Down to my Bones (Reapers MC: Ellsberg Chapter Book 1) Read online

  DOWN TO MY BONES

  BIJOU HUNTER

  Copyright © 2018 Bijou Hunter

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmosphere purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  For more information about this series and author, please visit her website.

  Cover

  Photographer: ArturVerkhovetskiy

  Source: DepositPhotos

  Cover Copyright © 2018 Bijou Hunter

  Dedication

  To my three baby boys who are no longer babies

  My beyond patient mom

  Jenn for Meow Meow and sniffing sexy men

  My betas Debbie and Sarah

  &

  Judy’s Proofreading

  Book Summary

  Miranda Johansson is having a helluva week. First, she meets the man of her dreams. Then, someone tries to kill her. No way will Cooper and Farah’s second born daughter ever be the same.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THEIR STORY BEGINS

  QUAID, AKA THE OUTSIDER

  THE ODDBALL

  THE CHAPTER WHERE FRICTION HAPPENS

  THE ODDBALL

  THE OUTSIDER

  THE ODDBALL

  THE OUTSIDER

  THE CHAPTER WHERE SHIT GETS REAL

  THE OUTSIDER

  THE ODDBALL

  THE OUTSIDER

  THE ODDBALL

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE OUTSIDER TAKES CHARGE

  THE ODDBALL

  THE OUTSIDER

  THE ODDBALL

  THE OUTSIDER

  THE ODDBALL

  THE OUTSIDER

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE ODDBALL ISN’T IN KANSAS ANYMORE

  THE OUTSIDER

  THE ODDBALL

  THE OUTSIDER

  THE ODDBALL

  THE CHAPTER WHERE EVERYONE IS NAKED

  THE ODDBALL

  THE CHAPTER WHERE ASSHOLES DOUBLE DOWN

  THE ODDBALL

  THE OUTSIDER

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE PIECES FIT THE PUZZLE

  THE OUTSIDER

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE STORY ENDS

  THE ODDBALL

  THE OUTSIDER

  THE ODDBALL’S FAREWELL

  THE OUTSIDER’S FAREWELL

  A FINAL WORD FROM THE ODDBALL

  MY PERFECT DRUG QUICKIE

  ABOUT BIJOU

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THEIR STORY BEGINS

  MIRANDA, AKA THE ODDBALL

  I’m known for two things. The first is being the daughter of Cooper and Farah Johansson. Not the oldest daughter. That’s goody-goody firstborn Lily. I’m not the youngest daughter either. That’s Daddy’s girl Audrey who ditched him and our hometown so she could marry a giant man with likely enormous plumbing. I have a brother too. Stuck between Audrey and me, Colton basks in the many benefits of being the only son in a powerful family. Then there’s me. The daughter who isn’t Lily or Audrey. Yeah, that’s me.

  The other thing people know about me is how Uncle Tucker dropped me on my head when I was a baby. The story changes about how old I was and just how hard I landed. In one version, he swung me around, and I bashed my noggin into walls rather than the floor. In another version, he threw me so high in the air that my head collided with the ceiling. Startled by the accident, my uncle forgot to catch me, and I landed on my noggin.

  While these scenarios seem farfetched, my uncle is known for lacking intelligence and common sense. It’s the birth order thing. My firstborn pop has a sharp mind and is a born leader. From day one, he was primed to take over the family’s legal (and illegal) businesses. Tucker came along soon after. The second-born son was dumber and less intimidating. My gram and pop-pop then had two girls over a decade apart. They babied Bailey before babying Sawyer later on.

  Stuck between the family’s future king and two princesses, Tucker must have been downright desperate for attention most of his life. His favored way of seeking it was by acting like a hyper toddler. Tucker talks way too loudly and starts trouble over the smallest slights. Obviously, at some point, he accepted that his only shot at attention was through being as obnoxious as possible. If anyone could turn a game of airplane with a baby into dropping her on the head, it’s my uncle.

  I’m genuinely sympathetic to his situation. Second born equals second place. However, I feel he went about dealing with it in the wrong way and not just because he ended up dropping me on my head.

  In first grade, I discovered a better way. It was a normal day in every other way. After Mom brought Lily and me home, Pop asked about our day.

  “I got a perfect score on my spelling test,” Lily said in her perfect Lily voice. “I even got the bonus word correct.”

  Mom hugged my sister and put the test on the fridge for posterity. Pop then asked about my day.

  “I got five right and drew a cat on the back,” I announced damn proud about my depiction of the cat I wanted that year—orange tabbies were my obsession in first grade.

  Without missing a beat, Mom hugged me and added my test to the fridge next to Lily’s. I quickly realized I didn’t need to accomplish as much as my sister to receive just as much love and attention. True, I didn’t know back then how people thought I might be a little “off” because of my head’s encounter with the floor. I only figured my parents loved me and my cat drawings. I did always get the whiskers perfect.

  Second best was fine with me. Later, I learned I could be full-on stupid and shockingly weird, yet people would always give me slack. After all, I did get dropped on my noggin, and I was trying my damnedest.

  Tucker worked too hard to accomplish too little when he could have coasted through life if only he accepted he’d always be second place. Or third or fourth. Basically, the key to happiness was recognizing how he would never win. I embraced losing long ago, and I’m the happiest person I know.

  An adult now, I do what I want, never tell anyone anything, and act stupid whenever caught in an awkward situation. Just last week, I ate Colton’s sandwich and pretended I hadn’t realized it was his even though he took the time to write his fucking name on the wrapper. My brother steals my stuff all the time, and he always admits he steals it. That’s the power of being the golden child. I play the game differently.

  “I don’t understand,” I said when he yelled at me for eating his sandwich.

  Standing over me, he growled, “Don’t understand what?”

  “I thought the sandwich was in the fridge.”

  Hands on his hips and dark eyes flaring with rage, Colton flinched in response to my words. Then he glanced around the kitchen despite us being alone. No one would help him deal with me. We were alone as he yelled at his cuckoo sister over a sandwich. His inner turmoil played out on his face while I stared blankly. I watched Colton come to the realization that he could always buy a new brisket and cheese footlong, but there was no buying me a new brain.

  He walked away without saying another word while I got my revenge for his thieving. Ah, the joys of being the forgotten child. Uncle Tucker really missed out by not living in the background.
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br />   For the most part, the people in my hometown of Ellsberg leave me alone. True, many of them can’t tell my sisters and me apart, though I don’t think we look much alike. Still, when the locals know I’m me, I’m afforded a wide berth.

  Adding to my odd reputation is the job I do at the shelter. I’m often seen cleaning up road kill on the side of the road. Nothing says wacko like driving around on my moped with a cargo trailer stacked with trash bags full of dead animals.

  I prefer people to leave me alone when I’m working. Our local animal control has three employees. One runs the office. The other runs the animal area. A vet comes by a few times a week to off unwanted or sick animals. My job involves picking up dead animals and occasionally live ones. The police handle citations and rounding up the big or vicious animals. I’m not taking down a bear or pit bull, though I always pack heat. Pop raised me to assume everyone was a threat. I was nineteen before I stopped fearing the elderly and children might attack. I still fear anyone in between six and sixty, though. It’s what Pop would want.

  This is my life. No one bothers me, and I don’t bother anyone.

  Until today…

  Just as I’m about to scoop up a dead raccoon and add him to my stash, a vintage black Harley comes to a loud, rumbling stop in the middle of the small road I’m standing on. My family runs the local motorcycle club, and bikers are a dime a dozen in this part of Kentucky.

  This man is a stranger, though, so I casually unsnap my gun holster at my hip. If I need to take a shot, I don’t want anything slowing me down.

  The motorcycle’s engine falls silent, and the rider watches me. He’s a bear of a man. Rough with wild hair barely controlled by the backward red cap he wears. He looks the way Pop does when he goes shooting and wants to use a scope. Does this man enjoy target practice too? I spot the butt of a rifle sticking out from the back of his bike. Is he looking for a place to hunt or shoot bottles? Or is he looking for a victim to take into these woods?

  I size up the stranger from his busted-up thick black work boots to his faded camo pants. I notice the way his washed-out black shirt barely constricts his buff chest. He’s the type of guy my pop recruits into the Reapers Motorcycle Club. I know this man isn’t one of the local guys. Based on his little smile, I bet he isn’t from another chapter of the Reapers either. Club men don’t hit on Johansson women. Well not unless they’re suicidal. Pop made us off-limits long ago.

  “Watcha doing?” he asks, climbing off his Harley.

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Like you’re cleaning up road kill.”

  “So what else could I be doing?”

  “Can’t someone else clean that up?”

  “Why someone else? Why not me?”

  “You’re awful pretty to be cleaning up dead animals on the side of the road.”

  I reach for my hair without thinking but then see my gloved hand. Touching dead animals and then playing with my ponytail isn’t a sanitary combination. Leaning on my shovel, I take my time studying the man. His arms reveal tats, but I can’t tell what they are. Is he from a rival biker club? Should I pull my gun and end him now just to be safe? If it turns out he wasn’t an actual threat, I could always act confused when people ask why I shot him.

  Of course, I can also act confused right now and see if he goes away. I stare at him, having left my sunglasses in my bag. His eyes are hidden behind black shades, and a smile still lingers on his lips. I stare at him in the blank way I stare at people. Seeing past them, I appear lost in my own world. This move rids me of quite a few problems. Whether out of pity or irritation, people tend to walk away and leave me be.

  “What do you plan to do with Mister Raccoon there?” he asks, prowling closer but remaining still a distance away.

  Still staring, I don’t respond. His confident smile widens.

  “You aren’t planning to eat him, are you?”

  Frowning at how he refuses to catch my very obvious hint, I lift my shovel and examine the sharp edge. If he gets a few feet closer, I could do a decent amount of damage. The shovel isn’t a kill move, but Pop would approve of me using what was handy. He often points out how bullets ain’t cheap.

  “We’ve got money,” Pop says all the time, “but not so much that we can be pissing away cash on wasted bullets.”

  Pop mostly tells this to Colton who enjoys shooting from the back porch. When we were teenagers, he used to shoot at squirrels. Then I knocked him off the back porch, and he fell ten feet to the ground below and snapped his butt bone. I didn’t even know people had bones in their butts, but we do, and he fractured his. Afterward, Colton promised to stop shooting at animals, and I vowed to stop trying to kill him. Neither of us has broken our pledges either. Though more than once, I did consider hitting him with something that would—almost—kill him. Despite the temptation, I’ve kept my word to avoid killing him.

  “What’s your name?” the stranger asks.

  “Bill.”

  “Naw, you’re too damn cute to be a Bill.”

  “Fine, Rando.”

  “Naw, I don’t think that one is right either.”

  “Well, then you’re fucking wrong,” I say, swinging the shovel threateningly.

  “A woman like you ought to have a lovely name to match her lovely face.”

  “What, like Heather?”

  “Nice enough name, but it doesn’t fit you. I’m trying to put my finger on what would suit such a fine lady as yourself.”

  I notice him moving as he pretends to think of a suitable name. He strides along the gravel road, not approaching me, nor retreating. He paces a little like our dogs do when they want to come inside during a rainstorm. This man isn’t restless, but he’s most certainly on a mission.

  “Miranda,” he says, snapping his finger. “That’s the name for a face like yours.”

  Pounding the ground with the shovel, I glare at him. “If you know who I am, why are you giving me grief?”

  “I didn’t reckon I was.”

  “Did you reckon how my father would feel about you talking me up on a deserted, backwoods road where no one could hear me scream?”

  “Your father might not appreciate my interest, but a man like him can’t accept how his girls need space to breathe.”

  “That’s what you’re doing here then?”

  “I’m talking to you is all, Miranda.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Don’t you approve of the pretty name your parents gave you?”

  I turn away and scoop up the raccoon with my shovel. With his little arms frozen in the air, I imagine the animal’s last thought was to ask God, “Why?” Did he learn the answer in Heaven where raccoons eat trash to their hearts’ content?

  Once the bag is tied, I find the man standing in the exact same spot. He’s a patient fucker, and my blank stare isn’t doing the trick.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Quaid.”

  “Is that your first or last name?”

  “Both.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Like Kramer,” he says and then adds when I only frown, “From ‘Seinfeld.’”

  “Pop doesn’t like us watching Yankee TV.”

  “I don’t believe that’s true.”

  “What do you know, Quaid?”

  “I heard him once quote Chandler from ‘Friends,’ and you don’t get more Yankee TV than that.”

  Curious now, I quickly drop the bag in my trailer along with the shovel. I remove my gloves and squirt sanitizer in my hands. Finally, I take a step closer to Quaid.

  “What was the quote?”

  “Could you be more fucking dead?”

  “He does like to threaten people,” I say, pulling my gun from my holster and casually holding it downward. “How do you know him exactly, Mr. Quack?”

  Chuckling at my choice of names for him, he shakes his head. “I figured it was a fifty-fifty chance you’d remember me. You were extremely disinterest
ed in the grill-off.”

  “So you’re in a Reapers chapter?” I ask, squinting as if the gesture might help me place him. “I know you’re not Ellsberg.”

  “Shasta.”

  “I hate Shasta,” I immediately say, thinking of the nothing town in the Kentucky hills.

  “I could tell you weren’t happy to be there by how you kept trying to feed potato salad to the birds.”

  “Is it disappointing to learn I don’t remember you at all?”

  “When the guys beat me into the club, they yanked out a good chunk of my hair. I had to buzz off the rest. I was still growing it back when you came out to Shasta. So better for you to meet me with my mane intact.”

  “Is that why you didn’t talk to me at the party?”

  “Are you asking if I’m shy?”

  “No, I’m asking if you feared my pop might play your bald head like a bongo drum?”

  “Well, I’m not shy.”

  “You’re obviously suicidal if you think Pop won’t rip out your hair for inconveniencing me.”

  “What am I keeping you from really? The raccoon got taken care of.”

  “How did you even find me?”

  “I heard you ride around these backroads. I’d say I got lucky, but I’ve been driving around them for two days hoping to run into you.”

  “Why do you want to talk to me, stalker?”

  “You know.”

  Tilting my head, I swipe hair from my face with the barrel of my gun. “Yeah, I know, but I don’t know why I ought to care.”

  “How often do men risk their testicles to share a conversation with you?”

  “A couple times a month actually,” I lie because lies are often more productive than the truth.

  “Oh, no doubt. But how many of them offer to take you to eat a secret meal in a nearby town where your family and the Reapers won’t spy?”

  “I’ll admit that’s a bit less common,” I say and shove my gun back into its holster. “Can I pick the place or do you want to show off your knowledge of this part of Kentucky?”

  “Would anyone in the entire world be impressed by such knowledge?”

  Unable to hide my smile, I shake my head and climb on my moped. “I’ll meet you tonight at eight at a place called Pickles in Paradise.” I start the engine and glance back at Quaid. “Good call on waiting to talk me up until your hair grew back. Bald men give me the heebie-jeebies.”