I clicked on the article and read the first few paragraphs.
“Kaitlyn Meade has worked as a nurse at Springsville General for four years now. In the first three years, she could predict the patients she’d see, especially on weekends. Now?
“‘In the last three hundred and sixty-five days, we have not had to take care of one murder. Not one.’
“Ms. Meade herself admits that if someone had told her that two years ago, she would have suggested they see a doctor. But no one can deny the current facts. Since the Fallen Saints Motorcycle Club ceased operations after a particularly bloody night, not a single murder has taken place.
“The president of the rival motorcycle club, the Black Reapers, suggests that this is because the ‘bad element of Springsville’ was removed.
“‘It’s like we had a cancer in this town,’ the president, Lane Carter, said. ‘And though we had to do the surgery with no anesthesia, we f**king got it done.’”
Hah, pussies. Editing out “fucking.”
Also.
The Black Reapers…
I looked up from my phone. The man on the bike was driving out of the station, headed east. But there was no mistaking what I saw—a reaper.
A Black Reaper?
That was impossible. As great of a story as it must have been, that was out near Los Angeles, California, and this was Santa Maria, New Mexico. If someone sped, stopped only for gas, and had no trouble with police, maybe they could get here in ten hours. Most likely, having to account for slowing down, for food, bathroom breaks, and so on, it was a twelve-hour drive.
It was far more likely that the man who had come into the store had bought himself a cut that looked like it could have belonged to the Black Reapers, and he could get away with it because the actual Black Reapers did not have a presence here. Had they known that someone was imitating them, I couldn’t imagine that the actual club would have taken kindly to an imposter like that.
I had to learn more. I kept reading the article.
“At its peak, Springsville would often experience multiple shootouts a week. There was no love lost between the Fallen Saints and the Black Reapers, and though the two clubs mostly kept their distance, toward the end of last year, things got so bad that some residents refused to go outside at night. One bar, Brewskis, got burned to the ground by the Fallen Saints, who attempted to pin the arson on their rival.
“‘The Fallen Saints had no regard for human life,’ Jess Walters, once a bartender at Brewskis, said. ‘Even when they behaved, they would get drunk, make harassing comments, and threaten my life. They set the bar on fire while I was in there. Luckily, it was easy to escape, but still dangerous.’
“Some residents contemplated moving or calling in state or federal support, but the words of the local DA, Bethany Johnson, seemed to suggest they had it under control. Ms. Johnson has since retired and could not be reached for further comment.”
Goddamn.
We need some Black Reapers in this town. Wonder if they’d come and help if we asked.
Probably not. They’re probably content with helping there. And it’s not like we’re in California, anyway.
I put my phone down as I heard the door behind me open.
“You sure seem busy.”
I arched an eyebrow.
It was Tara.
Tara
To Brock, having to wear his gas station uniform, a gray polo shirt and jeans, was probably embarrassing. It was something he never mentioned when I had hung out with him.
But to be frank, as he turned to face me, there was something about the way his arms popped out of his sleeves, the way his chest hair seemed to tumble out of the top buttons, and how the shirt conformed to his body that made him look handsome. At parties and in casual settings, he would dress too casually, wearing shirts he’d gotten when he was eighteen and gym shorts.
But here, with professional attire, it made him look good.
Like, seductively good.
“Guess I got to see you again, huh?” I said with a smile.
