Fast As You (Reapers MC: Conroe Chapter, #2) Read online

  FAST AS YOU

  BIJOU HUNTER

  Copyright ©2019 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.

  Dedication

  Thanks to my personal Bubba, Butch, and Buzz;

  My mom for listening to me babble;

  My betas—Sarah, Debbie, Sheri, Carina, and Cynthia;

  &

  Judy’s Proofreading

  Book Summary

  Nikolas “Bubba” Davies is president of the Reapers Motorcycle Club in Conroe. He doesn’t believe in running from his problems or falling hard for women.

  But there are exceptions to every rule.

  Calypso “Soso” Rutgers loves every damn thing about her life in Hickory Creek Township. Nothing will ever make her leave.

  Again, with those pesky exceptions.

  With trouble brewing back in Conroe, Bubba will need to man-up to save his club, his family, and the woman willing to give up everything for love.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE STORY BEGINS

  NIKOLAS “BUBBA” DAVIES, AKA THE RUNAWAY

  CALYPSO “SOSO” RUTGERS, AKA THE BOHEMIAN

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE RUNAWAY AND THE BOHEMIAN OFFICIALLY MEET

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE RUNAWAY MAKES A PLAY

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE CHAPTER WHERE BUMPING UGLIES IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE CHAPTER WHERE FAMILY DISTRACTS FROM WHAT THE HEART WANTS

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE RUNAWAY TURNS INTO A BULLET

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE CHAPTER WHERE DAYS TURN INTO A WEEK

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE CHAPTER WHERE CONROE MAKES A COMEBACK

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE CHAPTER WHERE BOURBON SAVES THE DAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE CHAPTER WHERE CONROE GETS A MAKEOVER

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE CHAPTER WHERE NOTHING’S REALLY OVER

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THERE ARE NO EASY FIXES

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE STORY ENDS

  THE BOHEMIAN

  THE RUNAWAY

  OH, BY THE WAY, FROM THE BOHEMIAN

  A FINAL WORD FROM THE BOHEMIAN

  A FINAL WORD FROM THE STALWART

  HEART LIKE MINE QUICKIE

  DAMAGED WORLD READING ORDER

  ABOUT BIJOU

  THE CHAPTER WHERE THE STORY BEGINS

  NIKOLAS “BUBBA” DAVIES, AKA THE RUNAWAY

  I’m too old to be waking up in a stranger’s place with only vague memories of how I got here.

  Not everything from yesterday is a blur. I remember arriving at my cousin’s two-story recently remodeled house after midnight. With Audrey owing me a favor, I figured she’d keep her mouth shut about my crashing at her place for a few days.

  On Sunday, I woke up around noon to find Audrey, her husband, Cap, and their crawling kid, Keith, in the living room. My dark-haired cousin and her darker-haired man make an odd couple with her barely over five feet tall and him well over six and a half feet.

  When Audrey asked what I wanted to do that night, I said drink beer and get laid. She hadn’t been thrilled with going out on a Sunday, claiming only alcoholics got wasted on the Lord’s day. Cap laughed at her fake high-mindedness before suggesting they drop off their kid at his parents’ place and take me to a bar in the town over.

  “We don’t have trashy places in White Horse,” Cap insisted. “If you want loose women and cheap booze, you’ll need to visit Hickory Creek Township.”

  I didn’t care where we went. I only wanted to blow off a little steam, go wild for a few hours, and regain my confidence for when I returned to my town, family, and motorcycle club.

  My usually savvy cousin—whose father is the president of the Reapers Motorcycle Club back in Ellsberg, Kentucky—decided to take me to Salty Peanuts. Also known as the clubhouse for the Serrated Brotherhood Motorcycle Club.

  “You do realize we’re in less than friendly territory,” I mentioned when we gained the leery attention of a table full of local bikers.

  “Don’t be dramatic,” Audrey said. “The Rutgers have been to Ellsberg plenty of times.”

  “Yeah, back when the Memphis guys backed our clubs,” I pointed out. “Things have changed since then.”

  “Whatever,” she said, waving off my concern. “I don’t know any other trash-holes around here.”

  “Doesn’t he?” I asked, gesturing at her giant husband.

  Cap Hayes is the heir to the crime family running White Horse. Despite his connections, he only shrugged like a big doofus in response to my question. I suspected he didn’t want me stinking up his precious hometown.

  “My boy, Keanu, hangs out here,” Cap said as we arrived at the honkytonk. “He even has a drink named after him. This bar is friendly-enough territory.”

  Minutes, after he promised we were safe there, a few long-haired bikers wearing Brotherhood patches started trouble with Cap.

  “No deal. You need permission to be here!” shouted the shortest of the three club dicks.

  Audrey ignored the argument and walked to the bar top. I followed her, but my mind remained on an outnumbered Cap.

  “Should I help him?”

  “What can you do, cousin?” she snickered. “Cheer on my giant hubby while he stomps those stupid bikers into the ground?”

  The grizzled bartender gave us a dirty look, but Audrey only smiled wider. “I’m more important than you,” she told the guy and then added, “Don’t spit in my drink.”

  “How about a little piss?” he asked.

  “Not in my drink, no, but feel free to take a whizz in his,” she said, gesturing toward me. “He’s from Kentucky and won’t be able to taste the difference.”

  Audrey laughed at my expression while the amused bartender seemed less inclined to use her drink as a toilet. As tempted as I was to point out how she was also from Kentuc
ky, I didn’t care enough to get into a sparring match with a full-fledged bitch. Blood-born Johansson women refuse to lose arguments. Even when they seem to be defeated, they’ve actually laid a trap to lower their opponents’ guards. I wasn’t falling for that again.

  “I’ve arrived!” yelled an Asian man from the door. Wearing a slick black suit in a place filled with jeans and leather and being the only non-white person in the bar, the guy probably should have seemed out of place. instead, he sported the swagger of a made man. “I’ve come to rescue you, Iron Giant!”

  Audrey laughed at his comment while the man ran over to the long-haired bikers and playfully karate-chopped them in the necks. The men chose to humor him. It was all fun and games until one of the guys ruffled his thick black hair. His next karate-chop took the biker to the ground.

  Laughing harder, Audrey applauded. “Never fuck with a black belt.”

  Cap and his friend left the bikers—who lifted up their injured brother—and joined us at the bar top.

  Audrey wore a relaxed smile, and I like seeing how settled she was into her life in Tennessee. “Keanu Slater, this is my cousin, Bubba Davies.”

  “I’m sorry,” Keanu told Audrey.

  “We all are, but I owed him, and here we are.”

  “Owed him how?” Cap asked.

  Audrey shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

  The men looked at me, but I only smiled. If Audrey chose not to mention the time that she knocked over a line of Harleys at her father’s clubhouse, who was I to rat her out? Of course, she didn’t take the hit that day. After watching the domino effect play out and seeing how terrified my cousin was, I accepted the blame.

  I was a nice guy back then. Growing up with two younger brothers—one freakishly shy and the other wildly reckless—made me sympathetic to the fuckery happening in people’s heads. I was an honest-to-goodness fucking saint back in the day.

  I also seemed as if I had my shit in order. That was the main reason I decided to ditch Conroe and visit White Horse. I needed a break from the illusion of being in charge.

  Not that I shared my problems with Audrey, knowing she’d eventually blab to her family back in Ellsberg. Once she told her mom and pop, they’d be on the phone to my mom and pop. Then before I had a chance to get comfy in my mini-vacation, half of the Johansson family would be up my ass with questions and demands.

  I kept crap simple with Audrey, telling her only that I needed a place to crash and that she should keep her mouth shut about it. I suspected her promise to remain quiet would last two days max.

  Yeah, I remember ending up at Salty Peanuts as clear as day. I also recall Audrey and Cap dancing like two drunken sea lions to “Whiskey Glasses.” The long-haired bikers took turns glaring at us from their table. Then around nine, Keanu ordered me a Korean Kickass.

  “If you want to relax,” he said, flashing a sly grin, “this is your friend.”

  Wary of the colorful concoction in a chimney-style glass, I nearly turned it down. Fruity drinks aren’t my thing. Back at the Reapers’ bar in Conroe—Morty’s Pub—I wouldn’t be caught dead drinking something so festively bright.

  But last night, I wasn’t Bubba from Conroe. A free man, I downed the sweet brew and ordered a second one.

  Taking off his black suit jacket, Keanu smiled wider. “You’re going to feel that tomorrow.”

  And he was right.

  Now I’m in a stranger’s bed, barely able to recall how I got here.

  My bare feet are pointed at the wall while my head rests at the open end of the mattress. I realize the wall is a slanted roof that I no doubt would have slammed into if I was sleeping in the opposite direction. Based on the lump near my temple, I already suffered a run-in with it.

  From the night before, I vaguely remember this house is shaped like a triangle. Pinned to the slanted ceiling/wall in front of me is a colorful tapestry. My brain takes nearly a minute to organize the orange, blue, red, and green swirls into an identifiable shape.

  “An elephant,” I babble, choking on my dry throat.

  The chick who owns this place isn’t at my side. I run my fingers over my body to find no shirt or jeans, but I am wearing my boxers. Turning over, I scan the room to find a six-foot partial wall blocking me from wherever music plays. Rolling out of bed, I pause to allow my head to stop spinning. The urge to piss is the only reason I make it to my feet. Stumbling out of the walled-off section of the house, I spot a tiny bathroom to my right.

  After pissing for what feels like ten minutes, I splash water on my face over the bowl sink. In the mirror, I spot fresh bruises on my face. On Saturday, I traded punches with my brother Butch. Apparently, I went a round with someone last night too.

  Just in case I lock lips with the chick, I swish mouthwash I find in a wire hanging shelf.

  My mind is fuzzy on a lot of details from last night. The girl’s name starts with an “S,” and I’m certain she’s hot, and I possibly love her. That last part is likely from the booze, but I remember she was a good kisser, and I think she sucked my cock at one point. The rest of last night at Salty Peanuts and back here at her triangle house remains a painful blur.

  Leaving the bathroom, I walk past the bedroom and into the open section of the house where I find the woman’s ass sticking in the air. I watch her for a long time before realizing she’s exercising. Not aerobics but that stretchy type.

  Despite her loose-fitting cotton beige shorts, I easily detect a perfect heart-shaped ass. Her legs are long and leanly muscled. I’m very curious about the rest of her since I woke up feeling as if I’m in love. The chick must be something special despite her New Age music grating my hungover nerves.

  Appearing on the arm of the low-sitting, orange couch, a tiny dog—popular with chicks and old people—yaps at me and alerts the blonde to my presence. I notice her swipe a shiny object from the ground and shove it in her pocket. She turns to look at me with smoky, almond-shaped eyes. Her straight blonde hair rests around her shoulders, and her pale pink lips begged to be kissed.

  Memories flood back from last night. Not images as much as feelings. I wanted this woman in my arms. Despite earlier remembering sex between us, I now feel as if she remained out of reach.

  Most of all, I recall swearing to myself how she was the woman I planned to marry.

  Now if I could only remember her name.

  CALYPSO “SOSO” RUTGERS, AKA THE BOHEMIAN

  I don’t know why I’m at Salty Peanuts on a Sunday night. There’s no reason to tempt fate. Except I’m sick of hiding.

  It’s well past time I reclaimed this honkytonk. This is the clubhouse for the Serrated Brotherhood Motorcycle Club, and my dad is their vice president. I’ve been coming here since I was a kid. Instead of a mojito, I’d get an ice cream sundae.

  Back then, I was my father’s shadow, and this was his favorite haunt. Salty Peanuts even held events for the children of the club. Yet for the last few months, I’ve avoided the place entirely, and now I have to hide in the corner if I hope to sip my mojito in peace.

  My brother doesn’t seem to notice me in the corner as he torments the men our father considers family. They wear Serrated Brotherhood patches on their vests, but Keanu Slater is a man on the outside, and he’s content to remain there.

  I wish I could so casually torment the members of the Brotherhood. Years ago, I was able to tease them and laugh easily in their company. Then I grew tits, and they got boners, and everyone got awkward. My father isn’t the kind of man who shrugs off someone jacking it to his daughter’s rack. He won’t kill these men, but on more than one occasion, he’s made them hurt enough to think they might die.

  I shouldn’t be here at the clubhouse. Not since Griff claimed me as his main bitch and decided I was an extension of his will. The problem is I just wanted to fuck him. Nothing personal. He had a fuck-me body and a decent-sized dick, and I was looking for something to stick in my vagina. How my lust transitioned into him swearing off all other women—only when I was
looking, of course—I will never know.

  Sure, we got serious eventually. Griff had all the similar stats as my dad, and I’d always assumed I’d fall in love with a biker.

  But I never did. Now, to avoid drama—and I don’t do drama—I have to hide in my own damn town while Griff has free fucking rein. It’s a damn shame that I managed to foul up things for myself. Tonight, though, I’m taking a stand. While hiding in the corner like a wuss, of course.

  When I showed up and realized Griff wasn’t around, I took a spot in the corner near the toilets where no one wants to sit. My blonde hair is covered by the hoodie on my sweater. My usual loose-flowing skirts are replaced with dark jeans. I blend in easily without my signature bohemian attire. Though the waitresses might recognize me, they know better than to snitch out my disguise.

  Around ten, Keanu’s best friend—and male soul mate—starts dicking around with the Brotherhood guys. Cap Hayes thinks he’s top dog in this part of Tennessee. Some days, he’s right. Other days, he might be wrong.

  The Hayes family in next-door White Horse and the Serrated Brotherhood in Hickory Creek Township don’t throw down. For as long as I can remember, we’ve been either friendly enemies or hostile allies. This arrangement is important since Cap and Keanu bonded hard as kids. A war between our families would put them in a tough spot.

  Whenever Cap fucks with the Brotherhood, my big bro is right there with him. I absolutely love when he unleashes his badass self. While the rest of these men are buffed-out white-bred meatheads, who use their size rather than any finesse to win, Keanu’s exotic and trained in martial arts. They’re sledgehammers; he’s a scalpel.

  Around eleven, after I’ve sipped to death my mojito, Keanu stops screwing around with Cap once the giant decides to dance with his tiny tot wife. My brother then stops by the bar where he chats with a hunky stranger.

  Lonely from hiding in the corner too long, I mentally summon Keanu to join me. He senses my wishes and struts in my direction. What I don’t expect is for the hunky stranger to follow Keanu like a boisterous puppy.

  “Nice getup,” Keanu says, sliding into a chair across from me.

  The sandy-haired hunk drops into the spot next to Keanu and smiles at me like a dope.