Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 3

by MariaLisa deMora

  “And she said she would call Jase?” His tone had firmed again, the humor from a moment ago a memory. She nodded and watched as his face tensed then relaxed. “Let’s get you home,” he said, turning her while keeping an arm around her shoulders. Walking towards the lot, he stopped in surprise and asked, “Where’s your car?”

  “It’s not far,” she said and snorted a laugh when he physically turned them, sweeping the wet, empty asphalt with his gaze before glancing down at her. “I meant the apartment. It’s not far.”

  “You walked,” he said, not really a question, but she responded.

  “Yeah, it’s not far.”

  “You said that,” he said, frowning down at her. “You walk here the other nights you work?”

  “Yeah, I’m saving money wherever I can—” She started trying to explain, but stopped when he interrupted her, his frown deepening.

  “You can’t afford ten dollars gas a week?” He sounded angry at this and she couldn’t figure out why, but the tension in his tone shook her as much as the thunder had earlier. “Ten fucking dollars to have your ass safely in a car, instead of exposed on the sidewalk? What about Sammy?”

  “I just want—” She spoke, but he interrupted her again with a brusque shake of his head. They stood in silence for a moment as she considered his words, the most important of which were the last three he had uttered, and then she whispered, “You’re right, Hoss. I’m sorry. I’ll drive tomorrow.” Another moment, and when she saw one corner of his mouth curl up, she felt the weight that had settled on her chest at some point during their conversation lighten a little.

  “Sweetheart, why don’t you get in the truck,” he said, seeming to notice the rain for the first time. “You’re soaked through.” Steering her towards a pickup parked near the building, he muttered, “I’ll take you home.”

  “I have to get Sammy,” she said, her hand colliding with his as they both reached for the door handle. With a laugh, she tilted her head up to look at him, expecting to share the humorous moment, but saw a return of the dark look instead, the wet hair curling at his temples a soft contrast to the hard expression on his face.

  “Sammy ain’t at home?” His brows had drawn together, and the frown combined with the intense look he was giving her made her nervous.

  “No, he’s at the sitter’s.”

  “Ain’t at home in his own bed. You got to go get the boy and wake him up to take him home at,” he pulled out his phone and consulted it, “nearly four in the morning? Were you planning on carrying him, or was he gonna have to hoof it, too? How’s that going to work when he’s in school?”

  She lifted one shoulder, imitating an ease she didn’t feel. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “You ain’t in this alone, Hope.” His voice had dropped an octave and sounded full of gravel, resonating in her chest and causing her belly to clench. “You ain’t in any of this alone. We’re here, waiting. You simply gotta reach out. Ain’t in this alone.” The look on his face spoke of deep disappointment, and she tensed all over again, because she knew he was important to Mercy and didn’t want him to be upset with her.

  “No, I know that. I’ll figure it out by the time he goes to school. Promise. He’s the most important thing in my life. I’ll do right by him.” She offered him a smile, which again went unreturned. Reaching up, she pushed her wet bangs out of her face. “You don’t have to drive me. The sitter lives right across the park, and Sammy isn’t heavy. I do this all the time, Hoss.”

  “Get in the goddamned truck, Hope.” Still scowling, he yanked the door open and stepped back, and it was only then that how close he had been standing registered. “I didn’t come all the way out here to watch you walk away.”

  Frowning, she squinted her eyes as she pulled herself into the tall truck, asking, “Why did you come by, Hoss?”

  “You weren’t home on time,” he said, slamming the door and effectively cutting off the conversation.

  Silently, he drove to the address she gave him, the frown on his face deepening yet again as they drove down the rutted road and parked. She climbed out of the truck, sidestepping the glistening, rainbow-covered puddles in the driveway behind the sitter’s van and skirting around the furiously barking dog chained to one corner of the box-crowded carport. No matter how often she came here, the dog never settled; he always barked and growled. She had the sure knowledge that if she strayed too close, she would come away with a lot more than a nip. She had forbidden Sammy to try to make friends with the animal, which killed him, because he loved dogs.

  When she came out of the trailer carrying a sleeping Sammy, Hoss was there to relieve her of the boy’s weight, taking him from her arms at the front of the truck and setting him gently into the backseat. She climbed in front and leaned over the seat to buckle him in, arranging his limbs in a way that didn’t look too terribly uncomfortable. The truck rocked as Hoss seated himself, and once Sammy was secure, she twisted in the seat, moving from her knees to her butt as she faced forward. She saw Hoss was sitting quietly, leaning his forehead against the steering wheel. “Ready,” she said softly, buckling her own seatbelt, feeling guilty she was keeping him from his own bed if he was so tired.

  At Mercy’s apartment, they reversed the process, with Hoss carrying Sammy into their shared bedroom, laying him on the single bed that had shown up one day. She had come back from job-hunting to find it already assembled and made up with cute hockey-themed bedding. Now she efficiently stripped her sleeping son to his briefs, pulling the covers up over him and leaning in to kiss his forehead.

  When she straightened, she saw Hoss was seated on her bed, socked feet outstretched, legs crossed at the ankles, pillows shoved behind his shoulders, which were propped against the headboard. Sitting there motionless for a moment, he watched her, his face impassive. He had taken off his boots and shirt, stripping down to his jeans, and she shivered at seeing the expanse of bare skin across his impressive chest and shoulders. She shivered again, her clothes clammy in the air-conditioned chill of the apartment. At least the expression on his face was far more pleasant than most of the ones she had witnessed so far tonight, and experimentally, she offered him a smile.

  Wordlessly, he pointed to a small pile of clothes on the corner of the bed, and she stifled a laugh. It was her standard pajama selection of thrift store sweatpants and baggy shirt. Normally, she left them tucked under the pillow; he must have found them when he shifted things around. She picked them up and nodded, leaving to walk to the bathroom. Changing quickly, she left her wet things draped over the shower rod and returned to the bedroom.

  Fiddling with her wet phone, she stopped right inside the door, pausing in surprise, because he was still lounging on the bed. “Hoss, thank you for everything tonight. You’re a life saver,” she said quietly and smiled broadly when one corner of his mouth rose in that crooked smile she was becoming used to.

  “Come here,” he responded just as quietly, holding out one arm. “I’m fucking beat. I’ll move to the couch before long, but I could use a nap. You look like you’re fucking freezing, even in those dry clothes. Why don’t we get you warmed up, Hope. Come here, baby.”

  Not completely sure what this meant, she was too tired to figure it out tonight. Remembering the comfort offered when he held her earlier and Mercy’s easy friendship with him, she set aside her questions along with her waterlogged phone and crawled up the bed, settling in next to him, letting his arm wrap around her shoulders. She laid her head on his chest, resting one hand under her cheek. She felt him move, and then his fingers were fumbling at her still-damp hair and the clip holding it back released. He threaded his fingers through her thick locks to her scalp, rubbing lightly. She shifted slightly, burrowing her face into his chest, and heard a drowsy-sounding, “Hush, baby,” just before she fell asleep.

  Hope woke up early, alone. There was a note for her on the kitchen table and, from the sympathetic looks she received, she was sure Mercy had already read it. Hoss, she assumed it was him
, because he was the only Rebel who had been in the house last night, wrote that the cleaning job wasn’t a fit. The note said someone would be in touch with another option soon. The salutation of ‘sweetheart’ didn’t work to ease the sting much, and after Mercy left for her set at the club, Hope watched Sammy play video games for a while.

  The second time he complained she was distracting him, she moved to sit on the stool by the kitchen window, staring outside at nothing in particular, turning her rapidly diminishing options over in her mind.

  Anticipation

  Frustrated, he crumpled up the paper and tossed it towards the wastebasket. So far, he had been entirely unable to capture any of the things that made Hope…Hope. All of his attempted sketches came up short of ideal, and he wouldn’t accept anything less than flawless. Not for this one, not when he saw her perfection every time he closed his eyes. In his mind he could see it, could visualize where the images needed to go, where he could take them, but the communication from brain to fingers wasn’t flowing this time.

  Hoss closed his eyes and let his mind fill with memories of how it felt to hold her. That morning a week ago, when he stood in the pouring rain, placing his arms protectively around her, still filled with terror of what his brain had been imagining could have happened, and felt her body press trustingly to his. He remembered the swell of emotion in his chest when she curled into his side, innocently resting against him in her bed, her son an unwitting chaperone only ten feet away.

  He smiled, because these were the emotions he wanted to capture, that breathless tightening around his chest, the way her body responded to his hand in her hair, respirations increasing as he ran his fingers through her curls. The different satisfaction when she relaxed into sleep and he knew it was because she felt safe with him. He reached out and picked up the pencil, setting his hand to the paper on the desk in front of him.

  This time, instead of a solo figure, in long, continuous lines across the surface he drew the outline of a couple. With softer marks, he traced the curves of the woman's ass, and then sketched in the more angular, masculine features of the man's leg.

  Several hours later, he leaned back, exhausted but pleased, gazing down at the completed image in front of him. The sweeping strokes and muted pastels used depicted a man on his back with a woman astride him, his hands gripping the curve of her ass where it rested on his thighs, still covered with the coarse denim fabric of his jeans. She was more nearly naked, her posture suggesting she had leaned far in for a kiss, the sweep of her back arching and curving. Bare. The stark color differences were compelling, highlighting the soft, pale, rosy pearl of her skin against the hard, dark, tanned fingers desperately gripping and holding onto the woman as she ground against him.

  Hoss felt his cock fattening and hardening as his gaze retraced the lines of the drawing. Shading indicated man’s fingers were gripping tightly, creating indentations in the supple skin of her ass, thumb dragging the fabric of her thong to one side, exposing the shadowed cleft between her buttocks. He had captured the couple in an amorous embrace, movement implied in the tension of the muscles working under the skin. There were no identifying characteristics of either the man or woman in the sketch, but Hoss had drawn all he felt for Hope, the sharp edge of his desire. He quickly signed and titled the piece, naming it what it was in truth, Anticipation.

  ***

  “I’m sorry,” she mouthed, watching as the whirling, plastic dervish descended on the car again, rocking the suspension. She had been washing the front grill of the car when she glanced up and saw the driver staring at her. She had smiled at him, and when the hose became stuck, gave it a yank to pull a little more slack for her use. That was when the car leapt forward, barely missing her as it drove recklessly into the carwash.

  Which led them to where they were now, with her and the other workers watching the overhead scrubber as it worked in conjunction with the ones on the side, effectively trapping the driver in the car. With the rear-wheel push on the conveyor track engaged, he couldn’t back up, and it seemed his car was confusing the infrared eyes so the scrubber continued to attack the car, over and over.

  Looking up, she saw the manager in the viewing window had a phone to his ear. Just as one of the men hit the emergency stop button, she saw the manager wince and his eyes cut to her. Hope sighed, already anticipating the conversation to come.

  Put tonight behind you

  “But I don’t know anything about trucking,” she said, staring at Slate with wide eyes. Her statement wasn’t exactly true, but it had been a job at a trucking company that was the reason she was standing here right now, and this felt…off.

  He looked at her kindly, but she saw the muscles of his arms bunching and tightening, the tattoos on his skin dancing across the play of flesh and tendons that testified to the tension he brought into this conversation with her. “Hope, this is about the last thing I have in my back pocket for you. I can reach out to some folks I know here in the Fort, but we’re about out of options for club businesses.”

  Ducking her head, she stared at the pattern of the rug underneath his desk. They were in the office behind the bar of the clubhouse, her first time inside this large, imposing structure. Surrounded by a tall fence, the three-story building sat in the middle of a large, paved lot, but when you went around to the back, there was a huge expanse of grass with picnic tables and playground equipment. For all intents and purposes, it could have been any business, but on the front of the building, above the large porch, was a stark black and white sign that said Rebel Wayfarers, branding the structure as something far different from any of its neighbors.

  Once inside, she had been surprised at the large rooms, packed with clusters of chairs and couches, tall tables—all mostly empty right now, but she suspected the space would fill with members as night fell. There was a long bar running down one wall, and at the opposite end of the room were two pool tables. As Slate had escorted her to his office, she had glanced through an open door to find a huge kitchen, with industrial appliances like the ones Mac had in the diner down in Birmingham.

  Sighing, she lifted her gaze to see him watching her tolerantly, waiting for her to come to a decision. She licked her lips then rolled her shoulders and lifted her chin. It was time to step away from the club and, once again, take responsibility for herself and her son. “I don’t think it would be any better a fit than anything else we’ve tried, Slate. I’m sorry for wasting your time. I stopped by a couple of the temp agencies while I was out and about this morning, and I’ve made a couple of calls. I’ll…I’ll figure something out. Thank you for trying so hard to make this work. I do appreciate everything you’ve done…everything the club has done.”

  He stared at her for a long minute, filled with a seemingly immeasurable patience. Probably waiting to see if I will change my mind, she thought and broke the contact, glancing back down when he spoke. “Goes against the grain, Hope. I like to fix things, and this isn’t a failure I expected. Give me a couple days, and let me see if I can locate something else.”

  “Temp work comes in kinda seasonal waves, but I doubt they can offer me anything that will get in the way if you find another option for me.” She gave him a brief smile, not letting him see how it hurt when he admitted he found her a failure. “I work hard, and I’m willing to do anything, but it feels like I’ve already let you down with the other jobs. With this one, for your friend’s trucking company? Dispatching drivers? I don’t know anything about it. I’m too scared of letting you down again.”

  “Sweetheart.” The familiar voice from behind her caused a tightness in her chest, and she swallowed hard, forcing her injured feelings down. She hadn’t seen Hoss since falling asleep in the bed beside him. That had been a week ago, just before he fired her, again. She twisted to see him leaning casually against the doorframe, relaxed, and unlike her, pain free. “You didn’t let us down.” Knowing it for a lie, she swallowed hard again, and he frowned. He said softly, “We ain’t found your fit yet.
That’s all.”

  With a quick nod, she stepped to one side, letting him walk into the room as she sidled towards the door, carefully sidestepping so she wouldn’t have to touch him. “Thanks again, Slate,” she said and lifted her hand. When he didn’t return the gesture, she let her hand fall and walked out without speaking to Hoss. Hurrying towards the parking lot, she hadn’t made it out of earshot, so she heard Hoss ask in an angry tone, “You piss her off?” She didn’t stick around to hear Slate’s answer, preferring not to listen to him voice disappointment in her again.

  ***

  Her clearly uncomfortable avoidance of him sliced through him like a broken pane of glass, and Hoss carried the resulting anger into his conversation with Slate. “What the fuck did you do to make her take off like that?”

  “Oh, no, brother,” Slate sneered, “it ain’t me that’s the reason for her being pissed today. You tossed her off another fucking job without even giving me a goddamned heads up. The goddamned rules you put into place are fucking you in the ass, man. Keep her safe and off radar but put her in a club joint so you can check the fuck up on her whenever you fucking feel like it? Tall orders, Hoss, especially when you only sweep in every week or so to decide that the latest efforts just don’t measure up to your fucking standards.”

  “We own a fuckton of places she could work that would never get her attention. What the hell’s wrong with the used bookstore, or the gas station?” Hoss twisted his neck, glaring out the window, watching Hope climb into her black and white car and he made a mental note to have Gunny look it over, make sure it was running okay. “You keep putting her into places where she’s going to catch shit.”

  Slate sank into his chair with a heavy sigh, looked up at Hoss and pulled at the back of his neck with a rough palm. “She’s too fucking smart for her own good. I drop her into the gas station and she’s going to balk at the pay you want her to have, brother. This is not a woman who is going to willingly accept handouts. She doesn’t know how to let folks do for her, I suspect she ain’t never been on the dole.” He shook his head. “Spots a lie in a heartbeat, because she’s always on the fucking lookout. Don’t think I’ve ever met someone as ready to believe bad about themselves.”