CLAIMED BY THE REAPER KING

CHAPTER 4

I pulled the heavy, oversized leather vest over my shoulders, the weight of the thick cut pulling down on my coat like a lead coat. It smelled of motor oil, old leather, and stale smoke. The white rocker tag across the bottom read PROSPECT in sharp block letters, clean and stark against the dark leather.

Drake sneered from his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Look at her. She looks like a kid playing dress-up in her father's closet."

"Shut up, Drake," I said, pulling the front snaps closed until they clicked into place. The leather was stiff, restricting my arms, but I kept my back straight. "Tell me where I start."

Knox did not smile. He reached down, swept Jaxon’s black spiral notebook off the oak table, and slid it into his back pocket before I could move to reclaim it.

"Hey! That belongs to me," I snapped, taking an instinctual step toward him.

Knox stepped into my space, towering over me so closely I could feel the heat radiating off his chest. "Nothing in this building belongs to you anymore, Prospect. Not the book, not your time, and not your opinions. You want to learn how this club operates? You start at the bottom."

Big Mike leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the table. "If she is wearing the cut, Knox, she gets the night shift. Barnaby needs hands down at the lower garage, and the back alley needs sweeping before the morning run."

"You heard him," Knox said, his gray eyes locked onto mine without a trace of softness. "Go find Barnaby. He is down in the pit under the main bay. If you are not holding a wrench or a broom, you are out of line. Do you understand me?"

"I understand," I said, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper.

I turned on my heel and walked out of the chapel room, the heavy double doors swinging shut behind me. The main lounge was still packed with patched members and women sitting on low vinyl couches. A few heads turned, eyes darting down to the fresh, blank vest on my chest, followed by muffled laughs and whispered comments. I ignored them, keeping my head up as I pushed through the back door toward the garage bay.

The night air was cold and damp, carrying the smell of wet pavement and burnt oil. The lower garage was a cavernous, concrete-walled structure lit by harsh fluorescent tubes that buzzed softly overhead. Hydraulic lifts held stripped motorcycle frames in mid-air, and the floor was slick with grease stains.

A pair of boots stuck out from under an old, rusted pickup truck parked over the maintenance pit.

"Barnaby?" I called out, my voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls.

The creeper rolled out from beneath the truck with a loud squeak. An older man with grease-stained gray hair, deep lines etched around his eyes, and a blue shop towel tucked into his belt looked up at me. He wiped his hands on the towel, his gaze lingering on my vest for a long, quiet moment.

"Well, I will be damned," Barnaby grunted, spitting onto the concrete. "They actually let Miller's girl put on the leather."

"Knox sent me down," I said, folding my arms across my chest to keep my hands from shaking. "He said you needed help."

Barnaby let out a wheezing laugh and stood up, his knee joints popping in the quiet garage. "Help? I need a mechanic, kid. Not a corporate bird trying to play hardball with a room full of wolves. Knox is giving you busy work so you break and run back to your desk."

"I am not running anywhere," I said, stepping closer to the workbench. "Just give me something to do."

Barnaby eyed me for a second, then kicked a heavy plastic bucket sitting near the wall. A thick wooden broom and a stack of greasy rags rested inside it.

"Sweep the bay," Barnaby said, pointing toward the dark alley stretching out behind the garage. "Then wipe down every tool on the main rack. If I find a drop of oil on those wrenches when the sun comes up, you start over."

I did not argue. I grabbed the broom handle, the rough wood biting into my palms, and walked toward the open garage door that led into the back alley. The rain had stopped, leaving deep puddles that reflected the sickly yellow light of the perimeter lamps.

I swept the damp gravel, my mind racing with every word Colt had said in the alley behind the auto shop. Ask Knox why he was at your ranch forty minutes before your dad drew his last breath. The thought spun in my head, making my throat tight with anger. Was Knox keeping me close to protect me, or was he keeping me on a leash so I would not find whatever Jaxon had uncovered?

Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind me.

I spun around, tightening my grip on the broom handle. Knox was standing at the edge of the garage overhang, his cut unbuttoned, an unlit cigarette resting between his lips. He flicked a heavy brass lighter, the small flame illuminating the harsh angles of his face for a second before he snapped it shut.

"You are sweeping water into a drain that is already clogged," Knox said, blowing a stream of gray smoke into the cool air. "You are wasting your energy."

"I am doing what I was told," I replied, shoving the broom against the wet asphalt. "Isn't that what prospects are supposed to do?"

Knox took two slow steps forward, stopping just at the edge of the light. "You think you are being brave, Raven. You think putting on this leather proves something to Jaxon's memory. But all you are doing is putting a target on your back."

"If Jaxon was murdered, the target was already there," I said, leaning on the broom handle and looking right into his storm-gray eyes. "You took his notebook, Knox. What is in it? What routes were listed on those pages?"

Knox took a slow drag from his cigarette, his expression remaining completely stone-cold. "That notebook is club business. It stays with the officers."

"It was Jaxon's personal notes!" I raised my voice, stepping out from under the roof into the light drizzle. "He was my brother! If his death was linked to this club, I have a right to know!"

"You have a right to obey orders, Prospect," Knox growled, his voice dropping an octave, thick with warning. "You wanted the vest. You got it. Now you live with the rules."

Before I could answer, the sharp, metallic click of a gate latch echoed from the dark perimeter fence at the far end of the alley. Knox shifted his weight instantly, his hand dropping to his hip where his knife was holstered.

"Stay behind me," Knox commanded, his posture turning tense and lethal.

"I am not hiding behind you," I said, stepping up alongside him.

A shadow detached itself from the dark corner near the chain-link fence. A young guy wearing a plain denim jacket stepped into the yellow glare of the streetlight, his hands held high in the air, trembling slightly.

"Don't shoot!" the guy stammered, his voice cracking with pure panic. "I got a message! From Colt!"

Knox did not draw his weapon, but he didn't relax either. "Speak."

The kid swallowed hard, his eyes darting nervously between Knox and the prospect vest on my chest. "Colt said... he said to tell the girl that if she wants the rest of her brother's ledger, she comes to the old sawmill alone at midnight. Or the Vipers burn the rest of Jaxon's files."