Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 3

by MariaLisa deMora

  Benny was Ben Jones, the baby brother of Slate, Rebel’s Fort Wayne president, and had taught Mason’s son to play guitar. Occupy Yourself was Ben’s band, recently picked up for representation by Iron Indian Records, Mason’s record label. “Hold onto your dicks, there’s more, brothers. My Bethy will be there, too.” Bethany was Mason’s sister, who worked for the record label.

  “Jesus wept,” Duck whispered under his breath. “All the Rebel royalty in one place. Our king, prince, princesses. Willa not going? Is the queen at least staying home, where she’s protected?”

  Mason shook his head, ignoring the bar’s door opening. “She’s staying home. She ain’t happy about it, but she’ll do it for me. We’re near the end with the baby, and the pregnancy means I don’t want her to stress. And she would stress with seeing Mica and Bethy together. She just ain’t far enough past what happened, brother.” The last time Willa had seen Mica had been right after Utah. He had worked hard to get her head to a good place, to move her to where they could look forwards and not back, and he wasn’t about to let anything trip her up, send her tumbling. My blood, he thought, my blood did that to her, made it so I have to skate around so many fucking holes.

  Shaking his head, he looked up and continued, “So yeah, need y’all rolling down. Watcher’s going to have a scoot for me to straddle while I’m in town, but I’ll want you there day after tomorrow. Twelve hundred miles, means you gotta drop at least four today yet to make it there.”

  “Fuck,” hissed Fury. “When we leaving?”

  “Right the fuck now,” Mason said, gesturing towards a group of members who had just walked in. “Boys should have all the shit I asked ‘em to pick up, so you can pack, crack, and roll.”

  “My bike’s in the garage across town, boss.” Duck was watching the faces of their brothers as the men crossed the room towards their table, broad smiles in place on every face. He seemed to like what he saw, easing back into his seat, some of the tension leaving him.

  Mason never stopped grinning as he said, “Naw. Trailered it here yesterday soon as I had the ticket sent. Knew you’d need to get in the wind pretty fast, seein’ as you been cage-bound for weeks. We’ll need to pause for some tailoring,”—he pulled a new black and white bottom rocker from the inside pocket of his vest, flattening it on the table, the word Nomad brilliant against the dark background—“and then you can get in the wind.”

  Surprise flared in Duck’s eyes, his mouth falling open. Mason enjoyed the sight of catching him off guard like this, able to give his brother a good thing, something that mattered so much. “Fucking shit. You knew. All along, and you already knew. I sweated bullets for hours, trying to decide how to tell you…how to ask you. And, you fucking knew. And now, you’re…” His voice trailed off, and he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head again.

  Leaning across the table, Mason reached out and gripped Duck’s arm, feeling the bones and muscles under his hand move to return the gesture. A warrior’s shake, respect and support between brothers. A promise of honesty and shared knowledge of a deep abiding affection that anchored so much. Their friendship. The club.

  “Rebel Wayfarers forever,” Mason muttered, feeling his throat closing around the words.

  Duck’s eyes flashed open and he nodded, saying slowly, “Forever Rebels.”

  They sat like that for a moment, then Mason leaned back, breaking their grip, knowing each would continue to feel the connection for a long time.

  Duck leaned back too, and then dipped his chin, shaking his head again. “Lemme piss first, Prez,” Duck said, looking up with a grin. “Need to call Bee, too. Let her know I’ll be a tad late.” Shaking his head, he muttered, “Fuck, Mason. You’re an asshole.”

  “Yup. I own that shit,” Mason said, joking as he stood to make room for the men to come up and greet the two members he had been talking with. “Fucking own it.”

  Keeping secrets

  Lamesa, Texas

  Oh, yeah, Duck thought, this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. Standing in the doorway of Brenda’s bedroom, he had stopped in his tracks as soon as his gaze landed on her. She was sleeping, lying on her side facing him, sheet to her chest, bare shoulder thrown back, arm draped across her side and stomach. The moonlight gilded her face and hair with silver and he had a moment where he could see what waited in his future, where he knew what she would look like in his bed forty years from now. Cannot fucking wait, he thought, breaking free from his stillness, exhaustion fleeing as he stalked towards her, shedding clothing as he did so.

  Three days was too long to be away, and he had scarcely pointed Fury towards the guest room before abandoning him with a brusque, “There’s food in the kitchen. Help yourself. Don’t scare the boy in the morning.” Then, his long strides brought him here, to her room…their room from here on out. Folding his cut, he glanced for a long moment at the new, barely broken-in bottom rocker spelling out ‘Nomad,’ telling everyone who saw him he had permission to roam.

  Looking back over at the bed, he saw the glint of Brenda’s eyes and knew she was awake, watching him. When he had called to tell her he would be late, in response to the news he was riding his bike back, she had simply told him, “Come home to me.” Now, as he undressed in the darkness, he smiled at the memory because her saying those words had fattened his cock, made him swell with desire. Something he hadn’t tried to hide from his brothers there in the bar, knowing the want each man would have inside him for something like what Duck had. The want for a woman in their bed like the one warming his mattress right now. Mine, he thought, as he slid in between the sheets beside her.

  “Hey, Duck,” she whispered, and he thrilled again at her instinctive use of his name, pleasure coiling deep inside his chest. He reached out, running his hand up from her hip and realized the concealing covers were the only thing on her.

  “Little Bee. My beautiful, bare darlin’, did ya miss me?” He leaned in and brushed his lips across hers, gratified when she shifted closer to him, her hand sliding up his bicep to curl around his shoulder, pulling him in. He slipped his hand down her side, over her bottom, tucking in between her legs to find a wash of wetness there. Curling his fingers around her pussy, he pushed with his thigh, feeling her legs part with willing swiftness. “Aw, yeah,” he whispered against her lips, eating down her moan before deepening the kiss. “I can tell you did.”

  ***

  Sitting with Watcher at a table in the Soldiers’ bar the next afternoon, Duck was waiting for Fury to show so he could introduce them. He and Watcher had spent the last half hour talking about the increasing issues with coyotes Brenda had noted; their mutual hatred of slavers giving them a reason to want to stop any trafficking running through the area.

  There was a noise in the bar behind Duck and he stilled, his eyes fixed on Watcher. The Soldiers didn’t have any mirrors on the wall and his position at this table placed him with his back squarely to the room, leaving him blind for all intents and purposes. Entirely dependent on his friend to warn him of any incoming trouble. The trust implied when he accepted the offered seat had been acknowledged by an approving nod; that nod recognizing the burden of faith in its own way.

  “What the fuck?” Watcher muttered, but the corners of his mouth turned up so Duck knew it was friend and not foe approaching. Twisting in his chair, he draped his arm across the back of it and then pushed off it, standing with a grin on his face.

  “Fuck, yeah. Fury showed, finally,” he muttered, taking a single step back to allow Watcher to greet the new arrival first. Protocol demanded he give way in the Soldiers’ bar, even if the man walking their way was one of his own patch brothers.

  “You’re Fury? Fuckin’ kidding me?” Watcher called his questions, holding out a welcoming hand. Duck looked at the extended palm, frowning. If Fury wasn’t known to Watcher then the gesture was odd. Very odd. And if Fury was known, then why was he here to conduct introductions in a way to give respect to both men? The redheaded biker stopped in front of Watcher an
d stood for a minute ignoring the offering, stood silent before he shook his head and laughed, reaching instead to pull the big man into a hug, stepping back after a moment with one arm still slung over his shoulders. Turning to grin at Duck, Fury nodded as he tightened his arm powerfully, pulling and trapping Watcher’s head to his side. With rough knuckles, he scrubbed Watcher’s scalp to the accompaniment of cussing and writhing. Watcher snarled, “Goddammit, Gabe, let me the fuck go.” Gabe?

  With a grin, Fury released his captive who stood upright, slowly rubbing the top of his head. Glancing around the bar, Fury seemed unconcerned for any offense he might have caused with his behavior and Duck held his breath, waiting for the response because this could go very badly for both of them. “Cuz,” Fury said, drawling out the word. “Nice place.” He nodded and grinned at Duck, warmly calling, “Brother, good fucking mattress, man. I slept like a baby.”

  Stepping away from Watcher, Fury gave the man his back as he extended a hand towards Duck. Gave the man his back as if they were patch brothers standing around a fucking bonfire. Every action shouted trust and comfort built from long association, but he was beyond pushing the boundaries of what was acceptable between clubs.

  Reaching out to grasp the offered palm, Duck used the grip to yank Fury close. As he fisted his fingers in the cut on the man’s back, he muttered into his ear, “This would appear the exact opposite to fostering good relations, brother. Wanna explain what the fuck you think you’re doing?”

  Shouted laughter gusted past his ear and Fury pulled back, turning to face a grinning Watcher. What. The. Fuck.

  “Watch…Michael,” Fury called, “you keepin’ secrets, cuz?”

  ***

  “Tell me about your folks,” Duck said, giving Brenda a squeeze with the arm he had draped around her shoulders. They were reclining on the couch in the living room, TV on but neither was watching it, more interested in each other than anything the talking heads had to say. Fury was in a chair to one side, eyes to his phone but Duck saw his chin lift at the question and knew he was listening.

  “My aunt and uncle? You knew them. You spent as much time at our place as you could.” She reached up, linking her fingers through his where they wrapped around, holding his arm in place.

  “Not them, your mom and dad. You didn’t talk about them much growing up. Where did you live before you came to Texas?” She had been young when she moved in with her aunt and uncle, and he had always assumed a tragedy brought her here, but wasn’t sure.

  “Mom and Dad died in a car wreck. I was just little. I came to live with Mom’s sister here. She had left Kentucky before I was born, so the first time I ever saw my aunt was in the hospital.” Brenda had gone still, locked into her head and he shook her slightly.

  He asked, “Hospital?”

  “Yeah, I was in the car. It went off the side of a mountain, into the trees.” She gave a heavy sigh, followed by a softer one. These thoughts held sadness for her. “I have some memories of the wreck. Not much, mostly just noise and smells. They don’t know who found me, the nurses at the hospital wrote out reports that one minute the hallway was empty, and then the next, I was lying there on a gurney with a note pinned to my coat telling the police where to find the car.”

  “Where in Kentucky?” The question surprised both of them, and Duck swung his gaze to see a suddenly attentive Fury completely focused on Brenda.

  “Eastern, I was born in Cynthania. My folks are buried on Mom’s family’s place in Lair. My aunt married a military man, moved out here.” She cocked her head to one side, asking, “Why?”

  “I’m Kentucky raised and bred. Born in Louisiana, but I lay strongest claim to my mountain roots,” Fury responded. “You were Harrison County. I grew up just over the mountain in Robertson. So did Watcher. What year was the accident?”

  “Nineteen eighty-four,” she responded quietly and Duck squeezed her tight for a moment.

  “I was twelve,” he said, his tone musing. “You would have been what, three…four?”

  “Six. I was six,” she whispered and Fury’s gaze sharpened, taking in whatever he saw on Brenda’s face.

  “I’ve lost folks too, gal. Close ones; early. Sucks, but you got through it, found a good life.” Turning his head, he swung his gaze around the room before coming back to Brenda to say, “Good for you.” The mood in the room shifted, becoming oppressive as Fury looked away. “Need to call Watch.” Moving abruptly, Fury slapped his knees before he stood and turned to walk towards the mudroom. Duck and Brenda sat there silently as the echo of the door slamming behind him rolled through the house.

  Within a day, Fury seemed to settle into a comfortable routine, communicating through contacts provided by the Soldiers’ to set post-rodeo meetings with various clubs in the area. Duck let him deal with that while he worked, laboring side-by-side with Brenda, getting final details into place for the rodeo. In the evening, both men sat in the barn office, organizing the guard duties it would take to safeguard the Rebel visitors headed into town, ensuring everyone was covered. Fury talked to Watcher to lock down the assistance his Soldiers were comfortable providing. Time was ticking forwards, the measurement of hours and minutes passing unrelenting in its movement.

  Everything was falling into place. Smooth and sweet, slotting together like a puzzle that wanted to be solved.

  ***

  Mason chuckled as he disconnected the call from Duck, thinking to himself that his choice of men to send with his brother was fortunate. How in the hell did I not know Gabe was one of the Robertson County Ledbetter boys? From talking to Duck, it didn’t sound as if Watcher had been aware of Fury’s identity either. Not until the man walked through the doorway and into the Soldiers’ bar. Blood to one of his closest friends. The knowledge sat easy on his shoulders, making it seem as if fate had pulled the man’s chapter into the fold, bringing Fury to the Rebels.

  Watcher’s girl

  Las Cruces, New Mexico. Three o’clock in the afternoon, Mountain Time Zone

  “Where the hell could she be?” Duck muttered the question into the stillness of the truck cab, turning the wheel to steer around another corner. “A-fucking-lone out here, no backup, nobody around. Club calls, you deal, man.” He scanned up the street, noting the make and model of the vehicles parked along the curb. Fury’ll have your six, he thought. Sure, he will. He’s got to fucking be present to win that position, for sure. He shook his head at his thoughts, twisting in the truck seat to look between buildings as he passed by another alley, rolling slowly so as not to miss anything.

  Isabella Otey, Watcher’s daughter, was missing. Nearly an adult, she wasn’t a risk as a runaway, so the unspoken fear was business. The kind of business that sucked in innocents. From the look of things, she had been plucked from her off-campus apartment, her bedroom undisturbed by any violence. Reports said the space was devoid of any clues, silent except for a song left playing on repeat. That song seeming to be a message, a familiar tune by Occupy Yourself about how family could poison and hurt you called, “Is It The Blood.”

  Her disappearance wasn’t found, so much as reported. Watch got a call from Estavez, president of the Machos, who had gotten a call from a gypsy Outriders member, who had received a call from who the fuck knew. It was like a sick game of telephone, with the end result being the knowledge that Isabella was gone, and their most likely suspect was Lalo.

  A Diamante nomad, he was a man well known for his brutality, who seemed to have sucked at the teat of the devil himself, absorbing lessons of cruelty while he developed a taste for blood. Watcher’s first call had been to Mason, who sent texts to Duck and Fury while still on the phone with his friend. They were the only Rebels within hailing distance of the Soldiers’ stomping grounds and had the best chance of helping until Mason could get here. Clubs all over the region had rolled out, looking for Isabella.

  As Duck drove from Lamesa, Myron called, having picked up electronic chatter from two sources. Those leads pulled the club’s assistance in di
fferent directions. One was Memphis, where some dirty business had been conducted not long ago. Rebel members headed there as fast as their wheels could take them. Other brothers had been dispatched out of Little Rock, the intent to back up and support the Memphis chapter, and also to keep an eye on the men patched into that house. Memphis shit was dark these days, and there was damn little trust going their direction.

  Fury remained in Lamesa, his orders clear: Protect the prince. Chase was already in the air at the time, far too late to turn him around, so he would be met in Midland and taken to where he could be secured in Lamesa.

  Duck was in Las Cruces, having driven the 350 miles as fast as possible, making the trip in just under four hours from when he left. Now he was circling the area Myron had directed him towards, looking for anything out of place.

  Brenda had been with him when he got the text, and stared at him with wide eyes while, on the move, he explained what was going on and why he had to leave. She had told him, “Of course, go. Go, baby. God, how scared she must be. Find her.” Pressing a hard kiss to her mouth, he had jumped into the truck and headed off, earpiece in place so Myron, who was organizing the Rebel rollout, could talk to him.

  Which lead his thoughts back to here, now, where he wasn’t finding anything to indicate the girl was close. “You’re sure you got a ping from here?” For what seemed the hundredth time, he asked the question, hearing background chatter over the line for a moment before Myron responded.

  “Yes, her phone records show it logged towers in that area at least three hours before the first anonymous call came in.” Patient with the repeated questions, Myron repeated himself, then said, “Hold on, I got Pinto.” The line buzzed and hummed, on hold.

  Twisting in the other direction, Duck looked up a street, seeing more fences, more metal buildings, more loading docks, and a fucking lot of more nothing. Circling the block again, he instinctively slowed when he approached and passed a parked police car, and then shook himself when he remembered it had been there on his last circuit, too. Looking at it in the rearview mirror, he braked gently, gliding the truck to a stop while he stared, trying to decide what had caught his attention. The noise in his ear stopped, and he noted distractedly that, like it had on his last circuit of this block, his call with Myron must have dropped. Dead zone, he thought.