Good Gone Bad (The Fallen Men 3)

Now, I yielded the same power, and I wanted to be strong enough, Zeus enough, to carry the weight of it through to the bitter end.

It was quiet when I made my way into the old Tudor house, not surprised given it was eleven o’clock on a Sunday and that was early as fuck by biker standards. I went directly to Reaper’s office at the back of the house, hoping I could impose on him under the ruse of needing guidance after Cricket’s death. Reaper was the kind of man that liked to hear his own voice and dole out wisdom like some kind of false prophet so I knew he’d be down.

Giggles emerged from behind the slightly open door, raspy feminine sounds that reminded me of the long-forgotten sound of my mother’s own silly laugh.

Still, I knocked on the door because Reaper wouldn’t have a problem sending away one of his many women if it meant some one on one time with me. I’d never been sure why, but the man not only coveted me, I think he truly loved me (as much as his black heart could) almost like a daughter.

“Yeah?” he called out, laughter in his gruff voice.

“’S me!” I hollered. “You got a second?”

There was conspicuous silence and then another husky giggle.

“Sure, babe, give me a second and I’ll getcha.”

I leaned against the wall across from the door and unwrapped a square of Hubba Bubba before popping it into my mouth. There wasn’t a huge likelihood of Reaper being loose-lipped about his plans to steal The Fallen’s cache, but I figured I could at least find out what time they planned to meet and then maybe trail them from the clubhouse…

The door opened, Reaper’s stocky frame taking up the entire width but not much of the length in the frame.

“Come in, girl,” he said with a smile.

With a smile. Reaper Holt was not the kind of man who smiled easily and the sight of it stretching his pocked, bulbous features into some semblance of joy sent an echo of unease through the pit of my belly.

I followed him into the room, studying his face for some clue as to what had changed in his life to take him from ruthless curmudgeon to happy bastard when the scent hit me. The cloying sweetness of cheap, sugary perfume scored by the harsh char of cigarette smoke.

Then the laugh came again, sandpaper in the air, rough against my ears.

I knew before I turned to look at Reaper’s desk who would be standing beside it.

My mum.

I hadn’t seen Farrah more than twice in the ten years since the Danner’s took me in and then Dad got out of prison and made us a home again. Once had been when I was sixteen and she’d approached me at school, asking for money, the next and last had been when I ran into her on the street on a trip to Vancouver on my eighteenth birthday. She’d looked right through me.

The intervening years had taken their toll on her once considerable beauty. There were hard brackets around her thinned mouth, folds in her cheeks and beside her eyes that sagged slightly, her skin too loose and slightly waxen from the abuse she’d put her body through over the ages. Her hair was dyed the normal shade of bottle blond, her breasts were still big and fake but drooping in her slack skin, her chest marked with sun spots and moles. She was wearing tight jeans, biker chick boots and a low halter neck crop top that gave evidence to the fact that she may have looked about fifteen years older than her forty years, but her body was still good enough to pull off the trashy look at least relatively well.

It was her eyes though, that got me. They were the same bright tropical ocean blue as my own, the same wide, round shape and curly lashes. Only hers were filled with spite and bitterness that tarnished the edges like aged copper.

“Harleigh baby, Mummy’s home,” she cried dramatically, flinging her arms wide to invite me into her embrace.

I stayed where I was. “Mum, what are you doing here?”

Reaper chuckled with manly satisfaction and went over to wrap a meaty hand around her hip like a proud partner. “Farrah here’s my new old lady.”

“What the fuck happened to Jade?” I asked.

That old bitch wasn’t the warmest woman in the world, but she was Madonna compared to Farrah. She’d also been through a lot sticking by Reaper’s side, dozens of affairs and at least a dozen bastard children besides, I couldn’t see her giving up her position without a fight.

Farrah waved her hand, her bedazzled bangles clinking. “Oh, that old bitch had to go. Don’t worry about her.”

I hadn’t inherited my love of biker babes from my mother. She hated anyone with a vagina, specifically if that vagina was prettier than her or had something she didn’t.