I'm With You: Reapers MC: Shasta Chapter, #1

By Bijou Hunter

HEAT ღ HUMOR ღ HEA

The VP of the Reapers Motorcycle Club, Shane Campbell falls hard once he sees Ramona Verhees. Winning her heart should be easy for the handsome, rich powerbroker in Shasta. Until Shane learns Ramona's the bastard daughter of the town's former club president.

Can Shane prove he's worth the trouble their relationship will cause?

"I'm With You" contains graphic sexual content, violent situations, harsh language, and drug use. The book is only appropriate for adult readers age 18+.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bijou Hunter
• Release date: Mar 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9798224198283

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

Book preview

NOTE TO READERS

I’m With You takes place before Down to my Bones (Ellsberg Chapter Book 1).

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The Road to Shasta

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).

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One of the members of the club was an enforcer named Vaughn Majors (Damaged and the Outlaw). Another was Dylan Campbell (Damaged and the Bulldog).

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Dylan's children Shane and Shelby (along with Vaughn's son River) outgrew Ellsberg. The three struck out for Shasta, where they took over a club and started cleaning up the town.

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This is Shane's story.

THE CHAPTER WHERE THEIR STORY BEGINS

SHANE CAMPBELL, AKA THE ROMANTIC

We came, we saw, and we brought the Cracked Skullz Motorcycle Club to their fucking knees.

For decades, Shasta belonged to the twenty-strong biker crew. They ran drugs, guns, and women in northeast Kentucky. Shasta is nicely situated close to Lexington and Cincinnati, but not close enough to gain too much interest from the big city cops or state law enforcement.

This town was prime for the picking. For decades, the Cracked Skullz warred off-and-on with another club—the Executioners—over this territory. The Skullz leader Fuse—Al Reiss—beat back the constant threats using every weapon in his arsenal.

But the fucker never saw the Reapers coming.

Fuse got one look of River Majors and figured he had the pretty hippie tagged. No way was this young blond fuck taking what the Skullz fought so long to keep. Big, mean, scarred Fuse planned to make an example of us that day in the parking lot of their clubhouse, Dirty Toes Saloon.

Behold the bitch looking to take what’s mine! Fuse bellowed to the laughter of his rough, battle-hardened men.

River stood relaxed. His shoulder-length blond hair hung loose. His shirt read, Have a Nice Day, and his smile screamed the same damn thing.

Fuse sneered at the younger man. Tell Cooper Johansson if he wants this town that he’ll need to take it himself. Instead, he sends a pretty skank to suck me off.

Running the Reapers Motorcycle Club in Ellsberg, Cooper wanted this satellite chapter and asked who had the balls to claim it for him. River hadn’t been sitting around waiting for his big chance, but he saw an opportunity and stepped up. That’s how he rolls. River isn’t a big planner—just an easygoing stone-cold killer.

That day, he did look like a pussy. I told him as much before we left for the Saloon. River only smiled. He knows I’ll always tell him the truth, just as I’ll always have his back. It’s been that way since we were kids.

Facing off with Fuse, River didn’t need to check to know I’d be ready for anything these assholes tried. He never considered sending a signal to my sister, Shelby, and our friend Taylor, who were watching the fight through rifle scopes. We’ve fucked people up together for years.

Size-wise, the men weren’t far off. Over six feet tall and wide-shouldered, neither could use sheer brute force to win. It would come down to brains and skills.

Fuse threw his giant fist at River, but it was no use. Nothing that fucker had in his arsenal would take down the younger, faster, better-trained man. River dodged the first few moves, just to mess with the president of the club he was about to claim.

Then he gave Fuse a double whammy of a roundhouse kick followed by a punch to the side of the head. I bet the cocky fucker’s ears rang as he hit the ground—shocked and humiliated. Before the asshole got any big ideas, River’s foot came crashing down on Fuse’s knee. His wail of pain was the official end of the Cracked Skullz Motorcycle Club.

Sure, the other men awoke from their stunned silence. The VP—Chris Matteau, aka Cum Shot—attacked first. With black belt moves, River made quick work of him. Younger men took up the fight, but they ended up on their asses. One fucker near me grabbed a bat, but I got him on the ground and removed his weapon before my sister’s trigger finger could take over.

One final asshole threw a punch at River and followed with a swipe of a switchblade. While his club brothers watched powerlessly, the guy they called Candyman struggled uselessly against River’s arm pressed against his throat. Soon, the biker was nothing more than a thing to be tossed aside.

Shasta belongs to the Reapers now, River said in his usual chill tone. If you’ve got a problem with that, better rent yourself a moving van. Anyone still wanting to wear a patch needs to burn their Skullz one and ride with ours.

River made killing look too easy, even to men who killed and died against the Executioners. Fuse was their guy, and he went down like a punk. River hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Some former Skullz wouldn’t bow. A few left town while a couple suffered the same fate as Candyman. Cum Shot stuck around and ate shit, but we knew he was just biding his time for a magic fix to the situation the Skullz found themselves in.

Fuse, though, refused to join the Reapers. He didn’t leave Shasta either. We figured he would start shit one day. River even wondered if Fuse might run to the Executioners to make a deal.

Instead, four months after we took his club, Fuse’s Harley hit a wet patch and took a header off the Deep Six River Bridge. The asshole drowned. The rumor around Shasta was that we had him put down. We let the town believe that shit, too. What do we care if Fuse’s bitch old lady and her allies in Shasta whine? Fuck anyone not loyal to new management.

Well, that’s what I figured until my heart got set on a black-haired beauty.

A few weeks back, I was at the Emporium to pick up donuts for Shelby. My sister requires very specific forms of sugar when she’s on the rag. As I waited for freshly baked goods—those sitting in the display case would never do—I caught sight of a woman waiting outside an ugly two-story brick building with the sign Off the Rails splashed across the top in bold red letters.

With milky white skin in contrast to her midnight black hair, she reminded me of Snow White. Well, if the Disney Princess wore a T-shirt with The Stooges printed on the front, battered denim jeans, and scuffed-up Converse. Even at a distance, I knew she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

But more than gorgeous, there was something vulnerable about her expression while she leaned against the wall and stared at the road. I didn’t know why she looked so sad, but I was willing to kill whatever problems she had. Without trying, she made me determined to improve her life. Preferably by using my cock in some way.

Then before I could make a move, a black Ford Fiesta pulled over, and my Snow White got inside. The driver was a sweet butt named Kelsi. The only reason I remembered her name was because her thick bangs and big hair stood out in a sea of same-y hot women that frequented the Saloon. Kelsi always reminded me of those girls from the Valley Girl movie that my mom liked.

After the vulnerable beauty joined a sweet butt who had sucked me off, I figured my instant obsession needed to end. I ought to just walk away and forget about her.

Except the stalker gene runs deep in the Campbell family. I needed to know more about her.

For days, I waited at Dirty Toes Saloon for Kelsi to show. I actually liked the clubhouse’s design with its dark wood and center of the room bar top. The place resembles the Irish pub my dad took me to when we visited Boston a year ago. These days, the Saloon is my second house—after the big Victorian we live in and before The Barnyard, where the Fearsome Foursome eats four times a week.

I’d seen Kelsi at the Saloon constantly since I moved to Shasta. Of course, once I needed to talk to her, she took forever to drop by. When she finally showed up, I nearly tackled her before asking her to walk outside with me.

Wait, are we going to fuck? Kelsi asked once we were in the wooded area behind the bar.

No, we’re going to talk.

Why?

Because I’m testing out the loyalty of the club sluts.

Kelsi’s interest in asking questions ended immediately. Sweet butts enjoy a weird celebrity status in Shasta. Old ladies brag about the rings on their fingers while the sweet butts brag about how many men consider them official side pieces. Having one of the Cracked Skullz deem a woman worthy to fuck on more than one occasion makes these chicks feel like superstars. The Skullz used to hand out colored bracelets to the sweet butts they preferred. The more bands on a girl’s wrists, the higher on the food chain she felt.

Kelsi wore four different colored bracelets. No doubt, the thought of me cutting her off from her identity here at the Saloon was enough to get her to snitch on Ramona Alberta Verhees.

She’ll never date you, if that’s what you’re thinking, Kelsi said and snapped her gum. No offense, but she doesn’t like bikers. Even if she did, you’d have no shot. But no offense.

Why don’t I have a shot?

You killed her dad.

And there was my problem. Ramona Verhees is Fuse’s bastard daughter. Her mother isn’t Coterie Reiss, but a sweet butt and the former president’s long-term side piece, Velma Verhees. And Ramona—like everyone in Shasta—thinks I had him killed.

After talking to Kelsi, I decided to step back from Ramona, and the drama pursuing her would create.

Weak, Shelby taunted at breakfast when I announced I was choosing the sane route. Pussy.

Shelby is one of my closest friends and an honorary member of the Reapers. However, she’s also my older sister and worries growing up with her protection has made me weak.

You’re soft like a newborn puppy. And as blind as one, too.

So, what do you suggest? I asked as she finished up her bowl of oatmeal and left it in the sink for the housekeeper.

I don’t know. Beg or something, she said and then added, Or stalk her until she submits. Whatever works, I guess.

Though I won’t beg, I do stalk Ramona by listening to her DJ on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday afternoons at the local radio station—Off the Rails. She plays a mix of punk, classic rock, local stuff, and indie music that needs to die. Even if the music isn’t always great, her sultry voice offers me company now that no other woman exists on my radar.

I follow Off the Rails on Facebook to check when she’ll be on air. Ramona picks up extra shifts here and there over the next few weeks. One morning, I even get up at three a.m. to hear her voice. Ramona sounds half-asleep during that shift, and I wonder what she does to stay awake while the songs play.

Also posted on Facebook, I locate several videos of Ramona interviewing shitty rock bands playing just outside of Shasta on the road the locals dubbed Rock N Tits because it’s lined with bars and strip clubs. She clearly loves music, asking real questions to a bunch of sweaty wannabes. They mostly flirt with her and try to sound deep. I am not a fan of that first part, and I ignore the second one. I only see Ramona with her black lips and heavily lined eyes. Less groupie than rocker chick, she shines in those moments. It’s when she’s alone outside the station, waiting for her ride, that I see the vulnerability again.

I’m fucking obsessed, I admit to River one night. I think of her constantly. I watch a movie and wonder if she’d like it. I eat a meal and wonder if she’d enjoy it. I can’t shake the need. I even pretend she’s in bed with me at night just so I can stop wishing she was.

River exhales the skunk he’s hogging and finally hands over the bud. You need to show her that you’re more than the biker who killed her dad, River explains, sounding already stoned as we sit on the back porch of our creepy two-tone green Victorian house. We bought this place because of its eight bedrooms. My parents visit often. River’s too, plus six of his seven younger siblings. One of his brothers—Maverick—is an enforcer for our club and shares a house with Taylor.

How would I go about doing that? I ask River.

Wham bam the chick. Run into her somewhere when you know she’ll be alone. Then chat her up. If she seems open to you, ask her to go get something to eat right then.

What if she hears my name and recognizes who I am?

No way will she know the name of the club VP. My name might ring a few bells, but no one ever cares about the VP. We share a laugh at the truth behind his words. But if she does, well, then you’re fucked and need another tactic.

Shouldn’t I be straight with her right off the fucking bat? I say, settling down as the pot hits me.

Have at it. However, if your honesty angle fails, you’ll always wonder if you should have been sneaky.

But being sneaky might be what kills my chances.

Not if you can get in nice with her first. I mean, shit, Shasta isn’t winning any beauty contests. There are so few hot people here. She’s got to know that, too. Now, here you come with your thick head of hair and that slick beard and the good manners your mama taught you. Well, shit, this Ramona gal is bound to fall hard. Then when she claims you killed her daddy and you say you didn’t, she’ll have a reason to believe you.

Being square with a woman feels like a better move, I say, nervous that I’ll walk up to her with perfect lies planned, and she’ll already know the truth. More than once, she’s mentioned on air about a party where she’ll be DJing. I considered showing up, but people will know me even if she doesn’t yet. Kelsi swore she wouldn’t tell Ramona about my questions.

She doesn’t need to worry, Kelsi told me, but I hadn’t thought to question her statement.

I got the sense from Kelsi that Ramona doesn’t date. That part I liked. Now I wonder if she isn’t enough into guys to overlook the rumors about me.

Look, dude, River announces, far too loudly as if the pot has ruined his hearing, my father kidnapped my mom when she broke things off. Used fucking chloroform and took her to a cabin, like a damn psycho. Sounds bad, but they’re still married after almost thirty years together, he says and then reaches over to give my chest a fist pound. And besides, do you think your mom would have ever dated your dad if he hadn’t stalked her just a tiny bit? No, so sometimes, you’ve got to bend the rules a little to make shit work.

River is rarely wrong. Plus, Shelby keeps calling me a pussy for not making a move.

She might be a real lame duck, but you’ll never know because you’re too busy jacking off to a fantasy girl, she announces one night while feeding our French bulldogs, Hansel and Gretel. My sister’s dark hair is a fucking mess, like most days. The move to Shasta hasn’t gone smoothly, and she often refuses to leave the house. Today, though, she’s quite amused over my love life issues. You’re hung up on a face and body. At least our dad stalked a woman he’d shared actual conversations with.

I’ve learned a lot about Ramona’s personality from her shows. She has a dog named Hilly, and she tried a chili-infused drink the other night that made her hurl.

I’d laugh at you if it weren’t so sad, she says and starts to hug me before pulling away. No, I coddled you too much as a boy, and now you’re a pathetic fraidy cat.

I know Shelby’s just messing with me, but I get one shot with Ramona Verhees, and I’m afraid to blow it.

But no matter how things pan out, I know I’ll fuck up. Because, sooner or later, Ramona will expect me to pretend to feel bad about her loser, fapsock of a father, and I just can’t sell that lie.

Fuse ruled this town for a long time, making a lot of money and ruining many lives. He wasn’t an idiot. When Cooper showed interest in Shasta, Fuse could have negotiated a deal to retain some power or bow out without looking like a bitch. The shithead was too fucking proud, so River owned his ass. I can’t pretend to care, not even for a black-haired beauty with the voice of a siren.

Finally, I decide to make my move with Ramona. The longer I wait, the less wiggle room I have on my lies. Based on the things she’s said on her show, Ramona only recently moved back to Shasta. Even if Kelsi keeps her word about not ratting me out, Shasta isn’t that big of a town. I’ll run into her somewhere and lose control of the first time we meet. No, I need to make this shit happen now.

During my last week of recon, I learn Ramona drives to work on Wednesdays. She gets rides from Kelsi on the other days. I also found out that Ramona hangs around at the front of the building, enjoying a smoke on the days she drives. This is my best chance to get her alone.

I wear a long-sleeved sweater to hide my tats and drive my truck instead of the hog. If Ramona doesn’t like bikers, I can play the straight man for our first encounter.

Like clockwork, Ramona exits the radio station a few minutes after four. She leans against the building, fiddling with a cigarette she can’t decide whether she ought to smoke. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail. She’s wearing a tattered T-shirt under a ripped flannel shirt. Her lower legs are bare, and she shivers when the wind swirls around her. With a bud in her left ear, she listens to music while still fidgeting with her cigarette.

Once I scan the street for anyone who might interfere with my plan, I stroll straight toward the girl who’s got me obsessed before we’ve even shared our first conversation.

My voice startles her, and Ramona drops her lighter.

Sorry, she mumbles, picking it up and ignoring me.

I don’t keep walking, though I probably should. We’re off to a shit start, but I remain in front of her. Ramona finally lifts her dark gaze from her lighter to me. After giving my face a quick glance, she does a once-over that’s adorably obvious.

Sorry, she says again.

You’re Ramona Verhees.

Her vague smile is instantly gone. Ramona tries to back away from me, but she just finds the brick wall.

What do you want?

I wanted to ask if you’d play more Nirvana during your sets, I blurt out when I realize she’s about to run screaming from me.

Ramona instantly relaxes. No.

Can I make a request, then?

No, she says, smiling. If I let you make one, then everyone will, too.

Do you get hounded a lot by fans?

Ramona waves around. Gotta beat them off with a stick, she says, still smiling. What song did you want?

Their cover of ‘Where Did You Sleep Last Night’?

Ramona fiddles with her cigarette before sliding it in the front pocket of her blue flannel shirt. Want to dedicate it to someone?

No, but can I buy you a cup of coffee?

Now?

Are you busy?

Yeah, that’s why I’m standing on the street. Super stretched thin.

We can walk across the street and get a cup at the Emporium.

I expect Ramona to make me jump through a few hoops before she agrees. Instead, she shrugs and walks to the curb.

I could use some caffeine, Guy.

My name is Shane.

She gives me a side glance and smiles. That’s a nice name. Next time lead with it rather than the creepy thing where you know my name.

I’ll keep that in mind, but you should be used to it.

And why is that? she asks, stepping into the road without looking.

Your picture and name are posted on the station’s website and Facebook page. People must recognize you.

Ramona snickers at my words but says nothing as we walk into the Emporium. She orders a double latte and steps back. I’m so entranced by the little grin she’s wearing on her dark red lips that I struggle to remember I drink black coffee.

After I gesture to a nearby table, Ramona sits.

Where are you from, Shane? she asks as soon as my ass hits the seat.

From Shasta.

Not originally, no.

Know everyone here, do you?

Yeah, pretty much. I grew up here, and I’ve never seen or heard about you.

I moved here a few months back with my sister, I semi-lie. We’re expanding our family’s construction business.

I wait for her to ask the name of the business—Campbell Construction—and possibly blow my cover. The universe steps in and distracts her instead. Noticing a nosy blonde at another table, Ramona frowns before returning her attention to me.

On the station’s Facebook page, they welcomed you back. Where had you gone? I ask, sounding like such a stalker that I don’t know why I practiced what to say.

Ramona levels her gaze at me, and I take in the sight of her nearly black eyes. Right now, I see nothing else. Her lips purse as she considers her answer. Or possibly, she’s thinking about how much of a stalker I am to know all this information about her. Or maybe she’s wondering what my kisses taste like.

Whatever she’s thinking, I don’t want this long-awaited moment between us to end.

RAMONA VERHEES, AKA THE LEGACY

Oh, fuck me. My day was, well, like most of my days. I slog through a majority of it to get to the parts I like. My job falls into the cool shit category of my life. Normally, I’d stop by the store and pick up a few groceries. That part is where I’d dodge people I don’t like and avoid thinking of ugly shit that my head constantly wants to show me.

Before any of that lame stuff happens, a tall drink of fuck me enters my life. How is this guy real? They don’t make men like him in Shasta. Am I still stoned from last night? Did someone slip me a happy drug, and I’m hallucinating this wide-shouldered, bearded Clark Kent level of perfection?

I wish I wore jeans today, but I ended up picking these stupid long shorts that show off my knobby knees and scrawny calves. Why are women supposed to have curvy calves? Who the fuck made up that rule?

Oh, wait, what was I thinking? That’s right. Fuck me, this guy is a dream, and he knows me. A fan? I have a few incel types who find me irresistible. I think it’s my throaty voice. See, even the word throaty implies blowjobs. I draw those weirdos to me, but they aren’t interested in the real Ramona.

No way does Shane care either, but I’m going to let him say whatever he wants because I need a sexy distraction just as much as the next girl.

I’d rather talk about him than about me. Except when a man this hot asks a question, who am I to play coy?

I lived in Cleveland for a short time, I say in a tone that makes it sound as if I just returned from a stint in Paris. I had a job at a station there.

Why come back? he asks and then adds, Not that I’m unhappy to have you here.

Shane sounds a little nervous, which is weird since his good looks are heating up this coffee shop. I’m sure he does that everywhere he goes. A man this fine doesn’t need to be nervous, but I sense him trying very hard to say the right things.

I have family here, is the only answer I can come up with that doesn’t lead to me barfing my life story on him. So, does your sister work in construction, too?

She runs the office, he says.

I assume you’re close since you moved here together.

She and I are best friends, he says, again choosing his words very carefully. Do you have any siblings?

No, I reply, selecting my response with just as much care. Shane doesn’t need to hear about my dysfunctional Kardashian-style family dynamics.

Sipping my coffee, I pretend not to be checking him out. He’s got the body of a linebacker. Wait, is that the strong, lean one that runs? No, I think they’re called something else.

Doesn’t matter. Shane looks like an athlete, and he’s wearing a spiffy dark-gray, long-sleeved sweater despite the weather not being particularly cold. I assume he’s dressed for his job, and wonder what he wears when out on the weekends.

Now I’m hoping I get to see him outside of this shop. Should I pretend to be into sports like I did with my Cleveland boyfriend? Is that what an athletic guy like Shane would be interested in? Matt liked me because he was going through a rebel phase before finding a normal woman to settle down with for life. My rocker appearance shocked his vanilla sensibilities. Is Shane looking for a ride on the wild side? Ugh, do I have to be exciting? I don’t know if I can fake that for long.

Do you enjoy your job? he asks, again sounding too rehearsed to be normal.

I love music, and my job involves setting up playlists of the best oldies and new stuff I find. I get to interview bands and go to local performances. The pay isn’t much, but it’s the best fucking job in the world.

I realize I forgot to watch what I say. Does he have a problem with cussing? Matt didn’t think women should curse, though his dude-bros could swear like chicks on Bravo without him noticing. Is Shane a nerd like Matt? Will I have to pretend as if Moby Dick is my favorite book? No, I think I’m supposed to prefer Pride & Prejudice, which is a smart girl book.

During yard work, my dad used to listen to Nirvana, Shane says. I’d help him, and we’d take turns picking songs.

His warm tone distracts my brain from worrying over what I should say.

Are you still close to your father?

Shane’s dark eyes flash with pride. He visited Shasta last week with my mom. We grilled outside.

Where do your parents live?

South Kentucky.

A part of my brain—that smart part that can do math and remember stuff about the American Revolution—finds his answer odd. But I write it off, assuming he’s from a loser town full of junkies and doesn’t want me thinking his people are trash. Been there. I told people in Cleveland that I was from a Lexington suburb, which is true if suburbs can span an hour from downtown.

So, you and your sister moved here to work for someone, or do you run your own business?

Both. My job is lame. Let’s talk about yours.

Because you’re a stalker?

Shane’s glorious smile widens. You have a voice any man would love to listen to.

So, you just want to listen to me talk? I ask, lifting my black, fringe-lined purse in front of my face. Does this work for you?

It’s possible I saw you before I heard you, and I’m a shallow fuck, he says, chuckling while I peek at him around the bag.

Oh, Shane, do you even like Nirvana?

That’s all true. And you can’t know how much I love hearing you say my name.

The sincerity and need in his voice startle me. I’m not the kind of girl that men long for. None of the musicians I’ve slept with ever wrote a song about me or my magical pussy. I just don’t inspire that kind of emotion.

After Shane gives me a taste of such interest, I literally