Reaper, p.16
Reaper, page 16
But I can’t just stand here, clenching my hands like I’m still figuring out how my appendages work.
I have to do something.
I grab the coffeepot from under the drip, even though it's not done brewing, and pour her a mug. "Here. Take this and go sit down. I'll handle breakfast."
She looks at me as if I’ve just told her I'm planning to juggle flaming chainsaws. "You cook?"
"Among other talents you haven't discovered yet." I nudge her toward the small dining table. "Go. Sit. Drink your coffee and let me take care of something for once."
“Take care of something? You’re taking like I need someone to take care of me—”
I hold up a finger, which escalates the intensity of her stare. Normally, it’d be enough to shut me up, but I’m determined to do something, and she clearly looks like she needs someone to take care of her, or else her head will explode trying to figure out what the fuck is really going on between us. Is it just fucking? Is it something more?
“Don’t start. Just sit, drink coffee, and fucking wait.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but I'm already moving, pulling open cabinets and checking what's available. Flour, butter, eggs — enough to work with. My hands know what to do before my brain catches up, muscle memory kicking in from all those early mornings in Tank's kitchen when I was still trying to figure out how to be human again after getting clean.
"You learn a lot of unexpected shit when you're trying to stay sober," I call over my shoulder, already measuring flour by feel. "Tank — one of the guys from the club — used to be a baker. Well, he was and still is a baker. Says working with dough is one of the few times in life where he really feels peace. Can’t say I disagree with him. It sure as fuck helped me."
The familiar rhythm of mixing, kneading, shaping settles something jagged in my chest. This is something I can control, something I can make right. I can't fix what we're walking into with Volkov, can't promise either of us will make it out alive, but I can make her breakfast. I can give her this small thing.
I work quickly, my hands moving through the motions Tank drilled into me until they became second nature — croissant dough, rolled and folded with precision, and danish pastry, delicate and buttery. The scent of baking fills the kitchen, and for the first time since I woke up and realized the emotional minefield Adriana and I are walking through with our fucking eyes closed, my shoulders aren't locked with tension.
When I turn around with the tray, Adriana's staring at me like I've grown a second head. The croissants are golden and flaky; the strawberry and cream cheese danishes are glazed to perfection.
"What the hell?" she says. “What the fuck did you just do?”
I set the tray in front of her, trying not to let her see how much I need her to like this, how much I need to be good at something that doesn't involve violence or destruction. "Try one."
She picks up a danish and takes a tentative bite. Her eyes go wide, then narrow with what looks like genuine anger.
"These are fucking delicious," she says, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I hate your fucking guts for making them this good."
Something warm unfurls in my chest, better than any high I ever chased. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She takes another bite, closing her eyes like she's savoring it. "Where the hell did you learn to bake like this?"
"Tank always said baking was just chemistry with better results." I pour myself coffee, lean against the counter. "It took me a long time to learn that lesson. Time that I spent mostly being handcuffed in his bakery, but eventually, I figured it out.”
“This guy kept you prisoner?”
“Yeah. Basically.”
“Was it a sexual thing?”
“No. He helped save my life,” I say. I hesitate, going back to that time in my mind; how fucked-up I was, how deep in my addiction, how Vanessa was still alive. “Kept me from relapsing. I sucked at baking at first. My pastries looked like rejects from a high school science class’s dissection project, but eventually, I got good enough that Tank said my pastries were ‘not total shit.’”
She takes another bite, smiles. “Fuck, if only more rehab programs took your brother Tank’s advice. Maybe he could train people or…”
I laugh. “He’d take your head off if you suggested that to him. He hates everyone except for his ol’ lady Bianca.”
“And you?”
“Tolerates me, maybe. Though I think there’s a part of him that still hates me, too. It’s just his nature. Just like how there’s a part of me that will always be an addict.”
She takes another pastry — a croissant this time — then takes a bite and moans. “I might be an addict, too. Goddamn, Reaper.”
I can’t help but grin, seeing the tension in her eyes and her hard edge soften, just a little; she’s still Adriana, she still looks about as friendly or approachable as a rabid pitbull, but that’s a step up from how she looked earlier. “Have another.”
“Fuck you. I will.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, the tension from earlier slowly dissolving with each bite. I watch her face relax, the hard lines around her eyes softening as she works through a second croissant. There's something almost vulnerable about the way she's savoring each piece, like she's not used to someone taking care of her.
"This is weird," she says finally, not looking at me.
"The pastries?"
"No, asshole. The pastries are fucking delicious. I mean this. Whatever this is…" She gestures between us with her coffee mug. "Having someone make me breakfast. I've never... I mean, guys don't usually..." She trails off, shakes her head. "Forget it."
But I don't want to forget it. "Never had a guy make you breakfast before?"
Her cheeks flush slightly. "No. I'm usually the one who handles everything myself. Food, coffee, planning, execution. I don't let people take care of me."
"How's it feel?"
She considers this, taking another sip of coffee. "Good," she admits quietly. "Strange as hell, but good."
I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. Something warm and satisfied settles in my chest, knowing I gave her something she's never had before.
"I see that smug look on your face," she says, glaring at me over her mug. "Fuck you."
"Just glad you like it."
"Don't let it go to your head." But there's no real heat in her voice, and I catch the hint of a smile she's trying to hide.
The moment stretches between us, comfortable and dangerous at the same time. I could get used to this — mornings with her, making her breakfast, watching that armor she wears crack just a little. But reality crashes back in when I remember where we are, what we're up against.
"We can't stay here much longer," I say, the words tasting bitter after the sweetness of the pastries.
Her expression hardens immediately, all business again. "I know. Every hour we're here puts Susan and the shelter at risk. Volkov's still hunting us."
"So what's our play? We can't just walk up to his front door and ask nicely for him to stop being a murdering piece of shit."
She leans back in her chair, studying me. "We need three things if we're going to take him down. Muscle, weapons, and access."
"Access?"
"To his operation. His safe houses, his money, his people. We need to know where he is and how to get to him without walking into a trap."
I nod, my mind already working through the possibilities. "The muscle and weapons part... I might have a solution."
"Yeah?"
"Tank." The name comes out reluctant, heavy with complications I don't want to explain.
"Your baker friend who kept you handcuffed?"
"He's more than a baker. He's my brother in the MC, and he and the club have connections. If he and a few of my brothers came down here, fuck, we could take the fight to Volkov, maybe.”
“So stop hesitating. Call your friend and get him down here.”
I hesitate. Lose myself for a moment in a Danish and my cup of coffee. “There’s a problem.”
“What?”
“The club’s got resources. They’ve also got rules. A code. One you do not fuck around with… And the way I left things with them, disappearing down here to die… Well, Tank might just decide to track me down and make that happen himself.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Adriana
“So, the choice is to call one guy who might want to kill us, for help against another guy who definitely wants to kill us?” I pause; he nods. “Sometimes I wonder why the hell I tied myself up with you…”
My words trail off, and despite my best efforts, my cheeks color; he sees it — his pupils widen, just a touch, as does his smile — and he knows why, too.
Fuck me, catching feelings for a man like Reaper.
But these fucking pastries… I take up another, a Danish that oozes strawberry and cream cheese perfection, pop it into my mouth, and suddenly find this whole unpalatable situation a lot tastier.
And those eyes and the heart that I see behind them.
Fuck, I make terrible decisions.
Then I take another bite — these fucking pastries.
“Call him,” I say. “Even if he comes after you, I’ll have your back.”
I don’t know why I added that last part, but it feels right. And wrong. I tell myself it’s just to ensure I have more breakfasts like this in my life. No one’s made me breakfast before, not since I was little, and there’s something both comforting and disconcerting about having someone take care of me. I want it; I want Reaper, and it scares me how right that feels.
Reaper pulls out his phone, and I watch his jaw tighten as he scrolls through his contacts. When he finds Tank's number, he hesitates for just a second before hitting call.
"Tank." His voice carries the careful tone of a man walking into a minefield. "It's Reaper. I know I fucked up, and I — "
Even from across the kitchen, I can hear the explosion of rage that cuts him off. Tank's voice blasts through the speaker, a torrent of profanity that would make a sailor blush. Words like "motherfucking," "piece of shit," and "dead to me" filter through the tirade, along with some creative combinations I've never heard before.
Reaper just takes it, his knuckles white as he grips the phone. When Tank finally pauses for breath, Reaper jumps in.
"I deserve all of that," he says quietly. "I know I do. But I need help with Ruslan Volkov and the Russian mob in Sacramento."
The silence that follows is worse than the yelling. Then Tank unleashes a fresh wave of creative vulgarity that includes something about Reaper's brain being "piston-fucked by a rabid wolverine" and questioning whether he has "shit for brains or just a death wish."
"Both, probably," Reaper admits, and I'm surprised by the raw honesty in his voice. "Look, I'll pay whatever cost you want. I'll take whatever punishment. But there's someone important mixed up in this now, and I can't let anything happen to her."
My heart does something stupid in my chest. The way he says it — like I matter more than his own safety — hits me harder than I expect. I try to push down the warmth spreading through me, but it's like trying to hold back the tide. The intensity of what I'm feeling for this broken, dangerous man terrifies me.
Tank's voice drops to a growl, and I catch fragments about "pussy-whipped" and "thinking with your dick," but underneath the crude insults, I hear something shifting. There’s respect and understanding buried deep beneath the avalanche of rage.
"She's not just some piece of ass," Reaper says, his voice gaining strength. "She's... she's good, Tank. And if something happens to her because of my shit, because of what I owe Volkov..."
He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. The weight of his guilt, his intense desire to protect me, hangs in the air like smoke.
Another long pause. Then Tank's voice, still rough but less hostile: "Fuck me sideways, Reaper. You really stepped in it this time."
"I know."
"Volkov's not some street dealer you can intimidate. He's connected, organized, and meaner than a snake with hemorrhoids."
"I know that too."
"And you're asking me to help you go to war with the Russians. I’ll have to sell this to Rabid. Fuck you, you gutter-rat piece of shit, that means I’ll have to have a long fucking conversation with the prez. Might even have to figure out how to sell it at church with some PowerPoint or whatever the fuck people who give presentations have to do. You’re asking me to talk to people, Ricky. You’re fucking lucky I love you like a brother."
“It’s Reaper now, Tank.”
“You’ve got a road name now? You ain’t just Ricky? It on your cut, yet?”
Reaper pauses, swallows. “Left my cut in Ironwood Falls.”
“I know. Found it at your place. I wanted to see if you’d be man enough to own up to your shit.” There’s a pause, a heavy pause, but Reaper doesn’t flinch.
He clears his throat instead. “I came down here to kill myself, Tank. Didn’t want to dishonor the patch by dying in it that way. But I’ve got my head together, thanks to the help of someone important.”
“What’s the name of this ‘someone important?’”
“Adriana… Adriana Ruiz.”
“Ruiz? Wasn’t that Vanessa’s…” Tank says.
I look away from Reaper in that moment — it feels wrong to watch the pain on his face, wrong to be looking at the man I’m falling for… the same man my sister fell for not that long ago.
“Yeah. She found me… she was going to kill me. Then, well, things turned out differently.”
“Fuck — is your cock magic or something? Don’t answer that. Listen, I’ll talk to the club and, either way, I’ll come down there myself… I want to see for myself the shitstorm you’ve stirred up. It’s been a while since I’ve felt genuine awe. You’ve got talent, Reaper.”
“Thanks, brother. You’ll bring guns?”
“Fuck, of course I’ll bring guns. Have you forgotten who I am?”
“Tank… I owe you. And… thanks for answering the phone. I’m lucky to have you as a brother.”
“Yeah, yeah, love you, too, you asshole.”
He hangs up. “You heard all that?”
“Your brother Tank really knows how to project his voice,” I say.
“Well, whether he comes down with my brothers or by himself, that gives us manpower and weapons. Tank’s a fucking army on his own.”
“And he bakes…? Does he wear an apron, too?” I say.
Reaper nods. “Sure as fuck does. And don’t even think about teasing him about it. He will retaliate with overwhelming force, to literally quote him and how he prefers to deal with his enemies. And it’ll be hard, too, because I’ve seen him wear an apron with all the Muppets on it — it was a gift from Bianca. It had the ‘Swedish Chef’ muppet front and center.”
“Got it. Don’t tease the giant killer about his silly aprons.”
“I’m not kidding. He won’t hesitate, even though he knows you and I are…“
We are what?
A thrill that I love and hate runs through me as my mind races to fill in the blanks. Just what are we? I want to speak up, to ask Reaper what he thinks we are, and I feel so fucking ridiculous for wanting that. Ridiculous and weak. What am I, a girl in high school passing notes back and forth with the boy she’s got a crush on — check ‘yes’ if you like me?
Fuck, did I just say I have a crush on him?
I clear my throat. “Since you’ve helped us out with the manpower and weapons problem, I think I’ve figured out how to get us access.”
Reaper takes a giant bite of croissant, then leans forward, crumbs decorating the edges of his curious smile. “Oh? How?”
“It’s going to be difficult, and it’s going to take some time, but I think you’ll like the first step. We’re going to have to go out for dim sum.”
“Dim sum? We just ate. Are you saying you’re still hungry?”
I shake my head, grinning. “I’m not hungry at all. But I know how we can work up an appetite.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Reaper
Sitting in our stolen ride, my head is spinning harder than if I’d just injected something potent into my veins. My body feels lighter than any high I’ve ever had, too. Moaning, I look over at Adriana as she sits in the driver’s seat. She smiles at me, then licks her lips. I moan again, reach down between my legs, feel I’m growing hard once more. How, I have no fucking clue — she already drained me after breakfast so thoroughly I feel dryer than the Sahara, but somehow, just that look she gives me has me ready to go again.
“Contain yourself,” she says, grinning.
Grinning. A genuine fucking smile that lights her face up like a star in the sky. Something that’s joyful, playful, sensual — not predatory, not like some fucking vengeful agent of justice about to take my head off.
It’s a smile that takes me back to better days.
It’s a smile that makes me think better days could be ahead of me, too.
I clear my throat, trying to focus on something other than the heat radiating from her skin. "So where exactly are we going for this dim sum adventure?"
Her eyes light up even brighter, and she shifts in the driver's seat, suddenly animated in a way I've never seen before. "There's this place in Chinatown - Golden Dragon. It's always packed with locals, especially the older generation." She pauses, biting her lower lip as if she's trying to contain her excitement. "The thing is, I want to listen in on conversations. See if we can pick up any intel about Triad connections, maybe find a way we can use them to get close to Ruslan. You know, the enemy of my enemy sort of thing."
I raise an eyebrow. "We’re going to listen for gossip? You think they’ll just talk about that with us around?"
She ducks her head, almost shy, and there's this bashful smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "That's the thing - nobody ever expects a white girl like me to understand what they're saying. I can sit there, eat my dumplings, and catch all the gossip floating around the room. You would be amazed at the stuff people will talk about when they think you can’t understand them. I cracked a few cases in Chicago, just taking in fucking brunch, because the assholes didn’t know I spoke Mandarin and they just straight up fucking bragged about the kidnapping ring they ran, or the big fucking shipment of heroin they were taking in. It was… it was fucking fun to hear them confess, then just straight up fucking bust them in their own language."
