Boyd nodded, but didn’t relax his grip on his shotgun.
Jerrilyn took a step forward. A woman of about sixty, with gray-streaked brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, she had deep lines carved into the sides of her mouth, as if the scowl she wore was her habitual expression.
“Why’d you leave Portland?” she demanded.
“Portland’s gone. A religious cult burned it to the ground,” Ripper said.
“You shitting me?” Boyd sputtered.
“The same group blew up The Dalles Dam.”
Jerrilyn sat down hard on the top step and turned triumphant eyes to Boyd. “It’s happening. Just what your father always predicted. What we’ve been preparing for. The System has collapsed. The only thing standing between anarchy and order are militias like ours.”
“Somebody gotta step up,” Ripper agreed. “Sure as shit, the government and military are useless.”
“You carrying?” Boyd asked Ripper.
“What do you think?” Ripper held open his cut, revealing his Colt.
“Get real, Boyd,” Tuck said, shaking his head, his face twisted with derision. “Nowadays, any man with a lick of sense is carrying. I’ve known Ripper for years. He’s just the kind of man we want to recruit to our cause.”
“You wouldn’t mind if we held onto your gun, would you?” Jerrilyn asked. An insincere smile tipped her lips, a smile that proclaimed, I’m just a sweet, little old woman. Nothing to worry about here. Too bad the hard expression in her eyes gave the lie to the friendly gesture.
“Not gonna happen.” Ripper met her gaze calmly.
They stared at each other, neither one backing down. If Jerrilyn gave the order, no doubt Boyd would open fire with his shotgun, but the pellets would strike Tuck as well as Ripper and me. Odds were she wouldn’t want to lose both an established ally and a potential one. Or risk Ripper shooting first. Still, I froze and held my breath, hoping the stalemate would resolve in our favor.
Jerrilyn pursed her lips, deliberating. Finally, she nodded. “Have it your way. Just keep in mind that there are more of us than you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ripper said politely. Somehow I doubted that he was intimidated by their numbers.
Jerrilyn stood and called through the open front door. “Dwight, Darryl, get out here.” Within a minute, the men shambled onto the porch. “Meet Ripper and his old lady Mac, friends of Tuck. These are my nephews. Dwight’s the tall one. Darryl’s the runt.”
Boyd handed the shotgun to one of the men and retreated back into the house.
Her insult rolled right off Darryl’s back, as if he were used to Jerrilyn’s put downs. The men brazenly checked me out, their gaze sweeping up and down my body before honing in on the boobage spilling out of my red lace push-up bra. The taller man elbowed his brother, whispered something in his ear, then snickered.
“You men will want to keep your eyes off my property,” Ripper said, his voice full of quiet menace. He pulled me to his side, his fingers splayed across my rib cage, his thumb brushing the underside of my breast.
Ripper’s property.
Conflicting thoughts waged war inside my mind. I’d stepped inside one of my motorcycle club romances, jumped headfirst over the line separating reality from fantasy. How many times had I closed my eyes and pretended that I was in that world? Curled up in a chair with a book or alone in my bed at night, I wallowed in the fantasy of being claimed as property, safe in the knowledge that no one would ever know my guilty secret. Fantasies are harmless, right?
One by one, Ripper had made my fantasies come true, dragged them out of the darkness. And now circumstances dictated that he unwrap my guilty secret and reveal it to the world. I was no longer Kenzie Dunwitty, good girl, straight-A college student. I was Mac, a biker’s property. My rational mind rebelled against the label, but my heart gloried in it.
It was okay, wasn’t it? We were on the side of the angels, playing a part, trying to rescue our friends and bring down a coven of Nazis.
Dwight and Darryl shuffled their feet, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
“I said, you men will want to keep your eyes off my property,” Ripper repeated. I stared at his stony face. Like a character in one of my books, he was making a bold in-your-face declaration of ownership.
“Answer the man,” Tuck spoke up. Startled, I swung my eyes from Ripper’s face to his. Tuck scowled at the brothers. I’d never be a fan of his, but maybe he felt more of an allegiance to a fellow biker—a Janissary—than he did to his new allies. If so, we could use that to our advantage.
Jerrilyn watched the exchange, her gaze sharp and assessing. “What are you going to do, boys?” Was she challenging them to stand up to Ripper? Did she want them to back down and keep the peace?
Ripper was dancing a fine line here, establishing himself as a take-no-shit alpha male, while at the same time selling himself as a promising new recruit to their cause. He couldn’t afford to look weak, but he didn’t want to alienate everybody right off the bat. Ripper’s jaw was set in implacable lines as he stared down the men.
Holy shit. I got it. He was doing this to protect me. The same man who’d taught me how to shoot and how to fight, who brought me along on a critical mission, would also die to keep me safe. He was risking a confrontation that might derail our plans in order to make it one hundred percent clear that I was off limits. To establish that he’d take down any man who leered at me, not to mention who touched me. He’d told me that the Property of Ripper necklace meant that I could count on him to stand between me and harm. I touched the necklace, taking comfort from that promise.
“Sorry, man. We’ll keep our eyes to ourselves,” Dwight said, while his brother nodded in agreement.
“Glad we cleared that up,” Ripper said.
“Dinner’s about ready. You may as well come in.” Jerrilyn held open the screen door and gestured for us to enter.
Ripper stepped in front of me and led the way across the porch and into a large living room. With its deep leather sofas and huge stone fireplace, it must have been a pleasant gathering room before the Wilcox Brigade took over the house. They’d tacked a homemade Wilcox Brigade flag—emblazoned with swastikas—onto the main wall.
“Set two more places at the table,” Jerrilyn called out.
A heavily pregnant woman waddled into the room. Her face was flushed and sweaty, as if she’d been standing over a hot stove. “Ma’am?”
“We have guests. Ripper is an old friend of Tuck’s and Mac is his girlfriend.”
“Old lady,” Ripper corrected.
“And this is Libby, Boyd’s wife,” Jerrilyn continued, ignoring Ripper’s comment.
Libby nodded and pressed a hand against her lower back. Her ankles were so swollen that she’d stuffed her feet into a pair of slippers instead of shoes.
“Can I help you get the food on the table?” I offered, then remembered that I was playing a part. I glanced at Ripper’s face. “If it’s okay with you, that is.”
Nothing in his bland expression indicated that we were role-playing, that it was unusual for me to ask permission to do something.
“Sure, babe. Make yourself useful.”
You know, fantasizing about a dominant alpha male was one thing. In reality, begging permission to help with dinner set my teeth on edge. Still, I clenched my jaw and smiled up at him before following Libby to the kitchen.