Piston (Iron Reapers MC #2)

Chapter 3

THREE

JENNY

I step through the doors of Perdition, and that familiar buzz of excitement ignites under my skin. The place is packed, as always—bikers and their groupies filling every corner of the room. My eyes scan the crowd until I spot Carlie’s bleached blonde hair at a table in the back. She’s already at it, knocking back shots with some of the MC brothers.

As I make my way over, Carlie jumps up and throws her arms around me. “Jenny! About damn time you got here!”

“Yeah, sorry I’m late,” I say with a laugh, sliding into the empty chair next to her. “Boss kept me late at the shop again.”

Mason slides a shot of whiskey across the table toward me. “Well, you’re just in time. We were just about to toast to another successful run.”

I grin and lift the glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

The whiskey burns on the way down, but it’s a familiar burn—a good one. The conversation around the table quickly turns rowdy as the guys dive into their usual banter, swapping stories about close calls with the cops and run-ins with crazy exes.

Dagger leans back, roaring with laughter, nearly falling out of his chair. “And then, I shit you not, she tried to chase after my bike! In nothing but a thong and pasties!”

“No fucking way,” Tank howls. “Please tell me you got pics.”

I snort, shaking my head. Typical. Crass jokes, tall tales, and way more bravado than common sense. But beneath all the trash talk and chaos, there’s something real here—a sense of brotherhood, a bond that goes deeper than words. They’d have my back no matter what, and I’d do the same for them.

I lean back, nursing my beer and letting their voices wash over me. Carlie catches my eye and grins, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. This is it. This is where we belong. The Iron Reapers aren’t just a motorcycle club. They’re family. My family.

Dagger slams his beer down, foam spilling over the rim. “Speaking of crazy bitches, let me tell you about this broad who tried to say I gave her the clap last week.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the sticky table, already bracing myself. This ought to be good.

“So there I was, minding my own business,” Dagger starts, his hands waving wildly, “when this chick storms into Perdition like a bat outta hell. She’s screeching about how I ‘ruined her life’ and gave her some disease, demanding I pay for her medical bills and shit.”

I can see it perfectly in my mind—Dagger’s trademark look of confusion and panic as this woman goes off in front of the entire club. Biting my lip, I fight to keep from laughing.

“I’m telling you, I wrapped it up tight with that one!” Dagger insists, jabbing a finger at Mason for emphasis. “You *know* I always double bag after that pregnancy scare with whatshername in Reno.”

Mason throws up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey man, I believe you. Bitches be crazy.”

“Damn straight. Anyway, this broad’s making a huge scene, and I’m just standing there like, ‘what the fuck?’ Prez had to come break it up before she started throwing shit.”

I don’t even have to try to imagine it. I can already see Dagger, sputtering out half-baked excuses while this woman’s rage boils over. Glasses shattering, the brothers diving for cover. And there’s Dagger, dead center, wide-eyed with his hands up like some unlucky perp caught red-handed.

A giggle escapes before I can stop it. Dagger shoots me a look, narrowing his eyes, though the sparkle of amusement gives him away. “Laugh it up, Jenny. Coulda happened to any of us.”

“But it always happens to you, Dag,” I shoot back, grinning. “Maybe it’s a sign from the universe to keep it in your pants once in a while.”

The table explodes in laughter, the guys hollering and slapping the table like a bunch of kids egging each other on. Dagger flips me off, all good-natured.

“Please,” he says, gesturing dramatically to himself. “Like I’d ever deprive the ladies of all *this.*” He wiggles his eyebrows, selling the moment for all it’s worth.

I roll my eyes, even as a grin tugs at my lips. Typical Dagger. The guy’s a walking disaster when it comes to women, but damn if he doesn’t know how to turn his screw-ups into the best stories.

As the laughter died down, I found myself studying Dagger's profile. The crooked slope of his nose, the faded scar above his left eyebrow. Hard to believe there was a time I thought I might be into him.

It was back when I first started hanging around the clubhouse. Dagger had been the first brother to really take me under his wing, showing me the ropes. Late night rides, shooting the shit over beers - we just clicked.

Guess it was only natural that things would get a little blurred. One night, high on adrenaline after outrunning the cops, we'd ended up in a heated make-out session against his bike. But the second his hands started roaming, it was like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.

I'd jerked back, wiping my mouth. "Shit, I'm sorry Dag. I don't think I can do this."

To his credit, he backed off immediately. Ran a hand over his mohawk with a rueful laugh. "Yeah, that was weird as fuck, wasn't it? Like kissing my sister or something."

"Guess that makes you the uglier sister," I'd quipped. And just like that, we were back to normal. Buddies. Family.

Tuning back into the conversation, I caught Dagger in the middle of another lewd gesture. "...I'm telling you man, the clap is fucking brutal. Felt like pissing razor blades for a week straight."

I pull a face, reaching over to slug him in the arm. "Dude, seriously? I'm gonna vomit in my drink." Some things never change.

But as Dagger launches into yet another TMI story, I can't help the warmth spreading in my chest. These assholes - they’re my assholes.

Didn't matter that I'd never have a cut of my own. I belonged here. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

"Damn Dag, that crazy bitch really did a number on your ride, huh?" I shake my head, picturing the scene he's describing - two slashed tires and a beat to hell Harley. "What'd you do, run over her dog or something?"

Dagger snorts, taking a swig of his beer. "Nah, more like I wouldn't return her calls after she went all stage-five clinger on me. Chick was off her rocker."

"Sounds like you sure know how to pick 'em," Mason chimed in with a grin, elbowing Dagger in the ribs. "What is this, like the third time this month you've had a broad go batshit on you?"

"What can I say? The ladies love me." Dagger puffed out his chest, preening like a damn peacock. "Not my fault they can't handle all this raw masculine energy."

I nearly choked on my drink, spluttering with laughter. "Raw masculine energy? More like raw stupidity, you mean."

Tank guffawed, slapping his meaty palm on the table. "She's got you there, brother. Your dick's gonna fall off one of these days if you keep sticking it in crazy."

The whole table erupted into raucous laughter, Dagger included. He flipped Tank the bird, but there was no real heat behind it.

This right here - this was what I lived for. The easy back-and-forth, the inside jokes, the sense that no matter what shit life threw our way, we had each other's backs.

I leaned back in my chair, basking in the warmth of belonging. The Iron Reapers may not be perfect, but they were the closest thing to a real family I'd ever had.

And I'd ride or die for every last one of these beautiful bastards, no question.

My eyes drifted around the table, landing on each familiar face in turn. Mason, with his crooked grin and mischievous eyes. Tank, built like a brick shithouse but with a heart of gold. And Dagger, the lovable idiot who somehow always managed to land himself in the most ridiculous situations.

These men had seen me at my worst, and they'd never once turned their backs on me. They knew the darkness that lurked in my past, the demons I still wrestled with every damn day, and they accepted me anyway.

Carlie caught my eye from across the table, her lips quirking up in a knowing smile. She tilted her head toward Dagger, who was now regaling the group with yet another tale of his sexual misadventures.

"Five bucks says this one ends with him getting his ass kicked by an angry boyfriend," she murmured, just loud enough for me to hear.

I snorted, shaking my head. "No way. I'm not taking that bet. It's a foregone conclusion."

We shared a laugh, the sound mingling with the din of the bar. Carlie had been my rock since the day I'd first stumbled into Perdition, lost and broken and looking for a place to belong. She'd taken me under her wing, showed me the ropes, and somewhere along the way, she'd become the sister I never had.

As the conversation shifted to lighter topics - upcoming rides, new ink, the latest club gossip - I let myself relax, sipping my drink and soaking in the camaraderie. This was what I'd been missing for so long, the sense of belonging that came from being part of something bigger than myself.

I may not have a patch on my back, but the Iron Reapers were my family, my home. And I knew that no matter what the future held, I'd always have a place here among these wild, loyal, fiercely protective men.

My gaze drifted across the room, and I froze as I caught sight of Piston. He was leaning against the bar, his brooding presence a stark contrast to the laughter and chatter surrounding me. Our eyes met for a brief moment, and I felt a familiar spark of electricity before I quickly looked away, my heart racing.

I tried to focus on the conversation at hand, but my thoughts kept wandering back to Piston. We had a complicated history, a push and pull that left me off-balance and unsure. I couldn't deny the attraction between us, but I also couldn't forget the hurt he'd caused me in the past.

"Earth to Jenny!" Carlie's voice snapped me out of my reverie. "You okay there, girl? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I shook my head, forcing a smile. "I'm fine. Just lost in thought for a second."

Carlie followed my gaze, her eyes narrowing as she spotted Piston. "Ah, I see. Still hung up on tall, dark, and brooding over there, huh?"

"No," I lied, taking a swig of my beer. "I'm over it. Over him."

Carlie raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Sure you are. That's why you're staring at him like he's the last slice of pizza at a frat party."

I flipped her off, but I couldn't help the grin that tugged at my lips. "Shut up and pass me another drink, will you?"

As the night wore on, the banter and laughter continued to flow, the bonds of brotherhood evident in every interaction. Mason and Tank were engaged in a heated debate over the best route for the next club ride, while Dagger regaled us with yet another tale of narrowly escaping an angry boyfriend.

I leaned back in my chair, a sense of warmth and gratitude washing over me. These men, this club - they were more than just friends. They were my chosen family, the ones who had my back no matter what. I may have had my doubts and insecurities, but in moments like these, I knew I was exactly where I belonged.

As the crowd at Perdition began to thin out, Carlie and I found ourselves alone at the table, nursing the last of our drinks. She reached over and squeezed my hand, her eyes softening with understanding.

"You okay, Jen?" she asked, her voice laced with genuine concern.

I nodded, managing a small smile. "Yeah, I'm good. Just thinking about how crazy this life can be sometimes, you know?"

Carlie chuckled. "Tell me about it. But we've got each other, and we've got the club. That's what matters."

I felt a surge of affection for my best friend, grateful for her unwavering support. "You're right. And you know what? I'm done letting Piston get under my skin. I've got bigger things to focus on."

"Damn straight," Carlie agreed, clinking her bottle against mine. "Like the upcoming charity ride. Are you ready to show these boys how it's done?"

I grinned, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. "Hell yeah, I am. Let's show them what the Iron Reapers' ladies are made of."

We finished our drinks and stood up, arm in arm as we made our way towards the exit. The cool night air hit my face, and I inhaled deeply, feeling a mix of excitement and determination coursing through my veins.

Whatever challenges lay ahead, I knew I had the strength to face them head-on. With my biker family by my side, there was nothing I couldn't handle. I glanced over at Carlie, feeling a rush of gratitude for the bond we shared.

"Thanks for always having my back, Carls," I said, my voice thick with emotion.

She bumped her hip against mine, a mischievous glint in her eye. "That's what sisters are for, Jen. Now let's go kick some ass and show these boys how it's done."

As we walked out into the night, I felt a sense of belonging and purpose that I hadn't experienced in a long time. The Iron Reapers were more than just a motorcycle club - they were my home, my family, and my future. And with them by my side, I knew I could face anything that came my way.

I scanned the crowded bar, my eyes landing on the dance floor. That's when I saw him. Piston. With his arms wrapped around some club whore, her hands all over him like she owned the guy.

What the actual fuck?

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Piston, the same asshole who'd confused me for a club whore when we first met, was now grinding up against one like it was his job. The hypocrisy made my blood boil.

"Can you believe that shit?" I muttered to Carlie, jerking my chin towards the dance floor.

Carlie followed my gaze and let out a low whistle. "Damn, looks like Piston's getting cozy with the entertainment tonight."

I clenched my jaw, trying to ignore the bitter taste in my mouth. It wasn't like I had any claim on the guy, but still. Seeing him with that whore, after all his big talk about not messing around with them? It stung more than I wanted to admit.

"Thought he was too good for club whores," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Guess he changed his tune real quick."

Carlie shrugged. "Men are pigs, Jen. You know that."

I did know that. But somehow, I'd let myself believe that Piston was different. That maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than the tough-guy biker persona he put on for everyone else.

Clearly, I'd been wrong.

As I watched him pull the whore closer, his hands sliding down to grab her ass, I felt a surge of jealousy that I couldn't quite shake. It pissed me off, knowing that I still had feelings for the guy, even after everything he'd put me through.

I hated myself for it, but I couldn't seem to let him go. No matter how hard I tried to convince myself that he was just another asshole biker, my heart refused to listen.

"I need a drink," I said abruptly, tearing my eyes away from the dance floor. "A strong one."

Carlie nodded in understanding. "I'm right behind you, sister. Let's get shitfaced and forget about these dickheads for a while."

As we made our way to the bar, I tried to push thoughts of Piston out of my mind. But even as I downed shot after shot, I couldn't shake the image of him with that whore, or the sinking feeling in my gut that told me I was in way over my head.

Fuck feelings, and fuck Piston. I was done letting him get under my skin. From now on, I was looking out for number one - and that sure as hell didn't include pining after some biker who'd never see me as anything more than a quick lay.

I slammed my empty shot glass down on the bar, feeling the burn of the alcohol in my throat. It was time to move on, and if that meant drowning my sorrows in whiskey and bad decisions, then so be it.

The Iron Reapers were my family, but Piston? He was nothing but trouble. And I was done letting him drag me down.