Reaper, page 1
Reaper
An MC Romance - Book 23 in the TDMC
Zahra Girard
Copyright © 2025 Zahra Girard
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Epilogue
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Chapter One
Ricky
“Another round.”
The bartender raises an eyebrow at me. What a jerk. “You sure? I’ve seen men coming off a heroin bender who look healthier than you. Why don’t you have some water, take a break?”
“Fuck you. I’ve been one of those assholes coming off those fucking heroin benders, I know what they fucking feel like — I’m fine. Fill my glass and shut your fucking mouth.”
He hesitates.
Was I too fucking harsh on him? No, the asshole deserved it. He’s a fucking bartender with a ragged-ass mustache that he keeps stroking like he’s proud of it. His job is to fill my glass and stop stroking himself in public.
Do I look worse than I feel? No, there’s no chance of that. Not since Vanessa died.
What is it?
I blink and am about to open my mouth.
He reads my mind. “You’re pretty deep in your tab, Ricky. I can give you more, but I think you might want to put some cash on the bar first. And if you change your mind, water’s free.”
I dig into my pocket, pull out my wallet, throw some bills on the bar; I don’t look, because I don’t care. It isn’t just the bar that I’m in deep with, and right now, it’s just a waiting game to see which kills me first: the alcohol, or the other people I owe money to. Either way, I know I can’t wait much longer.
The bartender looks at the counter, then back at me. “This is a fucking CVS receipt, Ricky.”
“Ah, fuck.”
“Yeah, you can’t pay your tab with a receipt for toothpaste, baby aspirin, and honey mustard pretzel twists. It’s good you’re brushing your teeth, though. And baby aspirin’s handy to keep around in case you have a heart attack. But you need money.”
I want to punch him for the patronizing tone that is dripping from his crooked, smirking, crappily mustached face, but I want the alcohol he has access to even more. I take my wallet out again, and look inside.
“Put it on my tab, Jayson,” comes a smoky, feminine voice beside me.
I blink, turn, blink again — angular features, dark hair, brown eyes that simmer with an inner heat. Am I drunker than I feel, or am I seeing Vanessa’s ghost? No, I must be drunk; Vanessa’s dead, the woman beside me is alive, and she’s buying me a drink — I shouldn’t question it.
“Thank you,” I murmur as Jayson refills my glass, pouring the finest, cheapest whiskey — ‘Rootin Tootin Granddad’ — to the top of my highball glass. Jayson adds a small twist of lime, just to show off, or maybe he’s worried about me getting my vitamins.
“My name’s Adriana,” she says, while she slips a few bills to Jayson and gets her own drink, something that looks like a Cosmopolitan or something else I have no interest in. “What’s yours?”
“Ricky.”
“Ricky what?”
“DeMarco. Why the fuck do you care about my last name?”
“Because I gave you my full name when I bought you your drink, so it’s only polite that you give me yours.”
I blink. Did she really? Am I that fucking drunk? I don’t feel that fucking drunk, but then again, it’s been so long since I’ve felt sober that maybe I don’t know what’s what anymore. “You did?”
She sighs. Smiles. That simple act turns her sharp features and burning brown eyes into a projector that illuminates the bar brighter than the sun. There’s something about her face I can’t quite place, something that pokes a wounded, aching part inside me and fills me with a pain that’s sweet, a pain that’s alive — so alive that, for a moment, I don’t want to keep drinking, don’t want to see how much longer it takes me to get the end I crave.
“Sorry. It’s been a rough night,” I say. “I didn’t mean to take my shit out on you.”
“It’s okay.”
“Why’d you buy me a drink?”
She smiles again. It’s a different smile — this one burns red, burns with something other than sunlight. “I’ve been checking you out for a while, and it seemed like a good time to come talk to you.”
My heart hitches, which surprises me — I’d thought it was dead. “Not interested.”
Her smile curves downward; her eyes keep burning. “Oh? Why?”
I shake my head and regret it; dizziness crashes over me, my stomach feels like it’s on a roller coaster, and my booze-swollen brain smacks into the sides of my skull. “Thanks for the drink, but I’m not looking for anything else.”
Not even from you. Even though there’s something about you that makes my heart bump in ways it hasn’t since…
“We can just hang out, if you prefer,” she says, her voice small, fading.
I want to tell her to leave, but I know that’d hurt her — and she looks like someone I don’t want to hurt. What is it about her that makes me feel this way? Why do I care so much about what she might feel when I don’t give a damn about living anymore?
Words form on my lips, words that would tell her to go fuck herself and her suspiciously recognizable features and those eyes that burn something inside me, and then I remember she bought me a drink and might be inclined to buy me more if I’m not a total asshole. “We can talk. And I’m sorry for being a jerk earlier. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
Which is saying the least of it — I’ve got an entire life weighing on my mind, my heart, and hopefully soon, weighing me down enough that I’ll sink six feet under.
Those words seem to soothe her, and that smile brightens again.
“Good. So, Ricky DeMarco, where are you from?”
There’s a pause between when her question hits my ears and when I answer — I take a long drink of ‘Rootin Tootin Granddad’ whiskey, which comes from a plastic bottle that looks and tastes like it used to hold family-sized Thousand Island salad dressing — and then I speak. “Boise, Idaho.”
She nods. Her eyes burn brighter. “I’m from Illinois.”
Odd thing to seem so excited about, but I have free whiskey, so I don’t give a fuck. “Nice.”
Another drink. Half of the Rootin Tootin Granddad is down my throat.
It doesn’t even taste bad at this point; it tastes horrible.
“You got a girlfriend, or…?”
I finish Granddad with a long drink, letting him slide down my gullet with a fiery burn; I don’t so much swallow him as I envelop him with my tongue, my mouth, and my willing throat. This question hurts. “No. I’m alone.”
“Me too,” she says.
“My glass is empty,” I say.
She nods, smiles, picks it up. “Not for long. I’m glad I found you, Ricky.”
Odd thing to say, but she has a nice ass, a beautiful face, and the inclination to buy me more alcohol. I stay silent.
When she returns and sets the full glass in front of me, I raise it to her.
“Thanks. It’s been nice meeting you, too, Adriana.”
She taps her glass to mine. “Cheers.”
I take a sip. Then another. My world swivels, and I chase away the sensation with another long drink. “So, what brings you into this bar?”
Another smile that’s like the sun emerging from behind thunderclouds.
“You mean, why am I in the bar that’s also attached to a shady underground casino?”
I nod, throwing a look over my shoulder to the set of double doors that lead into a room that I was recently thrown out of by a trio of fat Russian men over some outstanding debts.
“Yeah, that.”
“I went through a rough patch recently. Someone I was really close to died, and so, you have a tragedy like that, it really makes you think. It makes you question everything, you know? I took some time off — well, no, really, I quit my job — and I went out to find some answers. Somehow, and I don’t know why, I wound up here. Next to you. And I know it seems crazy, but I’m glad I did.”
There’s that smile again. It’s hazy now — Granddad is really doing a fucking number on me — but still beautiful. Breathtaking, even. Every time I pull air into my lungs, it feels a little harder. Maybe this is what dying feels like. Maybe I’ve finally done it. I smile back.
“I’m glad you did, too,” I say. “Though this is a strange fucking place to find some answers.”
“It is, Ricky,” she says.
“There are no good people here,” I murmur. “Just people that… people that you don’t want to meet. People like me.” Every syllable feels stuck to my tongue with superglue. I frown at my glass.
“I wanted to meet you, Ricky. It makes me so happy that I’ve found you.”
Her words are cotton balls filling my ears. I take another drink.
“You are?”
Why the fuck would she be glad to have found me? No one should be glad to find me. Finding me only leads to the worst endings. Hell, I’ve been trying to lose me ever since Boise. No one, not even Tank or the rest of my brothers, has been enough to make me want to keep living. They tried, sure, and their brotherhood and love held the pain in check on the long road from Boise to Ironwood Falls, but as soon as I got into my own place, as soon as I encountered the silence at the end of a long day, the silence that would forever be empty of her, I knew in the depths of my heart I couldn’t take it.
Every day would end the same way — with me alone, carrying her ghost.
So I ran.
Until I came here.
Then I ran in a different way — with booze, with gambling, with everything I could get my hands on except the ache that burns in my veins, the ache I refuse to touch because it’s the same ache that claimed her life.
And I’d still find myself waiting for me at the end of the day.
Despite everything I do, I can’t lose who I am, and now it’s just a waiting game until something — the gambling, the booze, the debts to people you don’t want to owe money to — finally catches up to me and does what I need it to do.
Adriana hasn’t answered. It’s been nearly a minute and all she’s done is watch me with those bright, burning brown eyes while I sip the pale brown Granddad whiskey and sway in my seat.
“Why are you happy that you’ve found me?” I slur. Granddad’s got a little more kick tonight than usual. Good.
Adriana leans in, fingers making a teepee under her chin, smile still slight, tits pressed together, showing ample cleavage in her deep v-neck blouse.
“Because I’ve been looking for you, Ricky.”
I blink. The world is foggy, faded, like I’m looking at it through a steamed windshield. Granddad doesn’t just have a little kick; he hits like a fucking mule on steroids.
“Why?”
“I’ve been looking for you for a long time. Ever since her funeral. Vanessa’s. My name is Adriana Ruiz, and Vanessa was my sister. I know you killed her, and I’m going to kill you, too.”
Chapter Two
Adriana
Before the drugs I slipped him take his senses, I want just one thing from him, and it doesn’t matter how it comes — a look, a whisper, a tear — but I want him to beg, to show some fear, some remorse, something that shows that my sister meant something to this fucking degenerate who seems to live the fucking high life, partying and drinking in Sacramento like he didn’t shoot a bunch of fucking heroin into my sister’s veins and leave her to die of an overdose.
I’ve dreamed of this moment. Cried for it. Never thought I’d find it.
Now it’s here.
As the large dose of Rohypnol floods his system along with the acrid-smelling whiskey he likes to guzzle by the glass, Ricky DeMarco sways in his seat, glassy eyes wide and staring, and he licks his sickly cracked and dry lips, smiles, and says, “You want to kill me? Good.”
I blink.
“Good?”
He nods. Slumps forward, barely stops his fall to the floor my smacking his face on the table. His mouth falls ajar, whiskey dribbles forth, and he chuckles. “Yeah. Good. Do it.”
Then he turns and hits the floor with a jumbled thud.
Well, what the fuck just happened? He fucking wants this?
No, that can’t be it. It can’t be. That has to be the alcohol talking, or something in the roofies that I gave him. He’s been here, drinking and celebrating, living it up ever since he killed my sister, and that’s the only explanation that makes any sense.
“Hey, this isn’t a fucking hotel. No sleeping on the floor,” Jayson, the bartender, says.
I nod, let some of the shock and surprise I’m feeling come into my voice, and call out, “I know. He just kind of passed out on me.”
“He does that. A lot. If he weren’t such a good customer, we wouldn’t let him in anymore.”
“I’ll get him out of here. I’m parked out front. But I don’t think I can carry him. Can you give me a hand?”
Jayson shakes his head, and for a moment, I regret giving him a tip. Why be nice to the guy if he won’t help me facilitate this kidnapping and murder? All I need him to do is help me carry the body.
“I can’t. But Bruce can,” he says. Then he calls out above the general din of the bar. “Bruce, can you give Adriana a hand here with Ricky? He’s passed out again.”
Moments later, Bruce, who looks like the second-generation descendant of a silverback gorilla, is by my side. He doesn’t just help me with Ricky — he carries him for me. “Where do you want this piece of shit?”
“I’m in the silver Taurus out front,” I say. Then, seeing a flicker of something on his face and feeling self-conscious, I add, “It’s a rental. I don’t normally drive a Taurus.”
I don’t. I have a 2002 Toyota Tacoma that was my first vehicle, that my dad and I turned into an off-roading truck. Vanessa and I would sometimes go off-roading together, where we’d drive out to the Chequamegon forest and drive like reckless fools to try to embarrass all the boys. Most of the time, we’d fail — we didn’t know what we were doing — but we had fun doing it. But that was when Vanessa was still my sister, still alive, and the only mud she liked was whatever spattered the windshield of the truck, instead of the shit she’d stick in her veins.
But old pickups aren’t the best vehicles for kidnappings. However, an inconspicuous, old sedan that no one would willingly look at twice is perfect.
“I don’t judge. We all hit our low points. I see it all the time, working here.”
I sigh. There’s no point in arguing; Ford Taurus or not, this is the low point in my life. But now that I’ve hit rock bottom and found the man who murdered my sister drinking in the sketchiest of bars in Sacramento, maybe now I can start healing. Maybe life won’t seem so empty after this. Maybe I won’t keep seeing Vanessa’s face in my dreams, wondering what might have happened if I had actually found her before she became a brief blurb in the obits section in fucking Boise.
It’s not like I wasn’t trying. It’s not like I didn’t go to sleep most nights hoping that, maybe, tomorrow I’d wake up and have a text or an email or a missed call from my sister. That’s all I could do — hope. Hope that she’d decide she was done dropping off the face of the earth and that she’d want to come home to her family. To the people who would love her no matter what she’d done.
