Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 3

by MariaLisa deMora

  Mason laughed. “I suspect she’d talk more about the ring, but putting her on my bike with her wearing my patch? Gave me a fucking hard-on that wouldn’t quit. I get it now, understand what would pull a man to mark a woman as his own, understand what drove Slate like it did, why Bear took the shit he did to make Eddie his. I fucking love her, tell her that shit every day, and cannot fucking wait for her to birth our babe growing in her belly.”

  His face tightened and he frowned at Hoss. “That don’t mean I defer an iota of responsibility for the club, man. You having shit and keeping it from me, that’s bullshit and you know it. So tell me what’s going on and what went wrong. Tell me, and let’s see how we can fix it. My brother, my friend. Rebels forever—”

  Hoss finished the phrase, “—forever Rebels.” He sighed heavily, and then said, “I fucked up.”

  “You’re still breathin’. Still on this side of the sod, so you got a chance to unfuck that if you find yourself so inclined,” came Mason’s immediate response, and Hoss shook his head.

  “I don’t think so, Prez. I really fucked up. I went to Memphis, trying to sort the shit there, and I fucked up. I was gone nearly three weeks and didn’t call. I thought she would know from what I’d already said I wanted her and the boy in my life, but I didn’t…”

  He sighed. “I’ve never had a relationship, Mason. I don’t know what one fucking looks like, so when I told her if it weren’t for Deke and Mercy I’d have her and Sam in my house, I thought she’d know what that meant to me. I know now she didn’t even really fucking know me, because while I’d studied her for weeks, she had been focused on her boy and trying to make sense of things in a new town, with a new sister, new friends.

  “I got so twisted up in the beginning, wanting her but forcing myself to stay away because of all the shit rolling around. I didn’t want her getting hurt, wanted to protect her, so I watched her, learned her, studied her—but never let her see me. So then I made my play, couldn’t wait any longer, wanted…no, needed her. Had her for only a few days when I had to go to Memphis. I fucked up. Lost her. Lost her trust, her faith in me, small as it was to begin with, because she’s never had anyone to count on. And, it looked like I proved her right when I didn’t call, didn’t contact her, didn’t come back for nearly three fucking weeks.”

  Mason made a noise, but Hoss talked over whatever he had been about to say. “I got back, talked her around and got her back, moved them into my home. The second night, we aren’t even at home; we’re out with the club, when the Sins come calling. Now she gets the full view of what club business looks like, sees the fallout, gets stuck in a lockdown with people she doesn’t even know, none of her friends with her, no one she could believe who could tell her things would be okay. By the time I get her home—” He paused then repeated the word on a scoff, “Home.”

  Taking a breath, he continued, “She lays it out for me. She’s done. Two days, and she’s done. I think I can change her mind, and I’m trying everything I know, and then she hits me with the real reason she’s done, and fuck me, but I can’t see any flaws in her logic.”

  Tipping his head down, he spoke to the toes of his boots. “She never had anyone to have her back, Prez. Nearly her whole life, she’s been on her own. Living hand to mouth, not even paycheck to paycheck, she’s kept herself together. She’s held her little family together, her and Sammy. Never had anyone to count on, never had a fallback position. As unstable as their lives have been, she’s all Sammy knows. When she says she has to put him first, I know she’s right. Not bullshitting me, or trying to make a play for some foolish power.

  “I’ve never had a relationship that mattered. I love my Mom and Dad, love my sisters. Love you and my brothers. That pales, man. Pales in comparison. I thought I felt something for DeeDee, but all it took was seeing how Jase was with her to know I didn’t feel anything for her like what he did. I’ve never done that, never knew what it looked like from the inside. Not until Hope.”

  He sucked in a breath through a throat suddenly tight and burning. “I fucking love her so much it tears me up that she saw me as a big enough danger she needed me gone. She has Sammy, and he depends on her to make the right decisions, trusts her to keep him safe. She’s never had a relationship other than that one with him, but she still knew enough to protect him from me.”

  He drew a breath, hearing it sound as ragged as the ones Sammy hauled in when he cried in his arms. “I got nothing inside me to tell her she’s wrong, boss. I look at her and I see everything bad that’s happened to Ruby, Eddie, Mercy. I see Willa. I got nothing to hold on to, no reason selfish enough to put her at risk like that. If she’s away from me, and safe, at least she’s in the world.”

  His shoulders lifted, and then dropped. “Mason, we found two automatics with big fucking clips in the saddlebags of the Sins. They could have come out with that shit, mowed down every woman standing helpless on the lot, and I couldn’t have done anything to stop it. I was inside, taking care of business, not even standing by her side. I miss her so much it's killing me, miss the boy. Fucking hate she’s right, and I’m not there, ain’t with them. Not having them has leeched all the color from my world, boss. Seventy-five days I’ve been living a gray existence, and I don’t see it getting better anytime soon.”

  They sat in silence and he watched Mason’s gaze flick up to him then back down to the desk. This went on for several minutes, and then Mason sighed. “Go sleep it off then let’s get in the wind, brother. Get some road therapy under our wheels.”

  He grunted and stood then swayed and shook his head. “Fuck, I miss her. Miss my Sammy. My boy. I’ll head up, but it’s all right. I’m good. You don’t have to babysit me, Prez.”

  “Not babysitting you, Hoss. Just wanting to make sure my friend is gonna be okay. Go on up. I’ll be here when you roll outta bed.” Mason stood, walked to the door, and opened it. He put a steadying hand on Hoss’ shoulder as he walked past, saying, “Like I said, you’re breathin’, so I still believe you got time to unfuck things.”

  ***

  Hope turned the knob and pushed open the door to what had quickly become her favorite room in the house. Hoss’ studio. Her furtive pleasure, a way to keep the beauty that he brought to her alive. Joy mixed with guilt, because if she was still in his house, that meant he wasn’t in his studio where he obviously spent a lot of time. Walking in, she stood in the center, letting her eyes roam the room. The bright light of late morning filled the space, warming her as it stroked across her skin.

  She knew from the conversation with his neighbor Hoss was an artist, but every time she entered this private space, she was stunned. The beauty he created was so spectacular, exquisite, that viewing it took her breath away. Framed pictures crowded the area on two walls, and there were stacks of canvases everywhere. One barren wall was a creamy white, the one that would capture and reflect the most sunlight through the bank of windows. There were four easels lined up in front of those panes of glass, contents covered with white cloths whose silent demand for privacy she respected.

  Today, as with most of her visits to the studio, she wandered along the display walls, eyes flicking from picture to picture. Pausing again and again, studying a painting or sketch with great interest, fingers hovering over the surface, she found the details often gave away the true topic matter behind the vision.

  There was a grouping of small paintings, done in various media: oil, acrylic, watercolor. In each, the subject was a gray lighthouse. Strong and stable, the lighthouse rested on a solid foundation, a rocky headland or a cliff. Every rendition was slightly different. Reverently, she had taken each from the wall, reading the dates on the back so she knew the sequence of the pictures.

  In the first, the lighthouse was solitary, waves bashing against its base, white foam and spray rising in arcs around the building. As the series advanced, other objects appeared. An outbuilding with a multitude of windows, nine in all, the lighthouse sheltering it from the attacking waves. A low, sprawli
ng home, lights flooding through the windows as brightly as the spotlight shone from the lighthouse.

  The largest painting was the final one, based on the dates. It was centered in the display, the others satellites circling around. In this picture, the ocean was flat and calm, the color a reassuring blue. Through dissipating storm clouds shone a brilliant yellow sun raining beams of light onto the lighthouse. The lighthouse looked more worn in this painting, weathered by life and experiences, and she knew in her soul he had painted Bingo.

  That beautiful man who held her hand at DeeDee’s one day, telling her he wanted to write love songs to her. Sensitive and sweet, wracked by the effects of cancer treatments, but still beaming up at her through his striking, bushy beard as he composed lyrics and stanzas aloud.

  Turning, she was about to leave the room, a smile on her face at the love he showed in his paintings for the old man, when she stopped. To the right of the door hung a sketch she hadn’t paid attention to before. Not surprising, since there were several hundred pieces in the room. Today, however, this sketch seemed to shout at her. Right above eye level, it was set into a dark, glossy frame, the ivory paper a stark contrast.

  One of the more sensual pieces she had seen in the studio, from shoulders to thigh it captured the upper bodies of a couple in a reclining embrace, the man’s chest naked, the woman clad in an overlarge shirt. Stretched out on a narrow bed, the sleeping blonde curled trustingly into the man’s side.

  He was using the fabric of her shirt to pull her to him, and the taut lines of the material stretched tightly across the angles of her back and sides exposed his clutching strength. The tension evident in the muscles of his hand and arm was well drawn; you could see the play of tissue and bone, the desperation in his hold, fingers catching, buried to the knuckle in the cloth gathered into his hand.

  Her arm draped across his chest, fingers curved in an easy caress over his shoulder; she was relaxed and sleeping deeply, pressed as close as she could be. Even with her willing participation in the embrace, the man’s dread of loss was clear. With the stress in his shoulders and arms, suffusing his posture, you got the sense he didn’t sleep, couldn’t sleep for fear she would be gone when he awoke. When she looked at the back of the framed sketch, she wasn’t surprised to find the title was, Barely Holding On.

  ***

  Mason stood and watched as Hoss made his stumbling way up the stairs to the room he had been sleeping in for too many fucking weeks. Hated to see his brother hurting like this, but knew from long years of experience there was nothing he could do to assuage his pain. Sighing, he twisted and caught Slate’s eye, calling him over with a chin lift. “Talk to me,” was all he said, and Slate nodded.

  “Fury’s sittin’ out on the lot. He heard you were here and rolled in a few minutes ago. If you wanna have a sitdown with him right now, he’s ready. Gunny’s here. Fuck, boss, so is Deke. I saw Hoss headed upstairs, but Deke can sit in for him.” Reaching up, Slate pulled at the back of his neck with his palm. “You sure about this, Prez?”

  “Yeah. I’ve not found a single thing that says Fury’s playin’ us. In fact, all the info we’ve been able to gather points to him sharing details he didn’t need to in order to gain our trust, which tells me he is all in on this thing. Him being patient is just the tip, man. Man’s waited for nearly four months for a seat at a table with me, but he has not been idle. He’s come in and set-up a backup plan, in case this goes south. He’s letting me see he’s doing it in a way that will make it easy to fold them in, because every single thing he’s done is shit I would have approved had he been asking my opinion. Unselfish, dependable, dedicated to his brothers, and from the looks of things, tired of the bullshit Lalo and Chismoso have been pulling.”

  Mason reached out, putting his hands on the back of a chair, rolling his palms over the corners, smoothing the fabric with his fingers. Staring down at his hands, he stood for a minute thinking about the things Hoss had said about bringing danger to the threshold of the ones they loved then lifted his head. “We need brothers like that; we need to make sure we can hold what we have, Slate. Bring him in, and let’s get this party started. Then I’ll have some things to share with you. I suspect Bear’s gonna be in before long, and I want to do a run with Hoss once he sleeps off his drunk.”

  Two hours later, he had found that not only did he respect Fury, he liked the motherfucker a lot. Every suggestion the man had was good, thoughtful in ways he needed his members and officers to be. Scoffing at himself for already thinking the officer route, he shook his head then laughed at the prospect who, startled at his physical reaction to the internal conversation, began pulling back the beer bottle he had held out. “Gimme the fucking beer, Pros,” he said with a grin, accepting the again offered beer.

  It would be tomorrow before they officially folded the Fort Wayne Diamante chapter into the Rebels, because Fury wouldn’t do it without Hoss there. With a serious look that told Mason he wasn’t entirely sure his suggestion wasn’t going to piss off the national president, he still laid it out there that Hoss deserved to be part of it. He had put in the time, working the deal for months, and Fury wouldn’t snub his backing in bringing them to where they were today.

  Dedication. Commitment. Patience. Tipping the bottle to his lips, he was taking a long drink when raised voices at the door drew his attention.

  Looking around, he saw several Fort Wayne members headed that way, including Slate, so he stayed where he was. When he saw it was Tyler, Bingo’s oldest nephew, he straightened, thinking this could be bad news. With wild eyes, Tyler was glancing around the room and, upon spotting Jase, gave a shout, “I got it!”

  Still unsure what that meant, Mason had just started walking towards the door when Jase returned the shout, “Told you, eh? You’re good, boyo. Jesus Murphy, Ty, tourney team captain. Nicely done, son.” With a huff, Mason let out a breath he hadn’t even been aware he was holding and gave Jase an easy smile, hearing Fury come up behind him.

  There were three boys behind Tyler, two of which he knew, and one of those had eyes the same color as ones he saw in the mirror every day. With a grin, he greeted the boys, “Jonny, Kane, come on over here. Tyler, little man, congrats on the leadership role. Now you just have to earn it every day, yeah?” He heard Tyler’s laughing response as he moved around Mason to Jase, chattering a mile a minute about all his plans for his team.

  Putting one knee to the floor, he waited with outstretched arms for the two boys to come to him, surprised when they hung back. “No hugs for Uncle Mason?” That got them kickstarted and Kane nearly tackled him with the force of his attack, arms wrapping around Mason’s neck. Jonny was only a little behind him, and as he often had in the past, stood a little back, giving Mason a chin lift before offering a wide grin and barreling into him. Grunting, Mason took the hit, wrapping one arm around each boy and lifting them as he stood.

  Shifting his hold, he positioned them against his hips as if they were sacks of feed, securely cradling them to his sides. “Got me some boys,” he roared, feeling as well as hearing the giggles from the two kids. Shaking them in place, he gave a half-spin, whirling in place until he saw the last boy again. With a chin lift, he told the little guy, “I’m Mason.”

  “You aren’t going to hurt my friends, are you?” The blond kid had taken a step forward when he asked the question, eyes focused hard on Mason. “I can’t let you hurt my friends.”

  “I ain’t gonna hurt these taters,” he said with a laugh, letting the still giggling boys slide down until their feet were again on the floor. “They’re my best buds.” He looked at the boy again, surprised at the tension carried in his shoulders and arms. He’s honestly afraid I’m gonna hurt the boys, he thought with a start, and that took him to one knee again, putting himself at the boy’s level.

  “I ain’t gonna hurt them. And, I won’t hurt you. Won’t let anyone hurt you, if I can stop it from happening.” Glancing around, he saw most of the members had gathered around Jase and Tyler, but
Deke was standing behind the boy, an uncertain expression on his face. “Who’s kid is this?” Shit. He didn’t mean the question to come out like that and hated seeing the boy recoil away as he did.

  Deke stepped forward, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder and, surprising Mason, the boy didn’t attempt to shift away, accepting the weight without flinching. Deke was familiar enough to the boy that he recognized him without looking. “This is Hope’s boy, boss.” Deke swallowed hard. “Mercy’s sister, Hope. This is Sammy.” Fuck. Hoss’ boy.

  Eyes darting around the room now, Sammy asked in an almost offhanded way, “Why would you care?” Then the boy’s gaze came to rest on Mason, and he sucked in a breath at the burden of sorrow to be found there. This was a kid who had been hurt time and again until all he expected was pain and disappointment. Fuck. Hoss’ boy.

  “I care, because you belong to Hope, so you belong to us, ‘cause she’s ours, boy. But you already know this, dontcha? She’s ours, makes you ours, too. Won’t let anybody hurt you or your mom.” Mason said this steadily, confidence in his words. “Like you were ready to protect your friends just now? These taters?” He reached out and ruffled Kane’s hair, cupping a hand around Jonny’s shoulder. “I will protect you.”

  At his words, the boy whirled and, without a sound, ran up the hallway to the outer door, hitting it hard enough on his way out that it rebounded shut with a loud crash. He stared at Deke, shaking his head, watching as Jonny and Kane wordlessly ran up the hallway and out of the building behind him.

  I need beauty in my life

  Mercy huffed, the sound of her frustration plain in his ear when she said, “No, Hossman. I love you, and you know it, but I am not going to talk to you about Hope.”

  Squeezing his eyes shut, he knew his tone was near to a growl when he said, “Just tell me she’s fucking okay, Mercy. Jesus fuck, woman. It’s not as if I’m asking you to rob a fucking bank.”