Home > Devil's Game (Reapers MC #3)

Devil's Game (Reapers MC #3)
Author: Joanna Wylde

PROLOGUE

EIGHT YEARS AGO

COEUR D’ALENE, IDAHO

EM

“For f**k’s sake . . . they’re like weasels in heat. I’m gonna puke.”

I nodded, agreeing with my sister one hundred percent.

Barfing was the only reasonable response to this shit.

We stood in our dining room, which connected to the kitchen through a pair of pocket doors. Dad had Mom up on the counter, legs wrapped around his waist, his tongue so far down her throat it should’ve triggered her gag reflex.

“You do realize we’re watching you, right?” Kit asked loudly. Dad pulled away and turned his head to glare at us. Mom winked, but she didn’t have the grace to blush.

“Take another ten minutes to fix your hair or something,” he said. “Then come back down for breakfast.”

Kit growled next to me. She had Dad’s temper. I wish I did. I always followed the rules, and it kind of sucked. Kit called me a daddy’s girl and maybe she was right. But I just really hated pissing him off.

“It’s the first day of school and I don’t want to be late,” she declared. “You can screw each other any time, but this only happens once a year. I’m hungry.”

Dad stepped slowly away from Mom, turning toward us and crossing his arms. His faded tats told a hundred stories, and most of my friends were a little nervous around him. His black leather cut, emblazoned with Reapers MC colors, didn’t help. Lucky us—we couldn’t have a normal dad who worked at a bank or something.

Nope.

Ours had to be the president of a motorcycle club.

According to my best friend Quinn, Dad was a badass motherfucker, and she was right. I knew no matter what happened, he’d always be there for me. Secretly, I liked the fact that the Reapers would back him up. The sight of Dad’s tats and patches made me feel sort of safe, but I’d never admit it. None of that made finding him and my mom practically doing it in the kitchen any less disgusting. I mean, I made sandwiches on that counter. Now where was I supposed to make them?

“For once,” Kit said, narrowing her eyes, “would you please act like normal parents and just ignore each other during a meal?”

“Sounds boring,” Dad muttered, narrowing his eyes right back. Mom and I locked gazes, and she made a face. I hated this part—Dad and Kit could turn anything into a fight. Mom said they were way too similar, and I agreed. She was the oil that kept our family running smoothly, defusing situations before they got out of hand.

“I don’t like being bored,” he added. “Go do whatever it is girls do in the bathroom for a while, and then you can come back down. My house, my rules.”

I grabbed Kit’s arm, tugging her away before she fired back at him. She was only twelve and I was fourteen, but she always stood her ground. Sometimes that was a good thing . . . But she needed to learn to choose her battles.

“Just come upstairs,” I hissed at her.

“They’re too old to be screwing in the kitchen!”

“We’re not screwing,” Dad said. “But if we were, that wouldn’t be any of your business, either, kiddo.”

I dug my fingers into Kit’s arm, dragging her out of the dining room and up the stairs. I heard Dad laugh in the background, and Mom gave a little squeal.

“They’re so disgusting,” Kit said, flopping down on my bed. We had our own rooms, but she spent a lot of time in here because it was bigger. It also had a tree branch we could use to sneak out . . . Not that we ever did, but Kit had big plans for high school.

“I know,” I replied. “He’s right, though. It’s his house.”

“At least you aren’t stuck in dumbass middle school,” she said, sighing heavily. “I can’t believe you’re going to be gone! It’s not fair.”

“Only one more year and you’ll be there, too,” I said. Figuring I might as well take advantage of the delay, I studied my hair in the mirror on the waterfall vanity Mom had given me when I turned thirteen. It’d been hers growing up. I’d always loved sitting at it as a little girl, putting on her makeup and pretending to be a princess. “And I’m sure it won’t be that great. I mean, freshman year is kind of lame.”

“Beats the hell out of eighth grade,” she said. “But you won’t get to do much anyway. Do you really think Dad’ll let you go to any dances?”

“Of course he will,” I said, even though I had my doubts. Dad could be . . . intense . . . Kit opened her mouth to say something but then snapped it shut as we heard the roar of Harley pipes coming down the drive.

“What the hell?” I asked, going over to the window. Outside, six of the Reapers were pulling up—at seven thirty on a Tuesday . . . Not good. The guys in the club didn’t tend to be morning people.

“Shit,” Kit muttered. “Something must be going on.”

We looked at each other, and I wondered if she had the same sick feeling in the pit of her stomach I did. “Something going on” could mean anything in our world. Dad didn’t generally let club business overlap with family life, but I’d seen enough growing up that I couldn’t just pretend things were fine and dandy when a third of the brothers showed up without warning.

“I’m going downstairs,” Kit said, her voice grim. I shook my head.

“They won’t want us around.”

“Fuck that.”

• • •

We crept down the stairs like junior felons.

I expected to hear hushed voices, to feel the kind of tension in the air that only came when things fell to shit. Instead I heard men laughing and talking in the kitchen. We entered the dining room to find our uncle Duck sitting at the table as my mom brought him a cup of coffee. Dad sat next to him, along with Ruger—the very hot young prospect who’d been with the club about four months. I had to look away before I started babbling or blushing or something.

 

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