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Reeve (The Henchmen MC, #11)
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I had long since given up hope of the pursuit of genuine happiness. It wasn’t possible after all the sh*t I had been through. I had my siblings, my club, a purpose in life. It was enough.
I liked my life. I liked the freedom and simplicity of it, even if it was, perhaps, a little lonely.
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The place was a deathtrap.
If I were Reign, I would sue the shirts off the contractors he hired to rebuild Repo’s place after it got destroyed. It wasn’t that he needed the money. It was just the point. They shouldn’t have been able to get away with this level of incompetence and still work in the industry. People could die if they didn’t know what kinda shit to look out for.
In the past year alone, there had been two windows that had fallen out, the air system had leaked and ruined the ceiling – and had we not reacted soon enough, would have created a clusterfuck of toxic black mold -, the hardwired fire alarms started triggering themselves several times a day, and now the wiring created a mini fire in the fucking wall behind the office.
I had been called out three hours before during a pretty epic early snowstorm to handle it.
I had three burned fingertips. It was nearly two in the morning. And to say I wasn’t a happy camper would be an understatement.
I was half ready to drive my ass across town and have it out with the assholes who had the nerve to run a business in this town.
You could say I was a little overly sensitive about the issue. But before joining up with gun-running bikers and leaving it all behind, this had been my life. Fixing shit. Safely. Doing work people could trust in, that no one would ever have to worry about waking up to their homes being on fire because I cut corners or rushed a job.
Finished with the wiring and deciding the new Sheetrock would have to wait until the next day, I tossed my tools back into my toolbox, picking up the trusty weighted metal handle like I had done thousands of times before, and moving across the cement floor, wondering what kind of mess I was about to walk out into as I shrugged into my jacket.
When I had come in, there was about an inch on the ground, but from what I could see in the almost ceiling-height garage door windows, it hadn’t let up in the least.
Luckily, it was a short ride back to the compound. And I had my truck with me. That beast could handle any weather.
With a last look of good riddance to the shop that was eating more money than making it lately thanks to all the repairs, I moved outside, locking up behind me.
The cold air hit with impact, making my chest feel tight, my air puffing up in the air around me.
There were a good five inches of fresh snow on the ground, crunching under my work boots, blanketing the town in freshness.
My sister loved snow. She used to sleep with her pajamas inside out all winter, willing the universe to hear her pleas and let her wake up to a winter wonderland. She was in, last I heard, Florida, and likely pissed off that she was missing out, having just left a week before after hanging out at the compound for Christmas.
Me, I had no strong feelings either way.
Back when I had to work daily for a living, the shit got in the way, made other drivers stupid, had small cars fishtailing and crashing into shit, making everyone else’s commute longer, and having everyone cursing the white stuff.
Now, it was just one of those things. Like wind. Like rain. Nothing special.
I turned the corner to where I had parked my truck, most of the guys having been at the garage after hearing about the fire, taking all the close parking spaces for themselves before I could show up.
Nothing seemed odd until I placed my toolbox down in the open bed, doing so silently thanks to the wet buffer of snow.
But then I moved out to go toward the driver’s side door.
And I saw them.
Hanging out from underneath my truck.
What the fuck?
I moved closer, seeing somewhat thin female legs clad only in leggings, the hem of a lightweight dress bunched up right below the hips, purples and blues and yellows, a dress seemingly out of place in the dead center of winter. Her feet were clad in simple bright pink ballet flats that didn’t, well, match the damn dress.
What the hell was she doing under my car? Lying on the snow in thin clothing?
“Ah, babe, what the fuck are you doing under my truck?” I asked, trying to keep my voice low, not wanting her to startle, shoot up, and whack her head off the underside of my car.
She didn’t, as I had worried, jolt. In fact, she seemed to show no reaction at all to my presence.
I would have worried that she was passed out under there or some shit except I could hear this odd tisk-tisk-tisking sound from under the truck, and then one of her feet planted so she could push herself further under.