. She may win, but who gives a damn, ’cause she’ll be suckin’ your cock for the foreseeable future. I find that works wonders.”
“You’re a fuckin’ asshole.”
“I get that a lot.”
SOPHIE
I wasn’t horribly hungover the next day, but I wasn’t eager to start drinking again, either. This was probably just as well. Despite my alcohol-fueled tough talk, I really didn’t want to make trouble at the party. I Googled the address, then drove out to the Armory early that evening, after I dropped off Noah with Kimber. She’d ended up spending the night on my couch, waking up more than a little worse for the wear.
I suspected she’d be in bed about five minutes after she got the kids down.
I was nervous driving out to the party. The Reapers’ clubhouse was a couple miles off the highway, toward the end of an old state road. I passed a group of four motorcycles headed for the highway, ridden by men dressed a lot like Ruger. Tattoos, jeans, boots, and black leather jackets. Loaded saddlebags.
They didn’t appear to be happy campers.
The building itself surprised me. I guess I hadn’t expected the Armory description to be so literal, because this was an honest-to-God converted National Guard building. Three stories tall, walls built to withstand tanks, and an enclosed courtyard with a gate big enough to drive a large truck through.
There were quite a few people there already. Lots of guys, all of them wearing their distinctive colors. They had different states or towns on their lower patches, but the Reapers’ symbol and name were the same.
Unsurprisingly, there were lots of motorcycles, but also quite a few cars, most of which had been parked in a gravel lot off to the side. A younger guy wearing a cut without very many patches waved me over in that direction, so I pulled in next to a little red Honda. Four girls who’d clearly been drinking for a while poured out. They were young, slutted up, and ready to party. Last night I’d noticed that the club women weren’t afraid to show off their bodies—Dancer rocked a pair of jeans and backless top in a big way—but the Reapers’ old ladies looked somehow more classy and confident than this bunch.