The Hades nightmare always went the same way. I made the same mistakes every time because I knew nothing about guns back then. And the outcome never turned out any different.
I always awoke next to Hades. Whether it was in New Orleans or here in the passenger seat of the black F-150 he was bringing up for Waylon—Waylon, of all people.
I’d never seen Hades’s psycho cousin drive anything but a motorcycle, even in the dead-deadest of northern winters. But I’d also never heard of Waylon claiming a woman as his. And, apparently, he’d texted Hades that he needed a truck to drive his woman to Iowa—and something for her to wear.
Hades could have just grabbed something from the seemingly never-ending stash of backless bodycon dresses he kept on hand for me to wear out and about New Orleans. But after a few months of going on trips without me, he started always bringing me along.
Presumably because I’d grown very adept at standing around like a blank object. And no matter how much progress was made on the feminism front, men still considered men who used scantily clad women as never-speaking background set pieces to be badass.
But I also suspected his Mama Fairgood nightmares returned when we were apart. Not that we’d ever discussed anything that deep. That wasn’t how our status quo worked.
Anyway, it was August. So as any Louisiana person would tell you, any excuse to go north—away from the state’s swampy humidity—we were on it.
That much-cooler-in-Tennessee night, Hades parked Waylon’s gift truck in the dirt lot of a nameless roadhouse where the two Reaper chapters loved to meet halfwayish.
We’d been to this roadhouse countless times before, but heads turned, as they always did when we walked into a room.
Hades was still as beautiful as a god.
And I supposed I might have still struck others as beautiful too. It had been a while since I bothered to assess my looks. Mirrors were just something I glanced at to make sure I was putting my eyeliner on straight for set-piece duty.
Anyway, heads turned, like they always did. But at least my tattoo didn’t get as much attention in this place.
Hades had made me go to three more Tessier Balls since the first year of my captivity. My father had rescinded his membership—from what I’d heard loudly whispered behind hands. And Lukas had failed to show his face there ever again. You’d think they’d be used to the annual sight of their fallen flower by now. But the gasps always abounded.
Not at the roadhouse, though, where my back tattoo was one of the least outrageous things the biker bar would see on any given night.
Topless waitresses of all hues—with long, butt-grazing weaves—zigzagged between giant banquet tables, flirting for bigger tips as they delivered food and beer. There were also biker groupies and plenty of “old ladies.” I saw a few with their own Property Of tattoos.
But none were nearly as prominent as mine.
However, at this nameless roadhouse, my tattoo didn’t engender tuts and whispers. Just jealous hisses.
Other women didn’t know what to make of me, so they always just assumed I was Hades’s old lady. They congratulated me for being “one lucky bitch” and asked me for advice to land their own hot biker boyfriend.
Then never took me seriously when I advised them, “Don’t. Run.”
They giggled and told me I was funny, even though I never joked. Not anymore.
Tonight, a few women ran up to me and demanded I make them a version of the crochet top I was wearing—in various colors.
As it turned out, I’d accidentally stumbled onto an untapped market for making backless crochet halter tanks with enough upfront coverage for women with bigger or fake breasts.
Not only did I get several orders just on the way to the Reapers’ usual banquet table, but quite a few bikers, old ladies, and waitresses stopped me to eagerly ask if I had their tops in the tote I’d brought with me. It was filled with orders, along with the one outfit I’d brought for Waylon’s new old lady.
Most of the orders were from the bikers for their girlfriends. But I did have one secret custom order for one of the SkullCrusher MCs, who’d paid me triple to never let anyone know what he liked to wear under his typical biker uniform of t-shirts and leather vest.
By the time I made it to the Reapers’ table, my usual arm candy position next to Hades was occupied by Vampire, the tallest and broodiest member of the three-man enforcement team everyone called Vengeance.
He was leaned into Hades, talking into his ear.
Uh-oh.
By now, I’d become an expert in bad-guy body language, but anyone who’d watch anything featuring a criminal MC would recognize this as the “somebody did something we don’t like and now we’re going to have kill him” body position. Or them. Vengeance had been known to rain Reaper wrath on entire clubs.
I started to hang back, but Vampire caught a glimpse of me and immediately stood up. It could be mistaken for chivalry, but he didn’t give me a word of acknowledgement or even look at me beyond that one glance. More likely, he’d just been done talking.
When I sat down beside Hades, I found the rest of the table abuzz with the Waylon gossip. Apparently, Waylon had skipped out on running security for Griffin Latham’s latest show to go fetch this lady of his from Delaware—the same woman he’d be bringing into the bar any minute.
