Page 30 of Broken Pact

Mrs. Shepley, Mrs. Matthews, and Mrs. Weatherby are inseparable. They start every day with a hot cup of coffee and then even hotter tea as they power-walk down Main Street.

I asked them once why they walk here and not at the local gym or even the nearby mall when it’s really hot. Mrs. Matthews said their doctor told them they need to keep their exercise up, but I think they just like spilling a little tea. And you can’t overhear and watch everyone’s business when you’re in the next town over, doing laps in their mall.

Someone once told me that Rosewood could power the city on gossip instead of electricity. Something that I’m counting on for my little plan to work. So far, it’s taking shape perfectly in my mind. Now, all I have to do is wait.

And maybe plant a few little seeds. I couldn’t sleep last night, my mind too busy picking apart every single objection I anticipated Coraline having. I know if I hesitate for even a second, my girl will seize the chance to weasel her way out of my brilliant plan.

“You hear anything interesting lately?” I phrase the question innocently enough I think, rocking back on my heels and loosely stuffing my hands in my pockets. The perfect image of casual inquiry.

“Well,” Mrs. Weatherby says, leaning in.

The scent of rose fills my nostrils so suddenly, my eyes start to water a little bit. I breathe through my mouth and blink a few times.

“As a matter of fact, we just heard that another body turned up,” Mrs. Weatherby says, her tone serious. She nods a few times. “You don’t happen to know anything that could ease a couple of old gals’ minds, would you, Jagger?”

Shock sticks my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Of all the things I’ve heard them say, this is by far the last thing I expected. Flashbacks to all the turmoil we’ve had in Rosewood flicker before my eyes, and my brain tricks me for a second. Doing its best to convince me that we’re back in time, scared and on edge every minute of every day. The barista calls out Mrs. Weatherby’s name, dragging me out of the pit of memories.

I shake my head, ungluing my tongue. “In Rosewood?” I look at Mrs. Shepley, expecting to find her face twisted into one of those mischievous grins she usually wears when she’s telling me about who she saw slinking out of where. But there’s no twinkle in her eye or smirk twisting her mouth.

Instead, her carnation-pink painted lips are curled into a frown, concern sinking into the laugh lines around her eyes. “You okay, Jasper?” Her voice is quiet, full of that kind of motherly concern. I didn’t realize she’d stepped closer to me until right now. Her floral perfume settles around us like a cloud of gardenias.

Not too many people use my given name. Not too many people know it exists. Most people assume Jagger is the name my momma gave me, but like most of the Reapers, it’s a road name. I made one rock and roll music reference a million years ago. I don’t even remember who got wind of it really, but the next thing I knew, the whole club was calling me Jagger.

At least it’s a helluva lot better than Turtle. As in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles because he was wearing a vintage graphic tee one day when he was a prospect. Nova saw it, and that’s all it took. Andrew was Turtle from that moment on.

The Reapers are an oddball group, they always have been, even when we were on the other side of that legal line. But as much as we talk shit and give each other a hard time, I know they’d have my back in a heartbeat. And what more can a man really ask for?

“Jasper?” she asks, hesitantly.

I plaster on my usual grin. “I’m good, Mrs. Shepley. Just need some caffeine. Had a long night, you know how that goes,” I reassure her with a nod.

Her blue eyes scan my face. It’s a move that all three of them seem to do often. Like they’re looking for truths hidden between my brows. “Pulling long nights at the garage?”

Mrs. Weatherby hums over the rim of her coffee cup, her eyes sparkling a little bit. “Or perhaps,” she teases, drawing out the words. “Pulling a long night with a lucky lady.”

I choke on absolutely nothing. They’re old enough to be my grandmothers, and somehow I still find myself surprised whenever one of them hits me with a personal question like that. I half wonder if that’s how they gather all the gossip they seem to know: they outright ask.

I shake my head, amusement settling in the space between my breastbone. “If I start dating someone, you three will be the first to know.” And if all goes well, that may be as soon as tomorrow. I’ve got a loose plan, held together mostly by sheer will and a few dollops of luck. “Tell me more about this body.”

“Well, we heard it happened in Avalon Falls,” Mrs. Matthews says. “But that’s practically our backyard, so once everyone wakes up and hears about it, folks might be scared, thinking it’s a sign that things are going to flare up again. You know, like last year.”

Last year, meaning when a few neighboring clubs decided they’d rather wipe the Reapers off the map and claim Rosewood for themselves. It didn’t last long, and it wasn’t the worst thing this town has ever faced. But we lost people. Good fucking people.

“You know we’d never let that happen.” Again. “Wait, you said another body? Was there something else that happened?”

“Well, I heard this one was drug-related at some concert. So I’m sure we’ll be fine.” Mrs. Weatherby says. “But the first one, that was on Highway MA, you know, in Maple Grove.”

The hair along the back of my neck starts to lift. “A concert?”

Mrs. Matthews nods. “Mm-hmm. In Avalon Falls. They have a concert venue there. I tried to get us tickets to see an ABBA cover band there once, but their website leaves a lot to be desired.” She rolls her eyes hard, her lips flattening with displeasure. “Now I’m glad we didn’t go.”

“Where did you hear this?”

“You know we never reveal our sources, Jagger,” Mrs. Shepley admonishes.

I chuckle. “Right. Can’t blame a guy for tryin’ though.”

“Jagger. Iced Americano with cream,” the barista calls from behind the counter.

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