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“It could or it could not. Tell me the answer and I’ll decide.”
Pursing my lips, I glare at him, but before I can attempt to come up with some bullshit response, the blond guy who was outside my window appears beside the viking in my doorway.
“Yes, Emmett, you found the hot one. Good looking out, man,” he says triumphantly, patting his friend on the arm as he steps into the room. “Looks like we’re good to roll out now that everyone of importance is dead.”
Surprised, my heart lurches in my chest as I point a finger in their direction. “Everyone of importance isdead?” I repeat, the words foreign on my tongue as I blink with confusion.
It’s the viking’s turn to smile wickedly as he places his gun in the holster at his waist. “Yup. The Reapers are done. Whatever protection you were getting here, whoever kept your bed warm at night, they’re all. Fucking. Gone.” He says it almost tauntingly, but he doesn’t realize the euphoria that bursts through my body.
I keep my emotions locked down as they both eye me. “That’s good to know. I’ll make sure to let myself out when I’ve gathered my things.”
“Nah, sweet cheeks. Pack a bag. We’re in need of a new club whore, and your fine ass is coming with us.”
* * *
With my arms banded around Blondie’s waist, I enjoy the wind whipping against us, but it feels strange as hell to have someone upfront.
I ride alone, always, but clinging to a man I don’t fucking know, putting trust in him and his ability to handle his bike, I can see a little bit of the enjoyment in being the passenger.
My nerves haven’t dwindled, not for a second, and every minute we get closer to his club, the more uncertainty I feel in my decision to play along with being a club whore. I will do whatever it takes to survive, but no two clubs are completely alike. Ever.
As much as I hated the Reapers, I have no idea what I’m walking into, but it’s better I step through those doors as a club whore than myself. It’s clear they know nothing about me, no one ever does, but now that every Reaper of importance is dead, it’s an opportunity to start fresh. It may not be the one I was reaching for, but I can keep myself afloat for now at least.
This gives me time to figure out a proper plan and a chance at a real future. There will be no looking over my shoulder by the time I’m done, no one giving me orders, and it sends a zing of empowerment through my veins.
If that means being a club whore for a day or two, then I can work with that. I’ve known enough of them to play the part. I just hope they haven’t brought along any of theactualclub whores, or else, I’m fucked.
The bike slows as someone holds a metal gate open for us. And the Ruthless Brothers’ clubhouse comes into view.
Here goes nothing.
I lift my leg over the bike, unclipping the helmet Blondie insisted on giving me. The sun is setting, offering an almost poetic glow to our good-for-nothing town, but like always, I pretend I’m not stuck in fucking Jasperville.
I won’t be for much longer.
A convoy of bikes drives into the compound, and I check the back of each one to make sure there are no other girls here but me. When I’m sure I’m alone, my shoulders relax a little.
“You make a good passenger, sweet cheeks. You ride often?” Blondie asks as he strokes a finger down my spine. A reaction bubbles within me. A reaction I don’t want to admit to, so I squash it down and turn to face him.
“I have my own, and I ride it whenever I get the chance.” I fold my arms over my chest, putting an invisible barrier between us. He doesn’t take the hint for personal space as he slings his arm around my shoulders and pulls me toward the doors along with everyone else.
I can’t get a read on the vibe in the air. There’s anger, a rage rippling through them all, with a heaping of victory too. Clearly, they’re just as pleased as I am by the demise of the Reapers, a loss I’m not sulking over in the slightest, but it feels like all of that blood still didn’t calm the fury surrounding them.
Blondie reaches the front of the men, making us the first to swing the doors open, and my spine stiffens, unsure of what the reception will be like, but an uproar of cheers are what greets us as women, children, and men clap, stamp their feet, and bang their fists on whatever surface they can get their hands on.
“Three cheers for the Ruthless Brothers,” someone calls out as we step further into the room, and everyone does just that, hooting and hollering in delight at the downfall of the Reapers and the triumph of the Brothers. “Three cheers for our new Prez.”
My body stiffens at the fact that there’s someone new in charge here, an uncertain time in my childhood threatens to rise to the surface, but instead of dwelling on it, I focus my attention on seeking out the new Prez.
Nudged into the middle of the room, a bottle of bourbon in one hand and the other waving around at everyone to calm down, I come face-to-face with Ryker Holden.
We’re a small town, where everyone knows the Prez and VP for every club, even if you’re not a part of one yourself. I know his story, the passing of his father and how he came to be VP. It's talked about enough among the Reapers, or it was at least. Now there’s no more hearsay. Only facts and truth as it plays out before me.
“We’re a family, we cheer for our family, we celebrate as a family, and we survive as a family,” he states, sending the room into utter silence. His brown hair is messy from his helmet, and his green eyes sparkle with pride, but the way he runs his tongue over his upper lip tells me he’s not completely engrossed in this moment.
“Here, here,” an older man calls out, making everyone smile, and Blondie’s arm around my shoulders tightens.
“With that being said, things are about to get filthy up in here, and I wouldn’t want to ruin the pretty eyes of our old ladies and the children. So, get the fuck out.”
