Lunchtime Chronicles: Carolina Reaper Read online

  “Will you stop being cryptic and tell me how you know him? He’s never going to tell me because he has the built-in big-brother gene that makes him believe he needs to protect me from everything. He thinks I don’t know about the times he beat up my ex-boyfriends, or the background checks he runs on them. My ex-boyfriend Kevin treated me badly one too many times, and Major put him in the hospital and would have probably killed him if I wouldn’t have asked him not to. So, please, tell me something.”

  The low ache of desperation in her tone made it sound like she was tired of always being left in the dark about situations.

  “I belong to a motorcycle club called the Hell Reapers. Me, my brother Micah, and our oldest brother, Elijah, started running the MC after our father was killed. Elijah was voted president and me and Micah, chairmen.”

  She eased closer to get a better look at my face.

  “Not that we expected them to do anything, but the criminal justice system didn’t do much to track down our father’s killer because of the perception of our MC and reputation. Even if they had done something, it wasn’t going to stop us from avenging our father. Me and my brothers banded together and pooled our resources to find our father’s killer. The killer turned out to be a cop.”

  She lifted from her pillow, her eyes growing wide against the moonlit glow in the room.

  “Settle down, little lady. Your brother wasn’t the cop who killed our father. Your brother and I ended up in the same place because the cop who killed my father was the same one that killed yours.”

  The revelation caused her to suck in a deep breath.

  “There’s not much more to tell, just that Major and I have been aces ever since. He even kept Elijah from getting a murder-one charge for homicide when we were twenty-six. Managed to get the charge down to manslaughter for six years versus the twenty-five-to-life the opposing council was going for. Micah was voted in as president when Elijah went to prison, and thanks to Major, E will be coming home in three months.”

  She was positioned the same as me now, on her back, with her gaze aimed at the ceiling.

  “It took my brother years to admit to me that the man who killed our father was never going to prison,” she said. “When he told me he’d killed him instead, I thought I’d be upset, but I wasn’t even surprised. Our father was a good cop, but the cop who killed him was a member of the good-old-boys system, and sometimes, they have a way of skating through the system untouched. My brother never told me about you or your brothers, but if he gave you his word that he would never tell anyone, then that anyone included me.”

  She could handle more than I gave her credit for. If she knew that her brother had taken out their father’s killer, then she was a lot stronger than Major was giving her credit for. We didn’t speak another word afterward, and I eventually picked up on her labored breaths as she’d drifted off to sleep.

  ***

  Zyana

  So warm and fresh. And solid. And comfortable. “Mmm,” a low moan tickled my throat and lured me from the comfort of my half-conscious state. My lids fluttered open to me nuzzling my face against the warm surface of—oh shit!

  My head was not on this man’s chest. My leg was not slung across his. My pussy was not shoved up against his muscular thigh. His shirt that I wore was not lifted enough to flash him my whole damn hip. He did not have his hand wrapped around me like I had slept this way. He was not staring at me with that big ass grin on his face.

  “Good morning. Sleep well?” he asked, tugging me closer to nail home the fact that I was all up on him.

  It was taking a lot, and I do mean everything I had, not to jerk away from him. The big arm he had wrapped around my body was also keeping me in place.

  My hand. Ole dear Lord in heaven, my hand was not on this man’s junk. When he reached down and sat his hand atop the one I had sitting on his exceptionally large and ridiculously hard package, I jumped.

  “I think I’m starting to understand the true reason why your brother has never introduced us. All this chemistry. We may as well stop beating around the bush and fuck already.”

  I jerked away after that comment, yanking my hand from under his and off his hard bulge. I shook off the weird pull his possessive craziness had on me. The man was all levels of insane. No filter, no chill, just shameless. All I could think was, how long is it going to take my brother to straighten out this trouble so he can rescue me from this madman?

  Chapter Five

  Zyana

  It wasn’t hard for me to admit to myself anymore that I enjoyed the way Israel felt pressed against me. His scent, a heady mix of rosewood, soap, and leather added with the way his muscles flexed against the parts of me that touched him, drew me in.

  My arms were looped tight around his muscular torso and all I could think was, Strong. Powerful. Masculine. I was mindful not to piss him off because he didn’t mind upgrading his crazy to insane. The memory of him zip-tying me and jumping into the shower with me last night flared. It was a blaring reminder of how over-the-top he could go.

  Now, after making a quick stop to purchase some clothes and toiletries for me, we rode on his bike in the noon sunlight to an unknown location. The only information he gave was that the compound we were headed to was off the grid, someplace they called Ground Zero.

  An hour and a half later, I was in the middle of nowhere, being led into the heart of swamp territory. We coasted along a raised one-lane road cut between wetlands thick with trees and natural wildlife. The road led us deeper into the swamp where the insects chirping and buzzing grew so thick, it acted like an extra layer of clothes.

  The trees swayed on a breeze blown in off the burning heat of the sun, hot, but flirtingly refreshing. Moisture from the humidity didn’t cling to my skin as it had the night before, here, it merely kissed along the surface, gently reminding of its presence. Moss hung from willowy tree branches like long strains of wild hair that swayed lazily against the breeze. Among the trees, the surface of the ground waved as the unique mix of vegetation rode the lazy billowing currents of the water beneath it.

  The motorcycle decelerated as we approached a ten-foot-high metal fence fortified by trees, vines, and the thick foliage born of the swamp. Although I didn’t have a visual of what was behind that thick wall of vegetation and metal, I could sense the impregnable state of the area, and feared I was in for more insanity than I may have been able to handle.

  As soon as we were within a few feet of the fence, the metal began sliding apart so that we could enter. Instincts told me to glance up, and when I did, I choked down a gasp as it appeared the trees were moving in formation like the creature from the legendary movie classic, The Swamp Thing, had come to life.

  The fire didn’t die down on my flared-up nerves because the sun’s exploring rays bounced off the metal barrel of a big machine gun. It took me a wild-eyed moment to make out the smiling face hidden within the camouflage outfit that was made to blend into the surroundings. The costumed man waved and had the nerve to wink.

  “Welcome back, Snake,” he called down before standing to his full height.

  Snake?

  Another gasp escaped when two more well-camouflaged men unexpectantly moved, giving away their positions and appearing to materialize out of thin air.

  One was on the ground standing next to the gate, and the others stood above us on either side of the open portion of the gate. They stood on what I could now make out as guard towers that the vegetation had naturally hidden.

  We drove past the gates, and my first sight was more trees and thick undergrowth as we coasted along a narrow dirt road. The tree’s wispy branches reached across the road to hug each other, providing a uniquely beautiful tunnel passage.

  “You go by Snake?” I questioned Israel, peeking around his sturdy shoulder and talking over the engine’s steady roar.”

  “Snake is short for Snake Eyes.”

  Like that’s any better, I thought, before the na
me on the back of the boat flashed in my mind.

  Why do you go by Snake Eyes?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say, when they see me, they have rolled the dice on their lives and come up snake eyes. If you’re not a friend and meet these eyes—” was the unfinished answer he gave. I left that one alone. After about a half-mile, a clearing started to take shape up ahead, and I could make out buildings.

  When we broke the tunneled passage, my lips parted, and my eyes feasted. I forgot all about the crazy man I was snuggled up to on the motorcycle because my attention had been snatched.

  “Beautiful,” I mouthed. Nature’s living beauty shattered the misconception I had formed in my head about swamplands. This was like being on an island surrounded by three distinctly different natural settings.

  A body of dark water sat waving on my right. The expansive stretch of land before me was a mix of woods and small patches of scattered clearings. To the left was a mix of trees and foliage so thick, I couldn’t see the water I sensed hidden below the undergrowth.

  The land produced fat towering trees, and the large areas of solid land presented grass so dazzlingly green, it appeared that carpet had been laid on the ground. Modern-day, well-constructed log-style cabins were spread spaciously over the area. Motorcycles appeared to be the only form of vehicles that existed within this natural metropolis.

  We passed by the first cabin, big and spacious with a wraparound porch. At closer inspection, I noticed that the large opening in front gave me a view straight through the entire building as it was a pavilion where they must have had gatherings. This compound was its own small city with enough visual stimulation to have my thoughts going a mile a minute. How big was this place? Did all of this belong to the crazy man sitting in front of me?

  Nearly every man we strolled past wore all black and the same black leather vest as Israel. They resembled a bunch of big, darkly-shrouded ghosts ready to hunt someone’s soul. The sight of them gave life to why they were called Hell Reapers.

  We rolled along at a snail’s pace, which allowed me time to take in and appreciate the beauty of the area. I loved the way some of the cabins were set within the landscape, like the builders had been careful not to disturb the natural setting too much.

  This place was more like a biker’s retreat than a compound, as Israel had called it. Cabin after cabin breezed across my view, some sitting off the body of water and others that sat great distances away so that only the tops were visible. The deep smile on my face had yet to fall.

  I’d always lived in the city, and the closest I’d come to visiting the countryside was on a few road trips with my girlfriends in college. I was so taken by the scene that it took the noise and vibration of the motorcycle stopping to break the trance.

  We had parked at one of the cabins, and Israel was off the bike in a flash. He reached to help me off, casting a stern eye on me, I assumed to gage my mood. As soon as my feet touched the ground—

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  The noise vibrated through the air and sounded like a giant beating his bass drums. My heart ended up in the pit of my stomach, and I didn’t know whether to duck or run. The tight grip I had taken of Israel’s arm wasn’t lost on him or me. His gaze dropped to his watch before he glanced towards where the shots had come from. He finally let his gaze fall to meet my expectant one.

  “Just the boys getting in a little target practice for the day. No need to be afraid.”

  That was easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one being inducted into the outlaw way of life.

  I hadn’t let go of his arm, didn’t plan to, knowing that armed men were shooting nearby. The three burly men heading in our direction didn’t help my nerves either because they reminded me of escaped convicts.

  “Snake,” they all spoke at once, tipping their heads in our direction. Their big bodies and dusty, worn boots were enough to make the ground shake with each of their steps. Curious eyes left Israel and landed on me. Their stringent stares had me tightening my grip on Israel’s arm and taking a step closer so that I was damn-near behind him. I decided then and there that I was better off with the crazy I knew.

  “It’s okay. I need them to see you with me. They need to know who you are property of so that they will not touch or even approach you.”

  Property of, I mouthed silently. “Did you just say that I’m your property?” I asked. The tension of being in his world was lessening because my attitude was starting to heat up.

  He chuckled. “Try not to take our terms so literally. Trust me, if I claim you as my property, it keeps you safe in this world, and it will earn you a level of respect that some women have waited months, and in some cases years, to gain from us.”

  The tension in my face and cocked gaze kept him talking.

  “When a patched member claims a woman as their property or old lady, it’s as good as him marrying her. It means no other member will touch you unless they are given permission to. It also means they will protect you like you’re a member of this family. There are not many women on this compound, but the ones that are, I can assure you, are happy. An unclaimed woman to us is nothing more than a piece of ass that usually gets fucked by any member that wants her. We call them CP, and we never bring them anywhere near this compound.”

  “CP?” I questioned with a deep dip in my forehead, fighting to understand this unique sub-world.

  “Community Pussy,” he replied. My eyes shot up high on my forehead. “Calling a woman your property is bad enough, but there are women who actually let you call them community pussy?”

  “You have to keep in mind that we don’t live by outside rules. We live by our own codes and laws. Pussy is never in short supply. The women that deal with us know our rules—some hang around when we are in town or have an event just to say that they’ve been fucked by a Hell Reaper.”

  While my brain was attempting to breakdown the lessons Israel was schooling me on, more men, who looked like they’d been sprung from hell, were walking by. They looked like they weren’t opposed to skinning me and having me for dinner, and not in a sexual way either.

  “You coming to church tomorrow?” one of the men called back to Israel over his shoulder. “Yeah, I’ll be there,” he answered the man.

  Israel laughed at the obvious confusion in my expression.

  “Church is our club meetings,” he answered without me having to ask. The subject of me being his property popped right back to the surface.

  “Is that how things work around here? You lay claim, and the rest of the members respect it?”

  “I’ve never brought a woman home before, so your presence is a shocker. And yes, the way I’m letting you hold onto me, they know to keep their distance. The only thing I haven’t done yet is patch you.”

  “Patch me?”

  He tugged on the leather vest he wore. “To officially claim you as my property, I’ll have to make you a cut similar to mine that labels you ‘Property of Hell Reapers, Snake Eyes.’”

  Was there a cheat sheet to this world that I could borrow? The best I could do at this point was keep an open mind and follow Israel’s lead since I didn’t have any other choices.

  “Am I safe here?” I questioned as we walked, and more men marched by, speaking and staring.

  “As long as you’re with me,” he replied, and I couldn’t tell if it was warning or mischief sparking in his gaze.

  At those words, I released the grip I had on his arm and looped my arm around his. If their MC had a strange, this-woman-is-claimed thing going on, I was willing to pretend my ass off as long as I wasn’t left alone with any of these killers. I was stereotyping them, profiling—whatever, they fit the part. So did Israel, but he’d at least proven that he could be trusted not to rape and kill me.

  We marched up four thick wooden steps into the cabin we had parked in front of, and the sound of heavy metal, Cemetery Gates by Pantera, stabbed at my eardrums. A bar? A packed one that appeared as well-stoc
ked with people and alcohol as any I’d frequented in the city.

  Billowing smoke, flying curse words, a heavy dose of testosterone, and deadly, well-built men filled the place. Israel had been right about there not being many women as the ratio appeared to be ten men to every one woman. And the women that were there all wore smaller versions of the black leathered cuts that the men wore.

  Were the men required to have a certain physique to be a part of this motorcycle club? It damn well appeared that way. I hadn’t seen a man yet that was under six feet or less than two hundred pounds. I hadn’t spotted another person of color either, which might explain why the atmosphere felt like it had frozen on the earth’s rotational spin whenever eyes landed on me with Israel.

  We strolled past the bar into the heart of the place to the far back wall where a poker game was taking place. The table was littered with beer bottles, sweating glasses of waiting alcohol, and big bodies huddled and concentrating on their cards.

  As soon as a set of light-green eyes like Israel’s landed in our direction, there was no mistaking that this was his brother.

  “Snake Eyes,” he called, slapping his cards on the table. His gaze raked over his brother before they latched on to me, scanning me like a laser device that could see down to the bone. I hadn’t heard anyone call Israel by his given name yet, and attempting to escape the green eyes that had trapped mine was useless.

  “Who’s that you have with you?” the man with the intense gaze asked.

  “This is Zyana, Major’s sister,” Israel answered. The man’s face creased into a tight pinch, and I easily read the silent question he mouthed, “Major has a sister?”

  Although no words were spoken, Israel cast a glance around the bar, causing the people to pause and acknowledge the private introduction. It appeared they’d been put in a trance spurred by a silent call I didn’t understand. The music, although loud with Drowning Pool screaming, “Let the bodies hit the floor!” didn’t affect the connection or the acknowledgment that was being cast around the room. There was no doubt that Israel was telling this group that I was not to be messed with as eyes traveled back and forth between him and me.