Gentle On My Mind (Reapers MC: Pema Chapter Book 1) Read online

  Each time the woman regained her footing and lifted the boy over her head, I saw her losing faith. The water splashed against her mouth. Then, it was up to her nose. I held Grammy’s hand and prayed for a miracle. How could that tiny woman save herself and her baby?

  Then a woman—older and taller—jumped into the water on the safer side. The other people screamed for the second woman to come back. Why risk her life for a stranger’s? Despite their warnings, the older woman fought the current long enough to reach out.

  Right then, the smaller woman looked ready to go under again and likely for good. Before it was too late, her savior’s hand gripped hers. Even fighting the current, the older woman dragged the smaller one and the child toward her. The two women then worked to reach the shore. All three lives were saved.

  I felt as if I’d witnessed a miracle. While the second woman was brave, my heart viewed the smaller woman as the true hero. She never gave up, even when faced with insurmountable odds. The woman kept her head above water long enough to reach help.

  Afterward, my day-to-day troubles seemed insignificant. Even when Grammy died, and I felt alone, I remembered the tiny woman who I named Maria. I believed I could find my inner strength just as she had hers. Then, Husband stole my life and gave me a new one as his wife. Only then was my will to survive truly tested.

  For years with O’Meara, I had no name. I was just “Wife.” My title made clear the reason for my existence—to serve Husband.

  I often thought of Maria’s look of determination when she faced the rising river’s violent power. If she could hold on, I would, too.

  But I’m not sure I did. How does one use sheer willpower to survive suffocation? No, I most definitely died.

  Except I’m back in the Victorian my parents bought when I was a child. In the movie “Beetlejuice,” the dead couple was trapped in their beloved house. Is the Victorian my purgatory?

  Or did I keep my head above water by losing my mind a little? Is that why I think I died?

  I don’t want to be dead. Surviving means I’ve found a new family. Shelby isn’t nearly old enough to be my mom, but she pampers me as if I’m her kid. Not out of pity. Shelby prefers to coddle her loved ones. I see how she treats her younger brother.

  Ha, ‘younger brother’ makes Shane sound like a child! He’s a large, tattooed man and one of the merry band of bikers who busted through the back door of my prison. Shelby’s husband was another of my saviors. Filling a doorway with his tattooed muscles, Dean is bigger than Shane.

  Shelby’s best friend, River, was there that day, too. He’s the Robin Hood of Shasta’s merry band of bikers. River is a blond version of Shane, with longer hair and lighter eyes. They’re two big kids, playing and killing and wooing their women.

  The final man to save me is the main reason I hope I’m alive. If I’m not a ghost, I can win the heart of Maverick Majors. However, I don’t know if I could ever keep his interest. Right now, ghost or not, I’m no one. My tastes are not my own. I wear what I’m given, eat what is cooked, watch what is chosen. And I do it all with a smile.

  But with time and effort, I believe I can keep my head above water and mold myself into whatever Maverick desires.

  THE CHAPTER WHERE TABLES ARE TURNED

  THE SENTINEL

  Violet’s moods are often dictated by her location. Currently, she lives in three different places. Her parents’ former house—bought by my brother and his friends a few years ago and essentially abandoned by them now. Violet’s moods often spiral at the Victorian.

  Several nights a week, she stays at Shelby’s new house in the woods. Violet relishes the cuddling from her substitute mommy and the safety she feels from her surrogate giant daddy. She can spend hours playing with their toddler daughter, Kirby.

  Unfortunately, the woods often trigger Violet. When she gets freaked out at Shelby’s, my girl runs. Doesn’t matter if it’s pitch-dark or the weather is bad. She just keeps running.

  At the Victorian, Violet hides in the weird basement, where she talks to the ghosts of Barry O’Meara’s victims.

  When Violet’s mood turns sour at my apartment—where she bunks a few times a week in one of the spare rooms—she asks to go hunting.

  That’s what we’re doing tonight in a town twenty miles from Shasta in a honkytonk with half-naked women’s pictures adorning the walls. Violet wears her hunting outfit—tiny black shorts, a sparkling red shirt, and fuck-me heels. Her long blonde hair is pulled up in a sleek ponytail. Eyes colored with makeup and lips painted bright red, she looks like a hooker. Yet, as she sits at the bar, Violet plays cold to every man’s advances. She isn’t looking to hook up. My girl wants to make an asshole bleed.

  But she can’t do it alone.

  My four sisters were just out of diapers when they began ass-kicking training. After all, there are a helluva lot of steps between learning how to throw a punch and taking down a full-grown man.

  Violet skips many of them. She’s rarely aware of her surroundings and often gets distracted by the smallest things. On the hunt, Violet becomes a tornado of angry, fearful impulses. Like a baby vampire learning to feed, she wants the blood but has no idea how to catch her prey.

  A hunter, she isn’t, but Violet makes excellent bait. When she stumbles out of a bar as if drunk, there’s always one asshole willing to follow.

  Tonight is no different. From a distance, I watch the chunky, wannabe biker claim he just wants to party. He’s so busy lying that he never notices me. I move closer while he corners Violet between a car and the honkytonk’s wall. As he laughs about how she can’t escape, Violet’s blue eyes grow huge and fearful.

  I used to believe her desire to hunt was meant to work out her rage. But it’s really a way to face her fear. When she beats on someone—even if I’m holding the guy in place—Violet gets to be an avenger rather than a victim. While I don’t know if she sees O’Meara in the men’s faces, I do.

  Violet enjoys these nights out. There are times when she reminds me of my sisters with our dad. Violet was a good student before the Shasta Slasher stole her away. When she focuses on how to work a blade or a rifle, I see her learning in the same way my sisters did.

  But when Violet’s on edge like tonight, there’s nothing sleek or dominating about her attack. She punches and kicks until she hurts herself or gets tired. By the end, I doubt she even sees the man anymore.

  When it’s over, Violet just deflates. Rather than find peace, she resigns herself to her painful past and confusing present. I have no idea what she imagines for her future.

  “I don’t want to be your sister,” she mumbles after we stop by a late-night diner, where she washes her hands before we order a meal to share. “I want to be your woman.”

  Sitting across from her in the booth, I reply, “You are my woman.”

  “But we don’t even kiss,” she says as a waitress eavesdrops nearby.

  “Love is more than kissing. Just like punching a waitress in the face is more than fun,” I explain without looking at the woman. After the interloper catches my hint and gives us some space, I take Violet’s busted hands. “And I do love you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re hot. I know it’s shallow. Still, you’re so beautiful that I can’t take my eyes off you.”

  Violet smiles at this compliment. For any other woman, I’d start with another quality besides beauty. Violet, though, has been conditioned to view her looks as of the utmost importance. Once, during a particularly dark period, she believed I didn’t find her attractive. Her reaction was to try and slice her face with a kitchen knife.

  I think back to that ugly time when Shelby had recently given birth to Kirby, and people were moving out of the Victorian. Violet was already on edge with the changes. She wanted the world to remain the way it was when she was first saved. Back then, nearly a dozen people lived in the house with her. The constant chaos kept her sane.

  Once the world changed, the Shasta Slasher’s only surviving victim
lost the ability to pretend she wasn’t touched by his evil. Violet spiraled down a dark hole that I’m unsure she’ll ever return from. She still thinks she might be dead.

  Overwhelmed by a new baby and home, Shelby hadn’t known how to handle Violet’s wild behavior. So, the insanity festered. Eventually, Violet cut open her leg and prepared to stab out her own eyes.

  “I’m already dead!” she screamed.

  Until then, I’d kept back and allowed Shelby to take charge. I figured the last thing Violet needed was a man’s interest. Yet, seeing her on the verge of killing herself, I couldn’t wait any longer to step in.

  The darkness lurking in Violet’s mind proves to be too much for most people, but I don’t mind the crazy.

  “I also love your intelligence,” I say, glancing at the waitress still wanting to spy. “A lot of women are stupid, you know?”

  While the server is likely just bored, I can’t have anyone getting too cozy with my woman. Violet Navarro is believed to be dead or a runaway. Having people get too close and see her too well is dangerous.

  Right now, people in town believe she’s my sister—another blonde Majors with a V in her name. Once they catch on to the truth, we’ll need to leave Shasta. Violet will lose Shelby’s constant presence, and I’m not thrilled to join another Reapers’ chapter.

  But that situation is bound to happen. Whether tonight or a year from now, we’ll eventually need to leave Shasta.

  This waitress likely won’t identify Violet. Most people have forgotten about the beautiful blonde teenager who went missing years ago. Her disappearance was a blip in the news before the next tragedy entertained the masses. Though we should be fine tonight, I refuse to lower my guard when we’re out anywhere.

  “I love how you smile when you see children and animals,” I say when Violet notices the woman’s focus on us. “I love how you sleep on your back with one of your hands always up by your face.”

  Violet’s smile grows. “You remind me of Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man when you sleep. I don’t know how you’ve ever shared a bed with a woman with that pose.”

  “I never have before,” I admit, feeling no shame over my lack of serious past relationships. “When you’re ready, I’ll learn to take less space.”

  Violet’s big smile and bright blue eyes reveal the hunt served its purpose. For the time being, she’s worked through her fear. Now, she studies me as a normal girl might look at a hot guy she’s crushing on.

  “Want me to drop you off at Shelby’s tonight?” I ask, always giving her an option despite knowing she’ll feel weird touching Kirby with her banged-up hands.

  Violet shakes her head and sits back when the food arrives. She watches me with the soft gaze of a woman in love. We’re together in every way except for the sex. A few times a week, I take her on dates. She’s even my part-time roomie. Our future together is certain.

  But I fear touching Violet will trigger thoughts of O’Meara. What if, as soon as I reveal my lust, she remembers his? And once she associates me with a monster, I might never be able to regain her trust.

  Right now, Violet Navarro’s heart belongs to me. For a year, I’ve known she was mine. Ever since she was cuddled on a couch next to a then-pregnant Shelby. My longtime friend smiled at me and then returned to watching one of her dopey horror movies.

  But Violet studied my face in the overly direct way she often does. I’ve never been able to look away when her gaze holds mine. That night, she smiled as if I was a revelation. I knew then how she saw me in a way no one had before.

  THE GHOST

  A little boy hides inside Maverick’s heart. That’s the only reason I can think of why he enjoys living next to the train tracks. Every morning—and sometimes twice a day—the apartment building shakes. Maverick’s green eyes always light up at the sound of the approaching train.

  After the honkytonk and the diner, we return to his apartment. He parks his all-black motorcycle next to his silver GMC truck in the lot behind the restaurant, Max’s Tacos. There’s a wooden staircase outside, which leads to his surprisingly spacious apartment.

  Once inside, I kneel to greet our cat, Corky. I cried when Maverick adopted the kitten. Not out of joy, but I believed it would hate me. After all, in Shelby’s horror movies, cats often hiss at ghosts.

  But Corky never reacted negatively. Tonight, he slinks around my legs, scenting me before doing the same to Maverick.

  “I want to shower,” I tell him despite us going through this same routine each time he takes me hunting.

  Maverick only nods and locks down the apartment. I find clean clothes in the smaller guest room and take them into the main bathroom. I know Maverick will clean up after me. At times, we’re like an old married couple—a lifetime of memories already behind us and a peaceful future on the horizon.

  After our showers, I play the movie “Best in Show” to help soothe my nerves. With damp blond hair and dressed in a black tank top and black sweatpants, Maverick appears with the peroxide. He treats my scratched-up knuckles before applying small Band-Aids.

  “These have clouds on them,” I say, holding his gaze.

  His luscious lips curve into a knowing smile. I imagine Maverick choosing these particular Band-Aids at the store. He never half-asses anything. Maverick is the most deliberate person I’ve ever known. The most mysterious, too. He feels like a dream I designed to help with my lonely eternity.

  Soon, Maverick stretches out his long legs and rests them on the rustic coffee table. Everything in his apartment has a warm, male vibe.

  I sit on the other end of the couch, under a quilt with a rainbow-design. We’re always in the same positions. What would happen if I moved closer? Would this fantasy fade? Am I dreaming Maverick?

  “How would I know if I was dead?” I ask after pausing the movie.

  “If you’re a ghost, what am I?”

  “A beautiful dream.”

  Smirking, Maverick stretches his left arm along the back of the burnt umber-colored couch. “What is Joe Herold who lives at 1544 Oakland Street?” he asks, mentioning the man tonight. “Why would you dream him up?”

  “I wanted someone to punish.”

  “Why not make him look more like O’Meara rather than a pudgy thirty-year-old wannabe biker? Is he how you see my club?”

  Ignoring his feigned offense, I say, “I’m either dead or crazy. Why attempt to reason with me in either scenario?”

  “Well, if you’re dead and I’m a fantasy, you’ve created me. Meaning you’re trying to reason with yourself. However, if you’re crazy, then I’m just me, and I love you.”

  My cheeks warm under the weight of his words. “How can I argue when you say such things?”

  “Exactly,” he says, tapping his long fingers against the back of the couch. “If I’m a fantasy man created in your head, why do I fart? Or have body odor? Remember when I did construction work at Shelby’s house and stunk so much her dogs wouldn’t play with me?”

  Grinning, I think back to when Hansel and Gretel balked at the idea of the smelly man touching them. Though they did allow a sweaty Dean to pat their little heads. Hmm, if I’ve dreamed up all these people, why did I have the dogs pick Dean over Maverick? Was I jealous of their attention?

  “I think,” he says, flashing his sexy smirk I can never deny, “if I was a fantasy, my farts would smell like cinnamon, and my pits would be like, I don’t know, coconuts. I’d be a walking, talking dream instead of just a man.”

  “You’re more than a mere man,” I whisper and then add with more volume, “But if you were a fantasy, I’d make you smell like crisp autumn apples. I love that scent.”

  “But you don’t make Shasta smell like that? Seems likely you’re not dead, then.”

  “Or I make the town smell like death because I’m smelling my own rot.”

  Maverick doesn’t hesitate before responding, “But Shasta always smelled that way.”

  “Did it, or is that a lie my brain told itself to distract f
rom my rotting body?”

  “But if your brain went through all the trouble to create an elaborate lie, why not just tell yourself that death smells like apples? If this is all a dead woman’s fantasy, why not imagine you were never taken by O’Meara?”

  “But then, I’d be free of my guilt, and I can’t allow that even in my afterlife.”

  “I feel the very act of questioning this life betrays the fantasy idea.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If you believe you’re dead, what harm is there in me kissing you? Why not imagine yourself as a horny hellion? Except this isn’t a fantasy. I’m not your dream man. And you’re not dead. That’s why you have to follow the parameters of the real world and can’t just make up any shit you want.”

  Sighing, I’m sure he’s right. Or possibly, I’m too tired to argue a million what-ifs. Can ghosts suffer from exhaustion?

  “You’re wrong about one thing,” I say, turning on the movie. “Whether I’m dead or crazy or just going through an existential crisis, you’ll always be my dream man. However, if you farted apple puffs and your pits smelled like an orchard, I’d find you less appealing. Your small imperfections make you more desirable. The best dreams are the ones that feel the most real.”

  Maverick studies me before offering a slow, tender smile. “Well, all right, then. As long as we’re on the same page about how you’re mine.”

  “I never said that.”

  “If I’m your perfect man, then you must be my perfect woman. That’s how the universe works. No negotiations necessary.”

  As we settle in to finish the movie, Maverick lights a blunt and offers it to me. I realize this is the closest our lips have touched since he kissed me last December under the mistletoe.

  Our only kiss.

  I loved every second of it. But later, an ugly sensation crept into my mind. I flashed backed to Husband and the plastic wrap. Suddenly, Maverick Majors became too damn good to be true.