Down To My Bones: Reapers MC: Ellsberg Chapter, #1

By Bijou Hunter

HEAT ღ HUMOR ღ HEA

The first time I notice Miranda Johansson, she's feeding potato salad to geese. I instantly crave the gorgeous oddball.

Tempting her dangerous father's temper, I travel to Ellsberg with the sole purpose of getting to know Miranda up close and personal. She quickly steals any urge I have to return home. Where Miranda goes, I will follow.

Before we find our happily ever after, someone tries to murder the eccentric beauty. Now my only goals are keeping her safe, finding the bastard who put a bullet in my woman, and winning over her forever-growling father.

Down to my Bones contains graphic sexual content, violent situations, disturbing content, and harsh language. The book is only appropriate for adult readers age 18+.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bijou Hunter
• Release date: Jan 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393535812

Bijou Hunter

Romance Author of Contemporary, Suspense, and New Adult ~ Find me at www.bijouhunterbooks.com ~ Join my mailing list: www.bijouhunterbooks.com/mailing-list

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DOWN TO MY BONES

BIJOU HUNTER

Copyright © 2018 Bijou Hunter

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmosphere purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover

Photo Source: Depositphotos

Cover Copyright © 2018 Bijou Hunter

Dedication

To my three baby boys who are no longer babies;

My beyond patient mom;

Jenn for Meow-Meow and sniffing sexy men;

My betas Debbie, Sarah, and Carina;

&

Judy’s Proofreading

TABLE OF CONTENTS

NOTE TO READERS

THE CHAPTER WHERE THE STORY BEGINS

MIRANDA JOHANSSON, AKA THE ODDBALL

QUAID REYNOLDS, AKA THE OUTSIDER

THE ODDBALL

THE CHAPTER WHERE FRICTION HAPPENS

THE OUTSIDER

THE ODDBALL

THE OUTSIDER

THE ODDBALL

THE OUTSIDER

THE CHAPTER WHERE SHIT GETS REAL

THE ODDBALL

THE OUTSIDER

THE ODDBALL

THE OUTSIDER

THE ODDBALL

THE CHAPTER WHERE THE OUTSIDER TAKES CHARGE

THE OUTSIDER

THE ODDBALL

THE OUTSIDER

THE ODDBALL

THE OUTSIDER

THE ODDBALL

THE OUTSIDER

THE CHAPTER WHERE THE ODDBALL ISN’T IN KANSAS ANYMORE

THE ODDBALL

THE OUTSIDER

THE ODDBALL

THE OUTSIDER

THE ODDBALL

THE CHAPTER WHERE EVERYONE IS NAKED

THE OUTSIDER

THE ODDBALL

THE CHAPTER WHERE ASSHOLES DOUBLE DOWN

THE OUTSIDER

THE ODDBALL

THE OUTSIDER

THE CHAPTER WHERE THE PIECES FIT THE PUZZLE

THE ODDBALL

THE OUTSIDER

THE CHAPTER WHERE THE STORY ENDS

THE ODDBALL

THE OUTSIDER

OH, BY THE WAY, FROM THE ODDBALL

A FINAL WORD FROM THE INSIDER

A FINAL WORD FROM THE PROUD ODDBALL

MY PERFECT DRUG SNEAK PEEK

BIJOU READING ORDER

ABOUT BIJOU

NOTE TO READERS

Down To My Bones is the first book in the Reapers MC: Ellsberg Chapter. These books are second generation romances and take place in the future.

The Road to Ellsberg

There was once a great man who founded a motorcycle club, the Reapers, and built up a town, Ellsberg, for his young bride (Sunday Morning).

His oldest son, Cooper (Damaged and the Beast), became president of the Reapers after marrying a college student-turned-teacher named Farah. They had four children—Lily, Miranda, Colton, and Audrey (Brick Shithouse, White Horse series #4).

This is Miranda’s story.

THE CHAPTER WHERE THE STORY BEGINS

MIRANDA JOHANSSON, AKA THE ODDBALL

I’m known for two things. The first is being the daughter of Cooper and Farah Johansson. Not the oldest daughter. That’s goody-goody firstborn Lily. I’m not the youngest daughter either. That’s Daddy’s girl Audrey who ditched him and our hometown so she could marry a giant man with likely enormous plumbing. I have a brother too. Stuck between Audrey and me, Colton basks in the many benefits of being the only son in a powerful family. Then there’s me. The daughter who isn’t Lily or Audrey. Yeah, that’s me.

The other thing people know about me is how Uncle Tucker dropped me on my head when I was a baby. The story changes about how old I was and just how hard I landed. In one version, he swung me around, and I bashed my noggin into walls rather than the floor. In another version, he threw me so high in the air that my head collided with the ceiling. Startled by the accident, my uncle forgot to catch me, and I landed on my noggin.

While these scenarios seem farfetched, my uncle is known for lacking intelligence and common sense. It’s the birth order thing. My firstborn pop has a sharp mind and is a born leader. From day one, he was primed to take over the family’s legal—and illegal—businesses. Tucker came along soon after. The second-born son was dumber and less intimidating. My gram and pop-pop then had two girls over a decade apart. They babied Bailey before babying Sawyer later on.

Stuck between the family’s future king and two princesses, Tucker must have been downright desperate for attention most of his life. His favored way of seeking it was by acting like a hyper toddler. Tucker talks way too loudly and starts trouble over the smallest slights. Obviously, at some point, he accepted that his only shot at attention was by being as obnoxious as possible. If anyone could turn a game of airplane with a baby into dropping her on the head, it was my uncle.

I’m genuinely sympathetic to his situation. Second born equals second place. However, I feel he went about dealing with his situation in the wrong way and not just because he ended up dropping me on my head.

In first grade, I discovered a better way. It was a normal day in every other way. After Mom brought Lily and me home, Pop asked how we were.

I got a perfect score on my spelling test, Lily said in her perfect Lily voice. I even got the bonus word correct.

Mom hugged my sister and put the test on the fridge for posterity. Pop then asked about my day.

I got five right and drew a cat on the back, I announced, feeling damn proud about my depiction of the cat I wanted that year—orange tabbies were my obsession in first grade.

Without missing a beat, Mom hugged me and added my test to the fridge next to Lily’s. I quickly realized I didn’t need to accomplish as much as my sister to receive just as much love and attention. True, I didn’t know back then how people thought I might be a little off because of my head’s encounter with the floor. I only figured my parents loved me and my cat drawings. I did always get the whiskers perfect.

Second best was fine with me. Later, I learned I could be full-on stupid and shockingly weird, yet people would always give me slack. After all, I did get dropped on my noggin, and I was trying my damnedest.

Tucker worked too hard to accomplish too little when he could have coasted through life. All he had to do was accept he was second place. Or third or fourth best. Basically, the key to happiness was recognizing how he would never win. I accepted losing long ago, and I’m the happiest person I know.

An adult now, I do what I want, never tell anyone anything, and act stupid whenever caught in an awkward situation. Just last week, I ate Colton’s sandwich and pretended I hadn’t realized it was his even though he took the time to write his fucking name on the wrapper. My brother steals my stuff all the time, and he always admits to stealing it. That’s his power from being the golden child. I play the game differently.

I don’t understand, I said when he yelled at me for eating his sandwich.

Standing over me, he growled, Don’t understand what?

I thought the sandwich was in the fridge.

Hands on his hips and dark eyes flaring with rage, Colton flinched in response to my words. Then he glanced around the kitchen despite us being alone. No one would help him deal with me. We were alone as he yelled at his cuckoo sister over a sandwich. His inner turmoil played out on his face while I stared blankly. I watched Colton come to the realization that he could always buy a new brisket and cheese footlong, but there was no buying me a new brain.

He walked away without saying another word while I got my revenge for his thieving. Ah, the joys of being the forgotten child. Uncle Tucker really missed out by not living in the background.

For the most part, the people in my hometown of Ellsberg leave me alone. True, many of them can’t tell my sisters and me apart, though I don’t think we look much alike. Still, when the locals know I’m me, I’m afforded a wide berth.

Adding to my odd reputation is the job I do at the shelter. I’m often seen cleaning up roadkill on the side of the road. Nothing says wacko like driving around on my moped with a cargo trailer stacked with trash bags full of dead animals.

I prefer people to leave me alone when I’m working. Our local animal control has three employees. One runs the office. The other runs the animal area. A vet comes by a few times a week to off unwanted or sick animals. My job involves picking up dead animals and occasionally live ones. The police handle citations and round up the big or vicious animals. I’m not taking down a bear or pit bull, though I always pack heat. Pop raised me to assume everyone was a threat. I was nineteen before I stopped fearing that the elderly and children might attack. I still fear anyone in between six and sixty, though. It’s what Pop would want.

This is my life. No one bothers me, and I don’t bother anyone.

Until today...

Just as I’m about to scoop up a dead raccoon and add him to my stash, a vintage black Harley comes to a loud, rumbling stop in the middle of the small road I’m standing on. My family runs the local motorcycle club, and bikers are a dime a dozen in this part of Kentucky.

This man is a stranger, though, so I casually unsnap my gun holster at my hip. If I need to take a shot, I don’t want anything slowing me down.

The motorcycle’s engine falls silent, and the rider watches me. He’s a bear of a man. Rough with wild hair barely controlled by the backward red cap he wears. He looks the way Pop does when he goes shooting and wants to use the scope. Does this man enjoy target practice too? I spot the butt of a rifle sticking out from the back of his bike. Is he looking for a place to hunt or shoot bottles? Or is he searching for a victim to take into these woods?

I size up the stranger from his busted-up thick black work boots to his faded camo pants. I notice the way his washed-out black shirt barely constricts his buff chest. He’s the type of guy my pop recruits into the Reapers Motorcycle Club. I know this man isn’t one of the local guys. Based on his little smile, I bet he isn’t from another chapter of the Reapers either. Club men don’t hit on Johansson women. Well, not unless they’re suicidal. Pop made us off-limits long ago.

Whatcha doing? he asks, climbing off his Harley.

What’s it look like?

Like you’re cleaning up roadkill.

So, what else could I be doing?

Can’t someone else clean that up?

Why someone else? Why not me?

You’re too pretty to be cleaning up dead animals.

I reach for my hair without thinking but then see my gloved hand. Touching dead animals and then playing with my ponytail isn’t a sanitary combination. Leaning on my shovel, I take my time studying the man. His arms reveal tats, but I can’t tell what they are. Is he from a rival biker club? Should I pull my gun and end him now just to be safe? If it turns out he wasn’t an actual threat, I could always act confused when people ask why I shot him.

Of course, I can also act confused right now and see if he goes away. I stare at him, having left my sunglasses in my bag. His eyes are hidden behind black shades, and a smile still lingers on his lips. I stare at him in the blank way I stare at people. Seeing past them, I appear lost in my own world. This move rids me of quite a few problems. Whether out of pity or irritation, people tend to walk away and leave me be.

What do you plan to do with Mister Raccoon there? he asks, prowling closer but remaining still a distance away.

Continuing to stare, I don’t respond. His confident smile widens.

You aren’t planning to eat him, are you?

Frowning at how he refuses to catch onto my very obvious hint, I lift my shovel and examine the sharp edge. If he gets a few feet closer, I could do a decent amount of damage. The shovel isn’t a kill move, but Pop would approve of me using what was handy. He often points out how bullets ain’t cheap.

We’ve got money, Pop says all the time, but not so much that we can be pissing away cash on wasted bullets.

Pop mostly tells this to Colton who enjoys shooting from the back porch. When we were teenagers, he used to shoot at squirrels. Then I knocked him off the back porch, and he fell ten feet to the ground below and snapped his butt bone. I didn’t even know people had bones in their butts, but we do, and he fractured his. Afterward, Colton promised to stop shooting at animals, and I vowed to stop trying to kill him. Neither of us has broken our pledges either. Though more than once, I did consider hitting him with something that would—almost—kill him. Despite the temptation, I’ve kept my word about letting my brother live.

What’s your name? the stranger asks.

Bill.

Naw, you’re too damn cute to be a Bill.

Fine, Rando.

Naw, I don’t think that one is right either.

Well, then you’re fucking wrong, I say, swinging the shovel threateningly.

A woman like you ought to have a lovely name to match her lovely face.

What, like Heather?

Nice enough name, but it doesn’t fit you. I’m trying to put my finger on what would suit such a fine lady as yourself.

I notice him gesturing as if thinking of a suitable name. He strides along the gravel road, not approaching me, nor retreating. He paces a little like our dogs do when they want to come inside during a rainstorm. This man isn’t restless, but he’s most certainly on a mission.

Miranda, he says, snapping his finger. That’s the name for a face like yours.

Pounding the ground with the shovel, I glare at him. If you know who I am, why are you giving me grief?

I didn’t reckon I was.

Did you reckon how my father would feel about you talking me up on a deserted, backwoods road where no one can hear me scream?

Your father might not appreciate my interest, but men like him often struggle to accept how their girls need space to breathe.

That’s what you’re doing here then?

I’m talking to you is all, Miranda.

Don’t call me that, I say, shaking my head.

Don’t you approve of the pretty name your parents gave you?

I turn away and scoop up the raccoon with my shovel. With his little arms frozen in the air, I imagine the animal’s last thought was to ask God, Why? Did he learn the answer in Heaven where raccoons eat trash to their hearts’ content?

Once the bag is tied, I find the man standing in the exact same spot. He’s a patient fucker, and my blank stare isn’t doing the trick.

What’s your name?

Quaid.

Is that your first or last name?

Both.

I don’t get it.

Like Kramer, he says and then adds when I only frown, From ‘Seinfeld.’

Pop doesn’t like us watching Yankee TV.

I don’t believe that’s true.

What do you know, Quaid?

I heard him once quote Chandler from ‘Friends,’ and you don’t get more Yankee TV than that.

Curious now, I quickly drop the bag in my trailer along with the shovel. I remove my gloves and squirt sanitizer in my hands. Finally, I take a step closer to Quaid.

What was the quote?

"Could you be any more fucking dead?"

He does like to threaten people, I say, pulling my gun from my holster and casually holding it downward. How do you know him exactly, Mister Quack?

Chuckling at my choice of names for him, he shakes his head. I figured it was a fifty-fifty chance you’d remember me. You were extremely disinterested in the grill-off.

So, you’re in one of the Reapers chapters? I ask, squinting as if the gesture might help me place him. I know you’re not Ellsberg.

Shasta.

I hate Shasta, I immediately say, thinking of the nothing town in the Kentucky hills.

I could tell you weren’t happy to be there by how you kept trying to feed potato salad to the birds.

Is it disappointing to learn I don’t remember you at all?

When the guys beat me into the club, they yanked out a good chunk of my hair. I had to buzz off the rest. I was still growing it back when you came out to Shasta. Seems better for you to meet me with my mane intact.

Is that why you didn’t talk to me at the party?

Are you asking if I’m shy?

No, I’m asking if you feared my pop might play your bald head like a bongo drum?

Well, I’m not shy, he says, still wearing that smirk.

You’re obviously suicidal if you think Pop won’t rip out your hair for inconveniencing me.

What am I keeping you from really? The raccoon got taken care of.

How did you even find me?

The word is you ride around these backroads. I’d say I got lucky, but I’ve been driving around for two days hoping to run into you.

Why do you want to talk to me, stalker?

You know.

Tilting my head, I use the barrel of my gun to swipe hair from my face. Yeah, I know, but I don’t know why I ought to care.

How often do men risk their testicles to share a conversation with you?

A couple times a month actually, I lie because lies are often more productive than the truth.

Oh, no doubt. But how many of them offer to take you to eat a secret meal in a nearby town where your family and the Reapers won’t spy?

I’ll admit that’s a bit less common, I say and shove my gun back in its holster. Can I pick the place, or do you want to show off your knowledge of this part of Kentucky?

Would anyone in the entire world be impressed by such knowledge?

Unable to hide my smile, I shake my head and climb on my moped. I’ll meet you tonight at eight at a place called Pickles in Paradise. I start the engine and glance back at Quaid. Good call on waiting to talk me up until your hair grew back. Bald men give me the heebie-jeebies.

I don’t wait for him to speak, not that I sense he plans to. Quaid from the Reapers’ Shasta chapter got what he wanted, and I suspect he isn’t the type of man to waste words.

QUAID REYNOLDS, AKA THE OUTSIDER

I don’t believe in love at first sight. How can you love a person you’ve never spoken to? You can’t. That’s just a damn fact.

However, you can get a strong feeling about someone from across a room—or in my case, across a massive yard during a biker BBQ. You can be drawn to a person, preferring them to others in the same way you find one car model more appealing than another. My club brother’s wife is obsessed with cottage-style homes. No reason beyond she feels in her gut that they suit her best.

That’s how I felt when I saw Miranda trying to feed potato salad to a group of squawking geese. She caught my eye and kept my interest while her sisters didn’t. No objective reason why, but I’ve been thinking about her for months now.

In a roundabout way, her father is my boss. No way does he want me sniffing around his gorgeous oddball daughter. I’m too old and rough around the edges. Plus, what made me a solid recruit—my experience killing—won’t put me at the top of the list of suitable suitors for his eccentric princess.

Hours after Miranda rides away on her silly pale green scooter, I arrive at Pickles in Paradise. The restaurant is located in a former VFW, and the faded letters remain on the side of the building. When I open the door, I’m not met by the chill of air-conditioning as in most businesses during the summer. I walk into the muggy restaurant to find folding tables haphazardly arranged around the room. The menu is printed on a large dry-erase board hanging precariously over the cashier station. A cook stands behind a counter while nearby is a waitress so old that I’d guess one of her feet is already solidly in the grave.

Miranda sits at a table near the back. She sees me before I do her. Despite her gaze locked on me, her face reveals no emotion. I’ve known a whole lot of cold fuckers over my lifetime, but few own a poker face half as impressive as the sexy brunette’s. I swear I’m dying to hear what comes out of her mouth next.

You’re not wearing a hat, she says once I sit across from her.

Is that a problem?

I’ve only ever seen you in a hat.

I was raised to think wearing hats inside was rude.

That guy is wearing a hat, she mutters while gesturing to a farmer at a table near the door.

Her reaction to my arrival is so far from what I expected that I’m at a loss for words, but if she wants a fucking hat, I can go get my hat. Do you want me to get my hat from my saddlebag?

I feel like we're saying the word ‘hat’ too much.

Then, do you want me to get my cap out of the saddlebag?

No, I can get used to you without a ha— Miranda pauses to correct herself. You don’t need to wear a cap.

Sitting across from her in a folding chair, I pretend to study the menu when I really just want to bask in how Miranda Johansson is mere feet from me. For months, I’ve wondered about this woman. Hell, I hadn’t even heard her voice that day. So many questions ran through my mind over the last few months. Now she’s sharing a meal with me, and I can finally learn the answers.

What’s good here?

I normally order the chicken strips and deep-fried pretzels.

Fuck, if I know why I laugh at her words, but I just do. Miranda doesn’t even seem to notice. Her gaze studies my face, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she’s still thinking about my hat.

Did you get the waves in your hair from your mom or your pop? she asks after I stroll

Reviews for Down To My Bones

[Charlie · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was excellent. If MJ were real, she would be my best friend. I laughed until I cried. At one point, my son had to check to make sure I was ok. I can’t wait u til Scribd releases the rest in the series!

[Ameliaplaying · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed this story. I thought MJ was a riot!! I don't think I have laughed so much as I did over the whole name thing, in a long time!