I'm With You (Reapers MC: Shasta Chapter Book 1) Read online

  I’M WITH YOU

  BIJOU HUNTER

  Copyright © 2020 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: 4pmphoto

  Source: Depositphotos

  Cover Copyright © 2020 Bijou Hunter

  ♪♪

  Dedication

  To SaMiJaMaLu

  My lovely betas—Sarah, Debbie, Carina, and Cynthia

  &

  Judy Proofreading

  &

  Light Hand Proofreading

  ♪♪

  Special Dedication

  To Sharon, for putting up a good fight

  ♪♪

  Book Summary

  Shane Campbell is a man obsessed once he sees Ramona Verhees from across the street. The only problem is she’s the bastard daughter of the club president the Reapers pushed out of Shasta leadership months earlier. Romancing her will stir up a whole lot of hurt feelings and dueling loyalties. Shane, though, refuses to be denied.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  NOTE TO READERS

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THEIR STORY BEGINS

  SHANE CAMPBELL, AKA THE ROMANTIC

  RAMONA VERHEES, AKA THE LEGACY

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THEY TRY AGAIN

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE FAPSOCKS BLEED

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THEY DISAPPOINT THE HATERS

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE CHAPTER WHERE BULLYING ISN’T THE RIGHT MOVE

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE CHAPTER WHERE TROUBLE LINGERS AT THE EDGES

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE CHAPTER WHERE HEADS ARE BUTTED

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE CHAPTER WHERE MISTER ROMANCE GETS AN EGO BOOST

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THEY GET BUSY IN THE DARK

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE LEGACY LOSES HER WAY

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE DARKNESS ALMOST WINS

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE CHAPTER WHERE TWO TEAMS UNITE

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THEIR STORY ENDS

  THE LEGACY

  THE ROMANTIC

  THE LEGACY

  OH, BY THE WAY, FROM THE ROMANTIC

  A FINAL WORD FROM THE LEGACY

  A FINAL WORD FROM THE ROMANTIC

  MY SILVER LINING SNEAK PEEK

  DAMAGED SERIES-RELATED BOOKS READING ORDER

  ABOUT BIJOU

  NOTE TO READERS

  “I’m With You” takes place before Down to my Bones (Ellsberg Chapter Book 1).

  The Road to Shasta

  There was once a great man who founded a motorcycle club, the Reapers, and built up a town, Ellsberg, for his young bride (Sunday Morning).

  One of the members of the club was an enforcer named Vaughn Majors (Damaged and the Outlaw). Another was Dylan Campbell (Damaged and the Bulldog).

  Dylan's children Shane and Shelby (along with Vaughn's son River) outgrew Ellsberg. The three struck out for Shasta, where they took over a club and started cleaning up the town.

  This is Shane's story.

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THEIR STORY BEGINS

  SHANE CAMPBELL, AKA THE ROMANTIC

  We came, we saw, and we brought the Cracked Skullz Motorcycle Club to their fucking knees.

  For decades, Shasta belonged to the twenty-strong biker crew. They ran drugs, guns, and women in northeast Kentucky. Shasta is nicely situated close to Lexington and Cincinnati, but not close enough to gain too much interest from the big city cops or state law enforcement.

  This town was prime for the picking. For decades, the Cracked Skullz warred off-and-on with another club—the Executioners—over this territory. The Skullz leader Fuse—Al Reiss—beat back the constant threats using every weapon in his arsenal.

  But the fucker never saw the Reapers coming.

  Fuse got one look of River Majors and figured he had the pretty hippie tagged. No way was this young blond fuck taking what the Skullz fought so long to keep. Big, mean, scarred Fuse planned to make an example of us that day in the parking lot of their clubhouse, Dirty Toes Saloon.

  “Behold the bitch looking to take what’s mine!” Fuse bellowed to the laughter of his rough, battle-hardened men.

  River stood relaxed. His shoulder-length blond hair hung loose. His shirt read, “Have a Nice Day,” and his smile screamed the same damn thing.

  Fuse sneered at the younger man. “Tell Cooper Johansson if he wants this town that he’ll need to take it himself. Instead, he sends a pretty skank to suck me off.”

  Running the Reapers Motorcycle Club in Ellsberg, Cooper wanted this satellite chapter and asked who had the balls to claim it for him. River hadn’t been sitting around waiting for his big chance, but he saw an opportunity and stepped up. That’s how he rolls. River isn’t a big planner—just an easygoing stone-cold killer.

  That day, he did look like a pussy. I told him as much before we left for the Saloon. River only smiled. He knows I’ll always tell him the truth, just as I’ll always have his back. It’s been that way since we were kids.

  Facing off with Fuse, River didn’t need to check to know I’d be ready for anything these assholes tried. He never considered sending a signal to my sister, Shelby, and our friend Taylor, who were watching the fight through rifle scopes. We’ve fucked people up together for years.

  Size-wise, the men weren’t far off. Over six feet tall and wide-shouldered, neither could use sheer brute force to win. It would come down to brains and skills.

  Fuse threw his giant fist at River, but it was no use. Nothing that fucker had in his arsenal would take down the younger, faster, better-trained man. River dodged the fir
st few moves, just to mess with the president of the club he was about to claim.

  Then he gave Fuse a double whammy of a roundhouse kick followed by a punch to the side of the head. I bet the cocky fucker’s ears rang as he hit the ground—shocked and humiliated. Before the asshole got any big ideas, River’s foot came crashing down on Fuse’s knee. His wail of pain was the official end of the Cracked Skullz Motorcycle Club.

  Sure, the other men awoke from their stunned silence. The VP—Chris Matteau, aka Cum Shot—attacked first. With black belt moves, River made quick work of him. Younger men took up the fight, but they ended up on their asses. One fucker near me grabbed a bat, but I got him on the ground and removed his weapon before my sister’s trigger finger could take over.

  One final asshole threw a punch at River and followed with a swipe of a switchblade. While his club brothers watched powerlessly, the guy they called Candyman struggled uselessly against River’s arm pressed against his throat. Soon, the biker was nothing more than a thing to be tossed aside.

  “Shasta belongs to the Reapers now,” River said in his usual chill tone. “If you’ve got a problem with that, better rent yourself a moving van. Anyone still wanting to wear a patch needs to burn their Skullz one and ride with ours.”

  River made killing look too easy, even to men who killed and died against the Executioners. Fuse was their guy, and he went down like a punk. River hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  Some former Skullz wouldn’t bow. A few left town while a couple suffered the same fate as Candyman. Cum Shot stuck around and ate shit, but we knew he was just biding his time for a magic fix to the situation the Skullz found themselves in.

  Fuse, though, refused to join the Reapers. He didn’t leave Shasta either. We figured he would start shit one day. River even wondered if Fuse might run to the Executioners to make a deal.

  Instead, four months after we took his club, Fuse’s Harley hit a wet patch and took a header off the Deep Six River Bridge. The asshole drowned. The rumor around Shasta was that we had him put down. We let the town believe that shit too. What do we care if Fuse’s bitch old lady and her allies in Shasta whine? Fuck anyone not loyal to new management.

  Well, that’s what I figured until my heart got set on a black-haired beauty.

  A few weeks back, I was at the Emporium to pick up donuts for Shelby. My sister requires very specific forms of sugar when she’s on the rag. As I waited for freshly baked goods—those sitting in the display case would never do—I caught sight of a woman waiting outside an ugly two-story brick building with the sign “Off the Rails” splashed across the top in bold red letters.

  With milky white skin in contrast to her midnight black hair, she reminded me of Snow White. Well, if the Disney Princess wore a T-shirt with “The Stooges” printed on the front, battered denim jeans, and scuffed-up Converse. Even at a distance, I knew she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

  But more than gorgeous, there was something vulnerable about her expression while she leaned against the wall and stared at the road. I didn’t know why she looked so sad, but I was willing to kill whatever problems she had. Without trying, she made me determined to improve her life. Preferably by using my cock in some way.

  Then before I could make a move, a black Ford Fiesta pulled over, and my Snow White got inside. The driver was a sweet butt named Kelsi. The only reason I remembered her name was because her thick bangs and big hair stood out in a sea of same-y hot women that frequented the Saloon. Kelsi always reminded me of those girls from the “Valley Girl” movie that my mom liked.

  After the vulnerable beauty joined a sweet butt who had sucked me off, I figured my instant obsession needed to end. I ought to just walk away and forget about her.

  Except the stalker gene runs deep in the Campbell family. I needed to know more about her.

  For days, I waited at Dirty Toes Saloon for Kelsi to show. I actually liked the clubhouse’s design with its dark wood and center of the room bar top. The place resembles the Irish pub my dad took me to when we visited Boston a year ago. These days, the Saloon is my second house—after the big Victorian we live in and before The Barnyard, where the Fearsome Foursome eats four times a week.

  I’d seen Kelsi at the Saloon constantly since I moved to Shasta. Of course, once I needed to talk to her, she took forever to drop by. When she finally showed up, I nearly tackled her before asking her to walk outside with me.

  “Wait, are we going to fuck?” Kelsi asked once we were in the wooded area behind the bar.

  “No, we’re going to talk.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m testing out the loyalty of the club sluts.”

  Kelsi’s interest in asking questions ended immediately. Sweet butts enjoy a weird celebrity status in Shasta. Old ladies brag about the rings on their fingers while the sweet butts brag about how many men consider them official side pieces. Having one of the Cracked Skullz deem a woman worthy to fuck on more than one occasion makes these chicks feel like superstars. The Skullz used to hand out colored bracelets to the sweet butts they preferred. The more bands on a girl’s wrists, the higher on the food chain she felt.

  Kelsi wore four different colored bracelets. No doubt, the thought of me cutting her off from her identity here at the Saloon was enough to get her to snitch on Ramona Alberta Verhees.

  “She’ll never date you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Kelsi said and snapped her gum. “No offense, but she doesn’t like bikers. Even if she did, you’d have no shot. But no offense.”

  “Why don’t I have a shot?”

  “You killed her dad.”

  And there was my problem. Ramona Verhees is Fuse’s bastard daughter. Her mother isn’t Coterie Reiss, but a sweet butt and the former president’s long-term side piece, Velma Verhees. And Ramona—like everyone in Shasta—thinks I had him killed.

  After talking to Kelsi, I decided to step back from Ramona, and the drama pursuing her would create.

  “Weak,” Shelby taunted at breakfast when I announced I was choosing the sane route. “Pussy.”

  Shelby is one of my closest friends and an honorary member of the Reapers. However, she’s also my older sister and worries growing up with her protection has made me weak.

  “You’re soft like a newborn puppy. And as blind as one too.”

  “So, what do you suggest?” I asked as she finished up her bowl of oatmeal and left it in the sink for the housekeeper.

  “I don’t know. Beg or something,” she said and then added, “Or stalk her until she submits. Whatever works, I guess.”

  Though I won’t beg, I do stalk Ramona by listening to her DJ on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday afternoons at the local radio station—Off the Rails. She plays a mix of punk, classic rock, local stuff, and indie music that needs to die. Even if the music isn’t always great, her sultry voice offers me company now that no other woman exists on my radar.

  I follow Off the Rails on Facebook to check when she’ll be on air. Ramona picks up extra shifts here and there over the next few weeks. One morning, I even get up at three a.m. to hear her voice. Ramona sounds half-asleep during that shift, and I wonder what she does to stay awake while the songs play.

  Also posted on Facebook, I locate several videos of Ramona interviewing shitty rock bands playing just outside of Shasta on the road the locals dubbed “Rock N Tits” because it’s lined with bars and strip clubs. She clearly loves music, asking real questions to a bunch of sweaty wannabes. They mostly flirt with her and try to sound deep. I am not a fan of that first part, and I ignore the second one. I only see Ramona with her black lips and heavily lined eyes. Less groupie than rocker chick, she shines in those moments. It’s when she’s alone outside the station, waiting for her ride, that I see the vulnerability again.

  “I’m fucking obsessed,” I admit to River one night. “I think of her constantly. I watch a movie and wonder if she’d like it. I eat a meal and wonder if she’d enjoy it. I can’t shake the need. I even pret
end she’s in bed with me at night just so I can stop wishing she was.”

  River exhales the skunk he’s hogging and finally hands over the bud. “You need to show her that you’re more than the biker who killed her dad,” River explains, sounding already stoned as we sit on the back porch of our creepy two-tone green Victorian house. We bought this place because of its eight bedrooms. My parents visit often. River’s too, plus six of his seven younger siblings. One of his brothers—Maverick—is an enforcer for our club and shares a house with Taylor.

  “How would I go about doing that?” I ask River.

  “Wham bam the chick. Run into her somewhere when you know she’ll be alone. Then chat her up. If she seems open to you, ask her to go get something to eat right then.”

  “What if she hears my name and recognizes who I am?”

  “No way will she know the name of the club VP. My name might ring a few bells, but no one ever cares about the VP.” We share a laugh at the truth behind his words. “But if she does, well, then you’re fucked and need another tactic.”

  “Shouldn’t I be straight with her right off the fucking bat?” I say, settling down as the pot hits me.

  “Have at it. However, if your honesty angle fails, you’ll always wonder if you should have been sneaky.”

  “But being sneaky might be what kills my chances.”

  “Not if you can get in nice with her first. I mean, shit, Shasta isn’t winning any beauty contests. There are so few hot people here. She’s got to know that too. Now, here you come with your thick head of hair and that slick beard and the good manners your mama taught you. Well, shit, this Ramona gal is bound to fall hard. Then when she claims you killed her daddy and you say you didn’t, she’ll have a reason to believe you.”

  “Being square with a woman feels like a better move,” I say, nervous that I’ll walk up to her with perfect lies planned, and she’ll already know the truth. More than once, she’s mentioned on air about a party where she’ll be DJing. I considered showing up, but people will know me even if she doesn’t yet. Kelsi swore she wouldn’t tell Ramona about my questions.

  “She doesn’t need to worry,” Kelsi told me, but I hadn’t thought to question her statement.

  I got the sense from Kelsi that Ramona doesn’t date. That part I liked. Now I wonder if she isn’t enough into guys to overlook the rumors about me.