GRIFFIN: RED AND THE BIG BAD REAPER

  50 LOVING STATES, NEVADA

  THEODORA TAYLOR

  Griffin: Red and the Big Bad Reaper

  by Theodora Taylor

  Copyright © 2021 by Theodora Taylor

  First E-book Publication: March 2021

  Cover Design: Qambar Design & Media

  Editing: Authors Designs

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  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  CONTENTS

  1. Griff

  2. Red

  3. Griff

  4. Red

  5. Griff

  6. Red

  7. Griff

  8. Griff

  9. Red

  10. Red

  11. Griff

  12. Griff

  13. Red

  14. Griffin

  15. Red

  16. Griff

  17. Griff

  18. Red

  19. Bernice

  20. Griffin

  21. Bernice

  22. Griffin

  23. Bernice

  24. Griffin

  25. Bernice

  26. Griffin

  27. Bernice

  28. Bernice

  29. Bernice

  30. Griffin

  31. Griffin

  32. Bernice

  33. Bernice

  34. Griffin

  35. O2

  36. Bernice

  37. Griffin

  38. Bernice

  39. Bernice

  40. Bernice

  Epilogue

  Special Thanks to My Ruthless Patreons!

  Also by Theodora Taylor

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  GRIFF

  “Alright, I’m bored,” I tell the group of Reapers sitting around the roadhouse’s banquet table. I’m not the president of our biker gang, but I do expect plenty of answers when I demand to know, “How’re we going to fix this shitty vibe?”

  Waylon, who actually is one of the Reaper's presidents, rolls his eyes and ignores me. Like I’m some mouthy brat—not the guy paying him six figures a year to run security at all my shows.

  With the mood I’m in, that’d normally be enough for me to put a fist through his mouth. Nothing cures a bad case of the Bored as Hells like knocking out teeth. But I let it slide.

  Waylon and Hades, the other Reaper prez, are two of the only guys I could call true friends prior to my music fame. Waylon’s the one who pinned me with my road name, Rockstar, years before I signed my record deal. And, trust, it’s a whole lot better to have him as a best friend you tolerate than an enemy you punched because he pissed you off.

  I don’t want to use the word psycho, but Waylon has a reputation for ending anybody who crosses him. There’s a reason DON’T PISS OFF WAYLON is written in huge block letters on the list of rules hanging above the roadhouse owner’s office door.

  It’s probably a sign of our enduring friendship that he just ignores me instead of pulling a gun and shooting me in the face. That could 100% happen with our co-prez. We call him Viking sometimes because he’s been known to go totally berserk when crossed.

  Besides, I am acting kind of bratty. Borderline '80s-era Mötley Crüe. That happens when I get bored—which Waylon’s probably thinking I shouldn’t be, considering we’re at the Reaper's favorite Tennessee roadhouse with friends who know how to party, top-shelf blow, quality weed, and biker groupies willing to do just about anything to get invited to our table.

  One of my hit tracks is playing overhead, and two topless blondes with big smiles and even bigger breasts appear to replace all our empty bottles and whiskey glasses with fresh pours of bourbon and Yazoo beers.

  Yeah, this scene is as close to biker Valhalla as you’re gonna get.

  “You want a mug for your Yazoo, Griff?” one of the waitresses asks. She presses her fake breasts into my shoulder as she sets a bottle of local craft beer down in front of me. It’s so cold, it’s got a wisp of smoke wafting up from its mouth.

  Hmm . . . there’s a good chance I've fucked this girl on a previous occasion. But I can’t remember.

  A few of the Reapers eye me expectantly—probably because the last time a waitress batted her eyes at me this hard, I convinced her to crawl under the table and give us all blow jobs. Now that was real '80s-era Mötley Crüe.

  But tonight, my dick does nothing in response to her rubbing up against me like a cat in heat.

  All I feel is dead inside as I answer, “Nah, I’m good.”

  I take a swig of my fresh Yazoo to end any further conversation, then announce to rest of the Reapers, “Still bored.”

  “I got Molly,” Rowdy yells over my song. He’s one of the Reapers who’ve been on tour with me all year. I’ve been letting him stay at my place in Nashville during the holiday lead-up to my record label’s big New Year’s Eve show, along with Crash, another Reaper on my security team.

  Unlike Waylon, these guys know how to entourage. They start making suggestions as soon as they see the under-the-table blow job thing isn’t going to happen.

  “We could throw down with The Bandits,” Crash says. “They’ve been looking over here funny all night. And Waylon hasn’t shot nobody in a while.”

  Waylon tilts his head with a thoughtful frown, like the opportunity to dead somebody might just get him out of his seat.

  But Hyena, who came up as a prospect with me over a decade ago, points out, “The last time we tried to beat down another gang for staring, we got over there, and all they wanted was Rockstar’s autograph. It was stupid as shit.”

  I turn to glare over my shoulder at The Bandits anyway. A weird, ugly energy’s been brewing inside of me since I turned thirty a few weeks ago. I could use a good fight to blow off some steam.

  But I guess The Bandits want to prove Hyena’s point. As soon as I make eye contact, most of the heavily bearded MCs sitting at the table behind us start pointing up at the song playing overhead.

  The few guys not pointing tear off pieces from one of the shitty brown napkin rolls placed at each banquet table and pantomime the international symbol for Can I have your autograph?

  Meanwhile, The Bandits’s prez shouts across the distance, “I requested them to play this one soon as I saw you in here. You’re my favorite rapper of all time.”

  My record label prefers the term "country trap artist" since I sing too. But whatever.

  Hyena laughs with the signature sound that inspired his road name as I heave myself out of my chair and go over to sign all their shit and thank them for being fans. Instead of getting my fight, I get promises that I’ll see a few of them standing front row at the New Year’s concert I’m headlining in two weeks.

  “Well, that was a bust, and I’m still bored as fuck,” I inform Crash when I return to the Reaper's table. At least he has the decency to drop his eyes. Yeah, he should feel guilty.

  “What else?” I ask the rest of the table.

  “I got Molly,” Rowdy offers again.

  “There’s a whole bunch of extra holiday help this year,” Hyena points out now that he’s over his laughing fit.

  “You should see the hot redhead Vengeance’s got lined up for later tonight,” Crazytown, one of our old-timers, brags, nodding over at Hyena, Vampire, and Des-E. “She’s got a set of cans on her you wouldn’t believe.”

  Vengeance is what we call the three guys in charge of doing the Reaper’s grislier enforcement duties. One laughs and smiles like a Hyena. We already covered that. One carries not one, but three Desert Eagles on him at all times, hence the shortened road name. And one’s a pale and broody as . . . well, a vampire. Anyway, they don’t just work together, they fuck together. One girl always gets all their attention after one of them—almost always Hyena—picks them up.

  Not my thing. But, hey, I’m not judging. I grew up in Los Angeles. Hell knows, I’ve seen stranger arrangements.

  “That’s what’s up. Good for you, guys,” I say, throwing Vengeance a chin nod.

  Crash comes out of his guilty head hang to suggest, “Bet you could do the same thing. But, you know, in reverse,” he quickly adds. “Three girls all to yourself.”

  Yeah, the prospect of that would be intriguing to 99.9% of straight guys. Me, not so much.

  “Been there, done that,” I let Crash know. “Not as fun as you’d think. Three girls is a fuck ton of condom work. And my number one goal in life is to make sure I don’t become some chick’s eighteen-year child support check.”

  “Yeah, but I got Molly, man,” Rowdy says again like there’s a chance I didn’t hear him the first two times. “And I heard there’s at least three new waitresses from Rydell, that all-girls school, working tonight.”

  “All women’s college,” Des-E corrects.

  We all turn to stare at him. Three words are two more than Des-E’s nightly average. Hell, I’ve seen whole weeks go by without him saying three words, especially all in a row like that.

  “Doc went to Rydell, and she gets pissed when you call it an all-girls school,” Hyena explains off all our confused looks.

  Crazytown and the rest of the R
eapers who haven’t been touring with me all year nod like this makes 100% sense.

  But since this is the first chance I’ve gotten to hang out with my old crew for a while, I have to ask, “Who’s Doc?”

  Before anyone can answer, my song is abruptly cut off and replaced by an AC/DC anthem I’ve been thinking about sampling for my next album.

  “Okay, Mama Red Bird is in the house!” an amplified voice calls out over Brian Johnson scream-wailing about the girl who shook him all night long. “I’ve got shots, and I’m looking for my biker birdies! Chirp-chirp, baby! Bring your twenties to the bar, and line up if you want somethin’ good!”

  I look up, and holy fuck.

  A girl . . .

  A girl like no other is standing on top of the bar that runs the length of the roadhouse’s back wall—a girl with silky brown skin stretched over curves that call my name like a siren song.

  She’s a waitress. I know that because her supple breasts are bared for the world to see, and she’s dressed in high-rise cutoff shorts and cowboy boots—the official uniform for all servers at the Reaper’s favorite roadhouse. But unlike the rest of the roadhouse girls, she’s wearing a pair of huge wings. I’d call them angel wings, but she sounds pretty damn committed to that bird imagery. Plus, they’re cherry-red—the same color as the hair spilling in long waves over her breasts down to her waist.

  Her eyes are huge in a way that makes me think of innocence. But her smile is 100% wicked as she waggles a spouted bottle of some clear alcohol above her head.

  Our gazes lock across the distance, and she stutters, the come-hither look slipping off her face as she stares at me staring at her.

  Suddenly . . .

  Suddenly I’m not so bored.

  My cock stirs, and that dead inside feeling fades away along with everything else as the entire world becomes a single question:

  Who are you?

  CHAPTER 2

  RED

  Who am I?

  That question was so easy to answer . . . four weeks ago.

  Four weeks ago, I was Boring Bernice. I lived in the same town I grew up in and attended services at the same Methodist church every Sunday, rain or shine.

  I reported in promptly at nine a.m. to the same nursing job for an obstetrician who stuck to a rigid 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. schedule—no middle of the night calls for us. Those moms who went into labor at inconvenient hours just had to deal with whoever was on-call at the hospital.

  Four weeks ago, I was known by my coworkers as Bernice Daniels. I spoke quietly and kept my thoughts to myself, just like my grandma taught me growing up. I had a nice boyfriend, a practical diagnostic medical sonographer who let me know last Christmas that he’d be proposing to me by this one if everything went to plan. The only thing surprising that ever happened in our relationship was me dumping him just six weeks before his promised proposal.

  It wasn’t him. It was me. Seriously. A few hours after letting him go, I put in two weeks’ notice at my steady job.

  I’m somebody different now. Somebody who bartends topless at a nameless biker roadhouse. Somebody who everyone here calls Red—even Allie, the friendly med student who hooked me up with this job. Somebody who knows how to use her feminine powers and get paid for being a wicked vixen.

  I smile and flirt and entertain, and the bikers give me huge tips for being the most interesting topless bartender they’ve ever met.

  Here, I’m the opposite of boring. The other servers glare with jealousy whenever I come out on the floor to bartend because they know I’m about to overshadow them. And the bikers cheer because they know I’m about to make their night a whole lot more interesting.

  At least that’s what they usually do.

  When I arrive for my shift that night, nobody acknowledges me. They’re all too focused on something happening near the Reaper’s usual table—a blond guy walking into the roadhouse with both arms held up like he’s the Second Coming of Biker Jesus.

  Maybe he is. I wouldn't say the music stops when he arrives, but he definitely gets a lot of attention. Waylon and the rest of the Reapers rise from the table to greet him with bro hugs and slaps on the arms.

  Crash and Rowdy, those two bikers who are always offering the waitresses cocaine and other drugs to come upstairs with them, they clear a space for the blond biker on the bench right next to where Waylon’s sitting, as if royalty has arrived.

  I thought the Reapers only had two presidents. One for each of their chapters. Waylon and Hades, who left with the other Louisiana members to go back down to New Orleans a couple of days ago. But maybe this guy heads up some chapter I don’t know about? The other Reapers are acting like he’s a huge deal.

  And The Bandits wave him over to their table to say hi. A few of them even take selfies with him.

  Too bad Allie was catching up on her med school lab hours all week. Her step-uncle owns this place, and she always has the inside dirt on all of the biker gang guys who come through here. Maybe she could explain why these 1% criminals were acting such a fool over this random Reaper’s arrival.

  Right after I take up my position at the beer tap next to the servers' station, a squabble breaks out between Tawny and Kitten, two of the blonde year-rounders. That’s what Allie calls all the non-seasonal servers who work at her step-uncle’s roadhouse.

  I thought Tawny and Kitten were best friends. But each is insisting that she should be the one who brings the Reapers their next round of beers and whiskey.

  Candy, the bar manager, has to rule on the case like King Solomon. She tells them they can either stop arguing and do the job together, or she’ll let one of the holiday-help girls have the table.

  They grudgingly agree to both taking the assignment, which means a split tip. And I make up two crates of Yazoos, thinking that would be the end of it.

  But Tawny snatches her crate and makes a beeline for the new arrival before her supposed best friend can grab hers.

  And I’m no expert at body language, but I don’t have to be to tell Tawny’s flirting hard with the popular Reaper—and that he turns her down with a hard, dismissive glance before he picks up his beer bottle.

  Her rejection doesn’t stop Kitten from acting pissed off, though.

  “Oh my God, Tawny! I can’t believe you did that!” she says as soon as they return to the bar to put in non-beer-and-whisky drink orders for the Reapers’ table. “He already let you take him upstairs last year, and everybody knows he doesn’t allow girls to hook up with him twice. It was my turn!”

  Doesn’t allow? Who does this guy think he is? Also . . .

  “Don’t you have a boyfriend?” I ask Kitten, thinking of the guy I’d seen dutifully drop her off and pick her up in a Suzuki mini-truck a few times since I started working here right before Thanksgiving.

  Kitten shrugs. “Mike’s about to go back on the road, and Rockstar’s my hall pass.”

  Wow. Rockstar. Is that really the Reaper’s road name? I roll my eyes. It’s obvious from that tag and the way he turned Tawny down like she wasn’t worth more than a few words that this guy thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips. He might be even worse than Hades in the arrogance department.

  “Is this guy really worth fighting over?” I ask Kitten. “I mean, you saw the way he treated Tawny. And just because Mike’s going on the road, that doesn’t mean—”

  “He’s my hall pass,” Kitten repeats, as if that somehow negates any argument I could possibly make. She glares at her best friend. “Or at least he would’ve been if Tawny hadn’t swooped in, even though she knows he doesn’t do seconds!”