Page 8 of Dangerously Deceptive

“Have you ever heard of the Celtic Reapers, asshole?”

“Erm…bits, but not much,” the man replies, his voice quivering almost as much as his body is, and I can almost hear him trying to gulp in air as the terror radiates from him.

“See this tattoo here?” the driver asks, pointing at the Celtic cross. “Well, if you ever see the cross with a rose in the centre, a bit like mine, it means that person works for the Celtic Reapers. You will easily be able to spot a full Reaper by their patch, but their associates, like myself, are basically people who are not part of the MC, but who have agreed to put the needs of the club before all others. Do you know what happens to people who challenge the MC?”

Now the young man looks even worse, all the colour drains from his face. Despite shaking his head to indicate that he doesn’t know what happens, it’s very fucking obvious that he does know. I want to put a stop to this, clearly the guy has learnt his lesson and will move on without any more hassle, but now the taxi driver has started, he won’t stop. I’ve grown up surrounded by men like him, and I know them inside and out. When they are proving a point, or making themselves look big and important, they don’t stop until it’s been achieved.

“Well, their punishment usually fits the crime. You put your girl above theirs, so they would most likely shoot your girl. Or, if they decide your mouth is your real problem, they could cut your tongue out before sewing your mouth shut.” Wow, this guy really has a flair for the dramatic. Granted, Bane, our Sergeant-at-Arms, is a fucking lunatic, and will no doubt at one time or another have done these things. But they aren’t exactly the MC’s typical forms of punishment. In reality, they prefer a good bullet to each knee and then the head. Or, if they really do want to go for something dramatic, they love to slice a scythe into the skin over the chest and abdomen, while the person is still very much awake to feel it all. When they are done, they usually begin dismembering the limbs, especially if the enemy is still alive, before leaving a tarot card on the body; the death card complete with a specially designed reaper holding a scythe whilst wearing a Celtic Reaper MC cut over its black cape. Hardly subtle, but then again, that sums up the Reapers.

“I-I I’m s-sorry. I d-didn’t know. Let me just…I can just take m-my g-girlfriend and w-we can go. Please?” His stuttering voice raises almost an octave on the final word, making his pleas seem almost like a question that he doesn’t wait for the taxi driver to answer. Instead, he reaches into the back and begins to pull out his girlfriend.

“I’m not sure it’s that simple. You pushed Shayla here. Do you have any idea who this is?” the taxi driver states, pointing over at me as I lean against the bollard to keep myself upright. One good thing to come out of this experience is that the delay and the bitter cold air has helped me start to sober up a little. The downside is I can now feel my feet again, and in these heels, they are like fucking torture devices.

“No, I don’t,” the man, now openly carrying his girlfriend, mutters before turning to face me. “I’m so sorry I didn’t know who you are. I shouldn’t have stolen your taxi, or pushed you. Please accept my apologies.”

Before I even get a chance to reply, the taxi driver, who is clearly enjoying his power trip a little too much, begins to shout, “Do not talk to her. She is the Reapers’ President's daughter. Making her a Reaper Princess. This one time we will let you off for your transgressions. Now go.”

The man doesn’t hesitate to practically run back to where he was standing farther down the road, willingly joining the back of the queue for another taxi. His face is still white as he runs, carrying his girlfriend who missed the whole thing. The taxi driver then wastes no time indicating I should get in the car, which I do without delay.

Instantly he takes off driving, not needing to know where I wanted to go. Even if I had said the first address that popped into my head, we both know I would have ended back at the compound. I hear my phone starting to buzz again, but I have something I want to make clear with the driver first.

“Look, I know you are a Reaper associate, but that doesn’t give you the right to treat people like assholes the way you did just then. Then, to use my name and say you're doing it for me is not right. I’m not a Reaper, and I don’t treat people like that. Do I make myself clear?” I ask, my voice sounding a lot more powerful and strong than I thought I would be capable of.

“I understand that, Princess. But, you have seriously pissed off the Reapers, and all the drivers in town have been instructed to find you and bring you home immediately. I radioed in that I found you, so for every little delay, whilst it may only cost us a few minutes, that is the time we will be keeping the Reapers waiting, and I don’t want to be that guy. I like my limbs attached.” Although he sounds confident as he speaks, I can hear the little wobble at the end. I don’t blame him. There is a reason people fear the Reapers, they go through with their threats, and they don’t give out second chances.

Pulling open my phone, I have over twenty messages from different members of the club. I don’t need to read them all properly, the previews tell me all I need to know. Everyone is pissed I’m not home yet, and when I do get home, I will be punished. It’s hardly fucking inspiration to run home, is it? I kinda wish I had more alcohol in my system to give me that little bit of Dutch courage.

Once we arrive at the gates to the compound, the taxi pulls to a stop. Outsiders aren’t allowed in without special permission, and I’m sure on this occasion he wouldn’t want to go any farther in and risk the wrath of angry bikers. Turning his head to look at me, a mix of fear and pity crosses his face. “Good luck,” he mumbles before the gates slide open and the car door is opened for me.

“Thanks.” My words are barely above a whisper, but with a slight nod of his head, I know he heard. I want to ask him to drive away, to take me somewhere far away. But nobody runs from a Reaper.

A hand reaches into the cab to help me out, and despite wanting to be bratty and push it away, I can see it’s a man's arm and I don’t want to get into more trouble. As I make it out of the car, I’m met by Jamieson, or Whiskey as he is known to the Reapers, the Road Captain, and youngest member of the Reaper Church. He’s also the guy I grew up with, someone I considered to be my best friend, and he’s now the man asking to make me his Old Lady.

I waste no time taking his hand, there’s no point in delaying things. He practically pulls me out of the car, and as he drags me across the compound car park, past the garages, I risk a look over at him. My normally serene-looking friend now looks anything but. His short beard-covered jaw is held tight, as though he is clenching it, and his normally hazel eyes look dark under the moonlight. He wears his hair trimmed short now, although I suspect if I confessed I preferred it when he had long hair that curled slightly at the ends, it would make a reappearance. He’s bulked up a lot since we were younger, his arms probably the size of one of my thighs. The guy is muscular and ripped in all the right places, it’s just the cut he wears over those deliciously tight t-shirts that puts me off.

The boy I grew up with, he was sweet and kind, but as soon as he was old enough to prospect into the club, he did, and with each day of training, I lost my best friend. They taught him how low women are in the club hierarchy, and how they are more superior to anyone else, ever. They taught him to lay down the law, and to never be questioned. To show no fear. And he was their perfect student. He soaked in what they had to teach him like a sponge, becoming the ideal member. That's how he patched in and worked his way up through the ranks. As soon as he found out I had asked to leave, it all changed even more. He became possessive and jealous, determined to keep me here with him. Not something that was hard to convince my dad and the other members of. But, the club has rules, and when I took my request to Church, they had no choice but to give me the chance to earn my freedom. However, they made it very clear that should I fail this mission, I will become Jamieson’s Old Lady, and there will be no arguments. Naturally, I agreed, but I decided I was going to make damn sure I succeeded at the mission, no matter what. Which is how I met Kellan.

That gorgeous, sexy Irishman has been on my mind all night. Even as I danced and let other men put their hands on me, I imagined it was him. There is something about him, something so inherently good that sets him apart from the Reapers. Maybe it’s the fact that he has morals? Whatever it is, I was so caught up in him, and I really fucking regret not fooling around with him. But, no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't. I can’t ever let him see how broken I truly am.

“What the fuck were you thinking, Shay! Do you know how fucking mad they are in there?” Jamieson finally snaps as we get closer to the main door.

Jamieson didn’t often shout, but he didn’t need to. He has one of those deep, booming voices that sounds authoritative, even without raising decibels. His grip on my arm tightens as I start to slow, I would be surprised if he wasn’t leaving a bruise. I try to stop, to talk to him, but he is so mad he barely slows down. “I’m sorry. The night got away from me.”

“Fuck off, Shay. That’s a pathetic excuse. We knew you were meeting some guy called Odin to help you with this job, but at no point did we say it was okay for you to be in a hotel room with a strange man. Then you ignored our calls, which was bad enough, but no…you went even further. If you had just come home then. Instead you went out on the piss, stopped all communication, effectively ignoring all the instructions you were given, and you are fucking drunk. You do know that Pres is likely to blow that big vein that runs across his forehead!” he shouts, and I can’t help the little laugh that escapes.

Obviously, I’m not laughing at the severity of my situation like Jamieson clearly thinks. Talking about the big old vein on my dad's head brought back memories of when we were kids. We always used to laugh together at the way the vein looked like it pulsed when my dad got mad. Jamieson joked I had special powers to make it twitch, as he seemed to always be getting angry. I wanted to remind Jamieson of those times, but clearly he isn’t in the mood for a run down memory lane. Still, he looks at me with his eyebrows raised, like he is waiting for me to tell him what the hell I’m laughing at.

“Sorry, just reminded me of something from when I was younger. You wouldn’t remember,” I spit, loathing the guy I see before me. He looks like my friend, but he couldn’t be further away.

Grinding to a halt, Jamieson spins me around before pushing me against the club wall, his big, muscular, tattooed body caging in my small frame. A look of anguish crosses his face and his eyes seem to droop, I almost feel sad for him. But that look is replaced within seconds by the one I’m used to; the hard-faced, uncaring, stern, asshole expression this guy has spent the last seven years perfecting since he turned fourteen. I don’t even want to imagine where I thought we would be when Jamieson turned twenty-one, and me nineteen. I saw us being friends forever, if not maybe more someday. But not like this. I thought we would run away and have lives together, become the people we were supposed to be. But he chose the Reapers, which means I will always be a second-class citizen to him.

“Listen, Shay. I am doing my fucking best. They want to fucking murder you in there. If it wasn’t for your birthright, and the fact that I am vouching for you, you would be dead by now. I am putting my life on the line defending you, the least you can do is show me some fucking respect,” he snarls, getting far too close for my liking.

Even though I’m not actually capable of pushing away his huge body, it doesn’t stop me from trying, and as soon as my hands make contact with his rock-hard chest, I know I stand no chance. “How fucking dare you?! Respect is earned and none of you assholes deserve mine. Not one of you ever showed me an ounce of respect, so why should I reciprocate it? And, I don’t remember asking you to stick up for me. I also don’t remember agreeing to marry you, but you fucking went ahead, cock out and balls swinging on that one, didn’t you?” I shout, my voice becoming louder with each word.

“There was a time you would have,” he whispers, and the change in him almost gives me fucking whiplash.

Looking up into his hazel eyes that have started to soften, I can’t help but compare them to Kellan’s bright crystal blue eyes. They couldn’t be more opposite. One light and one dark, a bit like the men themselves. The only thing I know for sure is that I know nothing about these men. Yes, I know a bit about Jamieson’s past, but I know very little about who he is now, having chosen to keep away as his loyalty for the Reapers grew deeper. But with Kellan, it’s the opposite. I know a little bit about the man I met today, what I saw and how he behaves. I can tell that he is inherently good, a trait not found often in the underground crime network I have grown up in. Despite what I think I know, I don’t really know anything about him or his past. He could have more skeletons in his closet than a Reaper. Nevertheless, I can compare them all I want, it’s irrelevant, they are both off-limits. Jamieson, because I will never be second best to the Reapers, and Kellan, because I need his help to get free. He is a job and nothing more.

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