Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 3

by MariaLisa deMora

  Still about twenty feet away, the guy was walking with his arm around a weeping woman, and walking beside both of them was Willa, Mason’s wife, carrying her baby. “Hey,” Watcher called again, but they didn’t pause. Angling across the lot, he squeezed between groups of men and women, keeping his eye on Willa. “Hey.” At last, the guy’s head came up, and he looked at Watcher, eyebrows lifting in a question and recognition hit Watcher in the chest. Jesus, it is Grant.

  “Watcher.” Deke got out a greeting, stopping to shove out a hand, but not taking his other arm from around the woman. “Good to see you, man. Been too long.”

  “Deke.” How did I not know Deke was one of Mason’s? Watcher marveled for a moment as he accepted the tight grip, letting Deke pull him in to bump shoulders. “Jesus, brother, good to see you, too.” Every time I start to waver about rolling into the Rebels, I find another reason to stay the course and make the change. Movement from across the lot caught his attention again, and he remembered his original intent with talking to the trio. “Who was that guy back there?” Watcher asked, gesturing to where they’d walked from. Deke twisted to look behind him, then back to Watcher, the expression on his face clearly puzzled. Watcher repeated his question, tamping down an urgent panic threatening to overwhelm him. “Who was that guy?”

  Willa shifted baby Garrett to her other shoulder, palm smoothing down his back when he fussed for a moment before settling down. “Are you asking about Ripper?” She glanced over her shoulder, and they all heard Mason’s voice calling her name. “We have to go in,” she told Watcher apologetically, as Deke tightened his arm around the woman who had burst into renewed tears. “Mercy is Hope’s sister. They need us in there, Watcher.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” Watcher muttered, stepping back and out of the way. “Deke, we’ll catch up later.”

  Ripper wasn’t a common road name. You might hear of a dozen guys called Gypsy, a hundred with a variation of Drivetrain or Overdrive or Harddrive. He knew of one club in the Maryland area that had four officers in different chapters who all answered to Hawk. Watcher had only ever heard of one Ripper, though. Not someone he’d ever met, but it was a man long dead. A man dead because of Shooter, back before Mason took over the Rebels.

  Watcher turned and stared across the lot, seeing a lone bike pull out of formation and idle to the street. It turned to the right, which meant following the drive around a sweeping curve that would bring it closer before it reached the highway. Without thinking about what he was doing, Watcher took off at a run to the end of the building nearest to where the curve was. He got there just as the bike flashed past, already in third gear and accelerating. That didn’t stop him from recognizing the man, someone he had met, but who had been out of the club life for a long, long time. Someone who hated Mason more than anything. Someone who, if he’d read the body posture right, had nearly gotten his hands on Mason’s boy.

  Deacon.

  Everything changes

  “Tell me again.” Watcher stood, back to the kitchen counter, eyes on the redheaded man who had just walked through the door.

  “Hello to you, too, cuz. Jesus,” Fury clipped, reaching back and slamming the door closed. “Can a man have a sip of water to wash the desert away before you start grillin’ him?”

  “Bottle. Fridge.” Waiting for a beat, he let Fury swig twice before he repeated his question, elaborating this time so Fury understood the need. “Tell me again about Deacon and Morgan, how they’ve hooked up. Tell me what you think Shooter’s doin’ from his jail cell. Tell me again what kind of vengeance the Morgans are going to be looking for with Judge’s death.” He folded his arms across his chest, leaning backwards. “Tell me why I saw Deacon at Hope’s funeral.”

  This last earned a reaction he hadn’t expected, and both he and Fury looked down at the water spreading out across the floor, ejected in an eruption from the bottle crushed in Fury’s fist. Watcher kept his tone carefully neutral when he offered his observation. “I think there’s something here you haven’t told me, brother.”

  “No.” Fury shook his head. “Told you how me and Hoss saw the woman the same time. Told you we both recognized what she could be.” Fury tipped his chin down, fingers going to strip the tangles from his beard. “Told you she wasn’t an option for me.”

  “Seems a little raw to be sniffing around Bethy as you are.” Watcher shook his head. “Don’t make her be a consolation prize, man. She deserves more.”

  “Fuck yeah, she deserves more.” Fury’s tone was thick with anger. “Bethy ain’t a consolation prize, man. Not at all. She’s…different. Hope was the first clean breath of air I’d had in years. Never a possibility for me, not even if circumstances were different. But the idea? That ideal? The idea of her was real and something I used to get through the waking hours, those last weeks in Diamante.” He shook his head, glancing up at Watcher, pain gathering on his features.

  “World doesn’t need to lose people like her. No one deserves to lose the ones they love, not ever. And to lose her like he did? I cannot imagine how Hoss is feelin’. Weight of the world on his shoulders.” Gaze still fixed in place, but Watcher could tell Fury wasn’t seeing him or the inside of the kitchen right now. “That baby girl? Her little boy? Knowing you have to be everything for them, stay strong for them, even when you wanna break.” His eyes focused, and Watcher flinched from the pain. “Hope was an ideal for me, nothing more. An ideal that led me to believe I could have everything I wanted. I didn’t know what I wanted until I saw Bethany again.” He shook his head again. “She ain’t no consolation prize. She is the prize.”

  “You’re damned right she is,” Watcher growled, still as protective of Bethy as he was of his own two girls.

  Fury flashed a grin at him, then the expression on his face sobered, and he said, “You saw Deacon at Hope’s funeral?” Watcher nodded. “At the service?”

  “Outside, just before. He was talking to Mason’s woman. Right outside the funeral home. I wasn’t sure it was him at first, it’s been years.” Watcher hesitated, then asked, “You know anything about Mason’s time with the Fiends?”

  “A little. Mostly rumor. Not something the big man talks about. You hear about Lalo turning up at Duck’s place in Lamesa?” A sound from the hallway pulled both their gazes that direction and Watcher saw Juanita come out of Bella’s bedroom, wiping at her cheeks with both hands. Without looking their way, she turned and walked towards the back of the house. “Wanna take this outside, brother?” Fury’s question was quiet and filled with understanding. Watcher and Juanita were sudden empty nesters, and neither of them was dealing with it as well as they’d like.

  Watcher nodded, tossing a pile of napkins to the floor, swiping them across the tile with the toe of his boot before scooping the wet paper up and throwing them away. If only everything could be cleaned up as easily, he thought, following Fury outside and across the yard to the barn.

  ***

  Isabella

  Bella sat on a stool, uncomfortable for more reasons than the lack of cushioning, squashed flat by countless other bottoms. Wedged into the corner of the room, protected at her back and sides by walls, protected above by the ceiling and below by the floor, she still felt exposed and vulnerable. Tater stood across the room, leaning against a column near one of the pool tables, nonchalant and comfortable. A beer dangled from his fingers, and he smiled, listening as one of the men near him told a story. When the other people in their group laughed, he did too, but his head tipped back as he gave open-mouthed approval to whatever had been said. His just-shaved chin lifted, exposing the cords and muscles in his throat and even from where he stood across the room, the timbre of his laughter wrapped around her.

  She’d been in Chicago for five weeks. And he had done as he promised. He had helped her move past the paralyzing fear that had coated every one of her emotions, her mind, stripping her of the ability to do anything other than breathe. He had helped. He fixed me. One of the waitresses angled her direction, and before Bell
a could even tense up, he had redirected the woman, keeping the space around Bella clear of anyone. Gives me what I need.

  She sat and watched him, not noticing when other men came and went from the group, focused solely on Tater. What he did, how he moved, his reactions to the room and the men and women. The women. He had a type, she saw this. His type walked on the slatternly side of sizzle. Tall shoes, short skirts, tight tops. Bella glanced down at her sneakers propped on the rungs of the stool. Her fabric-clad legs extending down from where her white tee was tucked inside the waistband of those plain blue jeans.

  The women he looked at had teased hair and bedroom eyes crafted with an expert application of makeup. Bella’s fingertips trailed across the smooth skin of her cheek. A strand of her hair had come loose from the simple ponytail, and she fingered it for a moment before tucking it behind her ear.

  He looked up at Bella and noted her study, angling his head to the side. She lost his eyes when a woman near the pool table pretended to stumble. She tottered skillfully backwards and he had to catch her arm, preventing a fall. Tater bent his neck, mouth near the woman’s ear and Bella could make out the movements of his lips. The woman pulled back, sour twisting her lips and she shot a daggered look Bella’s direction before flouncing away. Bella looked down, staring at the toes of her shoes, watching the fabric flex as she scrunched and unscrunched her toes.

  An hour later she was still lost in thought when Tater’s boots strode into view. There was a deep scuff on one side, and the top of his left boot had a permanent dent in it from shifting his motorcycle. She knew this because her father’s boots bore the same mark. “Ready to go?” His deep voice rumbled through the noise in the clubhouse, a rumble which had been audible from across the room, and now vibrated in her belly from this close. She nodded. She’d been ready to leave before they got here. His hand rose, and she shivered in anticipation, knowing when his fingers tugged at hers, they would be chilled from the beer bottle. “Come on, then.”

  She was surprised when he walked her to the door that led outside, because most nights she slept in a bedroom on the second floor of the clubhouse. One weekend he had moved her to the club’s compound in Wisconsin, but they’d returned to Chicago by Tuesday of the next week. Back at the clubhouse, back into the routine of sleeping with him in the room, showering with him seated outside the only door, eating with him standing at her back. So after weeks of the same, weeks of settling into this normal, Tater leading her outside wasn’t routine. Wasn’t normal.

  Bella’s muscles tensed, and she knew her sudden fear had transferred to her grip on his fingers when he stopped and spoke to the top of her head. Tater had ceased trying to make her look at him weeks ago when he'd realized she was still listening with her entire being no matter where her gaze rested. “Mason’s house is empty. Got good security. We’ll be staying there for the foreseeable.”

  Bella nodded and followed the tug on her hand when he started them moving forwards again.

  Their forward momentum came to a screeching halt when he tried to lead her towards a bike. No. No. No. Tater crowded close, dwarfing her with his size, his muscles, his strength. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Bella.” He never called her honey again. Not after she told him about Edwardo. Never called her anything other than her name. She missed the sweet and silly words her father made up, missed being anything other than what she was. Isabella. In her mind, she’d given herself a title: Isabella, the damaged.

  “Ride with me.” Bella realized she was leaning towards him, her shoulder bumping against his arm, needing to borrow a little more strength from him. Tater took her silence for consent, moving them towards the bike. Keeping hold of her hand while he mounted it, he guided her onto the seat behind him. Behind him. His grip brought her fingers to his side and wrapped them around his belt loops. She waited for him to start the engine, then leaned forwards, rested her cheek against his spine and held tightly to his belt with both hands.

  Then they were moving, rolling, gaining speed only to lose it as lights changed ahead of them, cars on either side, cars behind, people everywhere. Bella wasn’t even aware she was trembling until he gripped her knee, pulling it close to his thigh. “Hold on.” She nodded, gripping him with her legs, her arms. If her cheek could have gripped, it would have grabbed hold of his jacket. She bit the inside of her lips, the bright pain pushing back the panic until they were moving again. A moment later Tater crossed a bridge where an open-topped boat was passing underneath. Bella saw party lights strung along the railings as carefree couples danced under the moonlight, music and laughter washing up and coasting over her, leaving a longing behind which she didn’t know what to do with. Then Tater leaned the bike, and from long practice, she leaned with him, and they were up a ramp and onto a highway. Fewer vehicles, no more stopping, just the road and wind and the rumble of the engine. And the heat and strength of the man she pressed against.

  Long before she was ready to stop, he slowed, moving over, exiting the highway and they were back on surface streets. Less traffic here in this residential section, but the buildings were stacked close beside each other, hardly enough room to walk between them. Suffocating. Driveways led to basement garages, homes soared three and four stories overhead, wires crisscrossed the space between structures. A turn, another, and they were on a road, not a street. A tiny oasis of space in a crowded neighborhood. A small house sat on the left-hand side of a driveway turned alley, lights shining through the large bay window in the nearest wall. Bella could see deeper shadows cast by tall trees behind the structure. On the other side of the alley was a sprawling single-story house. A three-bay garage and a tall fence extended off the back.

  Tater pulled the bike up in front of the first garage bay, and Bella dismounted, letting him do the same. She watched as he gripped the handle, rolling the door up and out of the way overhead. The other two entrances each had a pair of swinging doors, simple latches locking the doors together. He rolled his bike into the darkness, coming back out to tug the door back into place. One hand extended to her, he waited, and she took the three steps to take it, gripping tightly.

  Gate, patio, screen door. “Wait here.” Bella stepped to one side as he pushed the inside door closed behind them, then light bloomed in the room. She was surprised because Mason’s house was lovely. It looked lived in, and this room was very much like a farm kitchen. It was comfortable, meant to be used, meant for a family. Tater walked through an archway and into the darkness beyond. A moment later a light clicked, and she saw the back of a large couch. His footsteps retreated, and more light reflected off the inside of the windows. “Bella.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re in Mason’s room. It’s the last one at the end of the hall.” Tater’s voice grew louder as he walked back to where she stood in the kitchen, still unmoving from where he’d placed her. He walked past her to the door and locked it, then flipped open the door to the security system, punching buttons. “Don’t open any doors or windows, or it’ll get noisy.”

  “Okay.”

  To the side, the refrigerator door opened, and Tater stepped back into her line of sight, holding a beer and a bottle of water. Handing her the water, he looked at her for a minute then shook his head. “You’re pooped, Bella. Go on to bed. I’ll be out here for a little bit.” She looked at him for a moment, and he tipped his head to one side, muscles in his cheek popping. “You’re safe.”

  “Okay.” She let her feet take her into the next room, seeing a second couch, a couple of wide armchairs and a huge TV. Light streamed into the room from a hallway opposite, and she drifted that direction, seeing more light coming from the end of the narrow hallway. Two closed doors to the right which she didn’t open, and one open to the left, a dim nightlight inside showing the sink and mirror of a bathroom. In the bedroom she looked around, immediately gravitating towards the pictures on the wall.

  Aunt Loretta, she thought, staring at one of the pictures of a woman bent over a washtub, corded muscles
standing out in her arms as she wrung the wet out of an article of clothing. Never having met the woman, but her daddy had pictures from Kentucky. A woman she didn’t know stood in front of a truck, belly swollen in early pregnancy. Another picture of a group of men standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of a gaping maw leading into the ground.

  As a child, she’d listened one night as her father told the story of how his daddy died, and for weeks Bella had been afraid of dark, enclosed places. Afraid of being buried alive. Petrifying blackness swept up and over her at the thought, narrowing her vision to a pinpoint, and she crashed her teeth together on her bottom lip, grinding into the flesh, pushing the fear and terror back. I’m alive. Alive. Alive. Shaking her head to rattle the thought loose, she stared at the picture of the men again. The knowledge beat at her that she had suffered the same fate as her grandfather; had been buried alive, drowning in air that held no spark of life in it, and survived. I didn’t die. The thought had a feeling of marvel in it, and she pulled it close, wrapping her arms around herself to hold it to her. I didn’t die.

  A noise behind her and she whirled to see Tater standing in the doorway. “You okay, Bella?”

  She nodded. A chill hit her, and she shivered. Cold dampness against her skin and she looked down, finding the bottle of cold water cradled to her chest. The condensation from the bottle had soaked through her tee and thin bra, nipple standing at attention, areola plainly visible through the wet fabric. When she looked at Tater she saw his gaze was fixed on her chest, tiny flicking glances up to her face, her lips, back to her chest, that muscle jumping in his cheek again. He shifted and angled his hips away from her, but not before she saw the tight fabric defining the shape of his arousal. He’s interested in me?