Mason (Iron Reapers MC #1)

Chapter 12

TWELVE

CARLIE

The sun isn't even properly up yet, and I'm standing in my kitchen, gaping at the package on the counter. It's from Mason, no doubt. Ripping it open, I find leather and denim - biker gear that smells like freedom and feels like a second skin. My fingers tremble as I pull out a helmet, black and sleek with 'Pres' emblazoned across the side. It's official now; I'm riding with the Iron Reapers today.

I slip into the gear, the vest hugging my curves, and I catch myself in the mirror. There's a wildness staring back at me, Carlie Meadows transformed. I'm one of them now, or at least for today. My heart races with nerves and excitement as I head to the clubhouse.

It's buzzing like a hive when I get there, engines growling and laughter slicing through the morning chill. Bikers hug, slap backs, their families weaving through the crowd like threads in a tapestry. Kids run around, their joy infectious. For a moment, I'm an outsider again, watching this family I'm about to be part of.

Then he pulls up.

Mason.

Even the rumble of all those bikes can't drown out the sound of his arrival. He cuts through the noise, commanding attention without asking for it. His bike is a beast beneath him, chrome and black, power personified.

He swings off, and damn, he looks every inch the president of the Iron Reapers, all rugged edges and inked stories on his skin. That leather jacket fits him like it's molded from his muscles and bones, and his dark gaze sweeps the crowd until it lands on me.

My heart skips, does a little shimmy, then thumps harder. Pride swells in my chest so fierce it's almost painful. That's my man, the one who commands respect from hardened bikers and melts my heart with a single look.

"Lookin' good, Darlin'," Mason says, voice rough like gravel but warm as summer asphalt. He stalks over and I can't help but smile.

"Thanks to you," I reply, hoping my voice doesn't shake as much as my hands are. The way his lips twitch says he hears it anyway, but there's no teasing in his eyes, just something soft and fierce.

"Ready for this?" he asks, close enough now that I can feel the heat of him, see the tiny lines around his eyes, evidence of the miles he's ridden and the life he's lived.

"Let's do it," I say, because with Mason by my side, I feel like I can take on the world, let alone this ride. This day isn't just about charity. It's about stepping into a new skin, finding where I belong. And with Mason looking at me like I'm the only thing that matters, I know I'm right where I need to be.

I swing my leg over the sleek body of the Harley, the leather seat cool against my thighs. Mason's back is a wall of muscle, and I press myself close, arms snaking around his waist as if they've found their home there. My fingers interlace over his stomach, feeling the vibrations of his laughter through the thick fabric of his cut.

"Ready to fly, Darlin'?" His voice is a low rumble, barely audible over the chorus of engines roaring to life around us.

"Born ready," I shoot back, the words more true than I ever imagined they could be.

Mason kicks the stand back with a practiced flick of his boot and guns the engine, the bike's growl joining the symphony of rebellion that the Iron Reapers are known for. We lurch forward, and my heart leaps into my throat, a wild thing caged in excitement.

We slot into formation, a line of chrome and leather winding its way onto the open road. The world blurs past us, a smear of greens and browns as we tear through the landscape. I tighten my hold on Mason, an anchor in the storm of sensation that threatens to sweep me away.

"Like it?" Mason shouts over his shoulder, a note of challenge in his tone.

"Love it!" I yell back, and I mean it. With every twist and turn, every mile conquered, I am more alive than I've ever been.

MASON

The wind whips through Carlie's curls, untamed and free. She's a wildflower caught in a hurricane, and it’s damn beautiful. I roll on the throttle, and the bike surges beneath us, a beast of speed and power. Her trust is a weight against my back, solid and real, and it stirs something deep within me.

"Good," I grunt, the word lost to the rush of air but felt all the same.

Her laughter is a melody carried on the breeze, her joy infectious. It's a sound I'd wage wars to keep hearing. We curve along the roads, the scenery a blur, but she's a vivid flame against my chest, burning bright and fierce.

"Mason..." her voice trails off, lost in the hum of the highway, but I feel the squeeze of her arms, the press of her body.

"Gotcha, Carlie," I promise into the roar, knowing she can't hear but hoping she feels it—the promise, the protection, the thrill. This isn't just a ride; it's a declaration, a shared moment stretching out endless before us.

The engine thunders, a primal drumbeat matching the pulse racing in my veins. Her presence is a balm to the chaos of my life, a peace I never knew I craved. And as we ride, as she clings to me, I'm struck with the ferocity of belonging—to this road, to this moment, to her.

CARLIE

The rumble of bikes fades as we pull into the lot, engines cutting off like a final note in a rock ballad. Kids' laughter punches through the sudden silence, and I slide off Mason's Harley, boots hitting gravel. My eyes sweep over the crowd, landing on faces too young to know the world's harsh rhythms.

"Hey there," I greet a small boy clutching a toy motorcycle, his eyes wide at the sight of so many real ones. "You like bikes?"

He nods, shy but eager. "Yeah! I wanna ride one day, like vroom-vroom!" He imitates a bike's roar with innocence, and my heart twists.

"You will, buddy," I assure him, ruffling his hair. "And you'll be the coolest rider out there."

His grin is toothy and bright, and something warm unfurls inside me. This is why we're here—hope on wheels, the kind that revs up dreams in kids who've seen too much darkness.

"Need a hand with those?" I offer, spotting a woman struggling with a stack of folding chairs. She looks up, relief all over her face.

"Would you? Thank you so much!" Her gratitude soothes me as I take half the load, setting up seats for families, bikers, anyone looking for a moment's rest.

"Here, let me help you with that," I say, reaching for a heavy tray with hot dogs and burgers. Dagger flashes a grateful smile.

"Appreciate it, Carlie," he says.

"Of course," I reply, weaving through tables, offering up food to hungry mouths. Laughter bubbles around me, infectious and light, and I can't help but join in.

"Who wants to play tag?" I call out, and a chorus of "Me!" echoes back. We set up boundaries, and I find myself it, chasing giggles and squeals, sneakers kicking up dust.

"Gotcha!" I laugh, tagging a girl whose pigtails fly as she runs. Her happiness is pure, unfiltered, and it reminds me why moments like these matter.

"Water balloon toss coming right up!" someone announces, and I'm there, lining up the children, demonstrating how to cradle the balloons gently. They pair off, excitement buzzing between them.

"Easy now," I coach a pair of siblings, their hands awkward with anticipation. "Just like that!"

The balloons arc through the air, a rainbow of potential splash zones, and cheers erupt with each successful catch. It feels right, helping shape this memory, something good and light in their world.

"Thanks, Carlie," a mother says, her eyes soft as she watches her son play. "It means a lot, having you here."

"Happy to be here," I respond, meaning every word. In this space, I'm not just a schoolteacher or a biker's girl, I'm part of something larger—a family forged on two wheels, riding toward something better.