Reaper's Fall
We’d arrived at the restaurant—which was really more of a pub than anything else—at seven thirty and had a decent dinner. The Bitter Moose wasn’t anything fancy, but the place had plenty of atmosphere. Sort of like one of those historical theme restaurants, but this was definitely the real deal. According to the article printed on the little paper menus in the center of each table, it dated back to the gold rush days, when it was a brothel. Later it was a hotel and now the owner lived upstairs.
By the time we finished eating it was nearly nine. The lights had dimmed and the music had gotten louder. Several couples got up and started to dance. To my surprise, Aaron convinced me to join them. It wasn’t all hot and intense and sweaty like a real club, but it was fun and when I checked the time a whole hour had passed.
“You want to take a break?” Aaron asked. I nodded. “Water or something heavier?”
“Water’s great.”
Our waitress had already cleared away our plates, but she’d left the water at the table and I took a deep drink, appreciating how low-key the date was. Felt good to relax. Aaron seemed less chilled, but he smiled enough that I decided not to worry about it.
“So you must’ve had Izzy when you were fifteen or something,” he said, leaning forward so I could hear him over the music. “Because you look way too young to be a mother.”
“I was twenty-one,” I said, feeling myself flush. “I’ll admit, it wasn’t planned, but I guess it’s worked out pretty well. I can’t imagine life without her. Do you have kids?”
He shook his head.
“Hell no. I was married right out of high school, though,” he said. “We were way too young—finally split up last year, although I’m still friends with her. Does that seem weird to you?”
“I can’t imagine being friends with my ex,” I admitted. “We fight all the time—doubt we could agree on the color of the sky. But I have to admit, he’s a fantastic dad to Izzy, and he helps me out a lot, too.”
“You still have a thing for him?” Aaron asked.
Yes.
“No,” I said firmly. “Absolutely not. I just try to stay out of his way. He’s . . . intense. But like I said, he’s a good dad to Izzy. He’s an artist.”
Aaron got a funny look on his face. “That’s weird.”
“No it’s not,” I said, strangely offended. “He’s amazing, a natural talent—he sells his paintings all over the country, and people hire him to do commissions, too.”
He held up his hands in mock surrender.
“I wasn’t trying to piss you off.”
Shit. What was wrong with me?
“Sorry, I guess it just struck me the wrong way.”
“No worries,” he said, although the look in his eyes was speculative. “You sure you’re not hung up on him?”
“It’s complicated,” I admitted awkwardly.
“Well . . . okay then. I guess I’ll get the bill,” he said. “We should probably get going anyway. I’m meeting someone at the party around ten thirty—he’s got something I need to pick up.”
“I want to use the restroom before we go,” I said, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut about Painter. The man wasn’t even here, yet somehow I couldn’t look at Aaron without comparing the two.
“Sounds good. Why don’t you do that while I pay,” Aaron said, reaching over to catch my hand. “Hey, are we okay?”
“Of course,” I said, giving him a smile that wasn’t quite real. “I’ll meet you out in the parking lot—how does that sound?”
“Perfect.”
He gave me a smile that I think was supposed to be seductive. My return one was significantly less so. Crap, how awkward was that? Here I was, out for the night with a perfectly decent man. Why didn’t I feel more for him?
Pisser.
Jessica and Sherri were going to be so disappointed by this one, I realized, because there was no way I’d be going home with Aaron Waits tonight. Hopefully things wouldn’t get too weird back at work.
He really was a nice guy.
Of course, the dentist had been nice, too. Ugh.
• • •
Callup was a picturesque little town.
Small. Like, seriously small, with an old-fashioned main street lined with all sorts of pretty stone buildings. It looked like something out of a very old newsreel, you know, the kind where you can see a few cars, but mostly horses and there’s no sound?
We passed through it slowly and then continued out along an old road for a couple miles before I saw a concrete-block building that’d seen better days. Parked in front of it was a long line of motorcycles along with several guys wearing leather vests. Then I saw a mural on the outside wall, one that looked suspiciously like Painter’s work. There was an image of a skull wearing a miner’s hat and the words “Silver Bastards MC.”
No.
Oh fuck no. This was bad—bad, badder, baddest.
We had to get out of here, because this was Puck’s club, and he was Painter’s best friend.
Oblivious, Aaron pulled to a stop at the far end of the gravel parking lot, well away from the line of what had to be club bikes. A guy wearing a prospect’s cut started toward us and I realized that I had about thirty seconds before my world imploded around me.
“We have to leave,” I told Aaron, without climbing off the bike. He turned to look at me, frowning.
“We just got here,” he said, confused.
“No, you don’t understand,” I said, feeling almost panicky. “This is an MC clubhouse. I can’t go in there.”