Reaper's Fire
“No, he already had the club under control when I finished my term,” Cord said, sighing.
Pic turned to me. “So why are you here and not standing outside Tinker’s window with a boom box?”
“Because I’m stupid, but I’m not that stupid,” I answered, shrugging. “Last time you told me to cool off before going to see her—I didn’t and things fell to shit. Even I can learn. I’ll go talk to her after I finish here.”
“You gonna bring her to the party tomorrow night? London wants to meet her. All the girls do, actually. You’ll be providing our entertainment for the evening.”
“In that case, I’m definitely not bringing her,” I announced, folding my arms and leaning back in my chair. Pic snorted, and I shook my head for emphasis. Then my president frowned.
“Ah fuck,” he said. “You win. We’ll be good, but for the love of God, bring the woman. Otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it. Consider that a direct order from your president, for what it’s worth.”
Raising my beer, I gave him a little salute, then looked to Hunter.
“You taking good care of our Emmy girl?” I asked. Hunter and Picnic’s daughter—Em—had been together for nearly two years now, and while the two men could stand to be in the same room together, I wouldn’t have called them close.
“Em’s gorgeous, like always,” Hunter said, grinning. “I’m a lucky man.”
“She pretty wild in the sack?” I asked, shooting a sly glance toward my president.
Pic stiffened. “Shut your fucking mouth. We’re not having a conversation about my daughter’s sex life. Ever.”
Mission accomplished. I took another healthy swallow of beer, then pulled out my phone to see what time it was.
“Think I’ll go check on Tinker before it gets too late.”
TINKER
GAGE: I’ll be at your place in 20 minutes so we can talk
ME: Tomorrow. Too much drama for one night
GAGE: I’m not going away Tinker. We need to deal with this
ME: Too tired. Grumpy. I have to be up early tomorrow anyway.
GAGE: 20 minutes
I dropped the phone on the couch, flopping back to stare at the ceiling. God, but I was sick of pushy men. Suddenly the strains of “The Imperial March” burst out of my phone, and I jumped.
You summoned him with your thoughts, I told myself darkly, reaching for the cell. Sure enough, Brandon was calling me, because I hadn’t suffered enough for one night. Some people die from weird, rare diseases. I’m going to die from a pushy-male overdose.
“Yes?” I asked, my voice sharp.
“Just listen to me,” he said. “Okay?”
I considered the request. “If I give you five minutes, once I hang up you don’t call again. Ever. All further communication goes through the lawyers.”
“Five minutes,” he agreed, although I knew him far too well to believe he actually meant it. Whatever. Worst-case scenario, maybe I could get a restraining order. That’d look just great for his campaign, now wouldn’t it? “I’ve been doing more research on your handyman. Did you know his most recent job was managing a strip club? The place was raided repeatedly, and—”
“He convicted of anything?” I asked.
“He’s a gang member,” Brandon insisted. “It doesn’t matter if he’s convicted of anything—we all know he’s guilty.”
“Huh, I’m not an attorney, but even I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works, Brandon. Innocent until proven guilty. Oh, and he already told me about the strip club. Not a huge surprise.”
Brandon fell silent for a moment.
“You knew about the strippers?” he asked, obviously shocked. “This isn’t like you, Tinker. What’s happened to you?”
“Brandon, you don’t know me anymore,” I said pointedly. “I’m not sure you ever did. Are we done?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Don’t hang up. Here’s the thing—I want to announce soon. It would be so much better if you were here.”
“No, it’d be worse, because the last thing you want is me telling all your supporters what a douchebag you are. How much you want to bet those nice people wouldn’t be so quick to back you if they knew you’d decided working was more important than your child dying?”
“It wasn’t like that—you had a miscarriage. I’m sorry, but women have them all the time.”
Did he just actually say that?
“Did you say what I think you said?” I asked sharply. For a man so good at reading juries, he wasn’t real bright.
“I’m sorry,” he replied quickly. “I didn’t mean it. I’m under a lot of pressure and—”
Whatever he said next, I didn’t hear it because I’d already cut off the call. I pulled a couch cushion over my lap, hugging it close.
He wasn’t going to make me cry again.
Not ever.
No matter how bad it hurt.
I’d survived my marriage, I’d survived losing Tricia, and when my mom passed, I made it through that, too. Brandon didn’t get to hurt me—not ever again. I was still sitting there brooding when Gage knocked on the door. Leaning my head back, I stared at the ceiling, wondering if he’d go away if I just ignored him.
No, probably not. He was almost as pushy as Brandon.
Of course, Gage hadn’t heartlessly abandoned me on the worst day of my life, so I guess he had that going for him. Biting back a hysterical laugh, I walked over to the door and opened it. Sure enough, a very determined-looking biker stood on my front porch.
“We’ll talk outside,” I said firmly, determined to stand my ground. When he didn’t move out of the way, I ducked under his arm, moving past him to lean against the porch rail.
“I’m sorry about Talia,” he said, studying me carefully. “Wish you’d waited for me, though.”
“I’d had enough drama,” I told him, shrugging, the memory of all those eyes watching me twisting my stomach. “And it’s not like we’re a couple.”
“My dick was inside you three hours ago,” he replied, eyes narrowing. “I don’t know what that makes us, but it’s fair to say we’ve moved past landlord and tenant. Usually when I take a girl out, I like to make sure she gets back home again safe. Hard to do when she disappears on me.”