Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 3

by MariaLisa deMora

  “I only know a little,” Bones admitted, staring across the street along with Watcher. “She is just…always around. She goes by Ester.” His voice was wistful, musing, and Watcher looked at him, seeing a softness on Bones’ features he’d never seen.

  “She follows you?” The question of “and you let her” was on the tip of his tongue, but he restrained it, glad it remained unspoken when Bones responded.

  “As she likes. At times”—he turned to face Watcher—“I follow her.”

  “You ever have an old lady?” Watcher couldn’t honestly remember, couldn’t recollect having ever seen the man with a woman for more than a few hours, and those party dolls, not someone who could stay the distance. Club relationships were one thing, family was another.

  “I have not been blessed with a partner, no. Not yet.” Bones turned to glance out the window, and then back at Watcher. “But this is not what we are here to discuss.” He shook his head, flexing his hands around the cup the waitress had dropped off, not even having to put his order in. The ink on his skin danced with the movement of muscles and tendons under the surface. Tattoos on his neck and face helped hide many of Bones’ reactions, a permanent solution Watcher always wondered about.

  Watcher shook his head, shoving the thought aside. “No, I wanna talk about how you dealt with killin’ your club.” Even the tattoos didn’t hide Bones’ flinch at Watcher’s word choice.

  “Did you know they called Mason a club killer at one time?” Bones lifted his coffee, sipping noisily at the liquid. “It was a label he did not believe could be outlived. Resurrected when he burned the charter of the Outriders chapter in San Diego. One I tried very hard not to allow spoken when I merged my Skeptics with his club.” Bones shook his head. “Now, calling them his Rebels feels wrong. I’d been part of them in many ways for a very long time. Always careful to keep the separation between me and mine, and his. Now, this patch—” He jerked one tattooed thumb over his shoulder, pointing towards his back. “—is mine and the club is mine and the man who I called president for a year before we made it official, is also mine. You will not regret this, Watcher.”

  “Who started the Skeptics?” That was one question that kept circling Watcher’s head. Darrie’s club. Everything Watcher had done since putting Darrie in the ground had been to keep his brother’s dream alive. Not everything, he thought, trying to be honest with himself. Darrie wouldn’t have taken a stand against flesh trade, and he knew it. That was all me.

  “Patch brother, not blood.” Bones cut straight to the heart of the matter. No surprise, because he was intuitive enough, and been around long enough to remember the why and when of Watcher leaving the Outriders to head west. “I did not have a personal stake other than years of blood and sweat poured into the Skeptics patch. The desire to be best, make the biggest mark, surround myself with righteous people. Unlike you, I came to my position at the top of the heap by more traditional methods.”

  “Blood,” Watcher said, glancing back out at the girl leaning against the wall across the street. “Darrie wanted it, worked for it. Was steadily fucking it up, but the want was so strong for him.” Watcher sighed, idly reaching out with one finger to push at the handle of his mug. Back and forth. “Then he died. For the patch. Died wearing it.” Back and forth, the unglazed bottom of the cup producing a narrow skree sound as it twisted and glided on the tabletop. “Died and was buried in it. I do this…” He paused, stilling. “…it’s the last thing he did on this earth. I do this, I throw that away.” Back and forth. “It’s like I’m throwing him away. Don’t sit right.”

  A tattooed hand settled on top of his, forcing his fingers away from the mug. Watcher lifted his eyes, seeing Bones’ steady gaze trained on him. They sat in silence for a moment, then Bones sighed and released his grip. “Danger died a long time ago.”

  “I know that,” Watcher snapped, leaning back in his chair. “I know when he died, Bones.”

  “Life was different then. As different then as that time was from your youth in Kentucky. As different as that youth was from your cradle days, my friend. Life”—Bones gestured, indicating something only he understood—“moves on and changes. Things are different today from yesterday. That girl”—he poked two fingers at the glass, not looking, but drawing Watcher’s gaze across the street to see her still seated in the same position—“will be different tomorrow than she is today. And you”—those same stiffened fingers were directed across the table towards Watcher’s chest—“will make a thousand decisions in the next year you will never remember. Life was different, and who can say what Danger would guide you to do, or what he would do himself if put in the same position. You cannot falter based on what you think he would say or do, because he did not have time to gain the wisdom you have in the intervening years. He was not granted that grace. You were.” Bones sat back, lifting his coffee and taking a drink. “You know what you need to do, and never needed permission for a single thing in your life before now. Why are you seeking approval now, Watcher? Ask yourself that question, because therein lies your confusion.”

  Spider’s face swam up in front of Watcher, and he heard the unrelenting questions again. Danger wouldn’t have… Danger never wanted… Danger should have… All the things Spider was convinced he knew, and yet Watcher, who knew Darrie better than anyone, didn’t have the same convictions. Watcher already knew the answers, but needed to have the push Bones gave him.

  “Smart little fucker, ain’t ya? You’re right.” Watcher felt a grin curl the corners of his mouth. “But you can’t tell anyone I said so.”

  “Our secret, my brother,” Bones replied, his own grin crinkling the corners of his eyes. “When do you think you will phone Mason?”

  “Now,” Watcher said, digging in his front pocket for his phone. “No time like the present.”

  Changing of the guard

  Hell yeah, Watcher thought, finger flicking his blinker on, guiding his bike smoothly into the left lane. Squinting against the setting sun, glancing in his mirrors, he saw the double column of motorcycles following, snaking left to pass the grouping of trucks and cars. It had been a good two weeks in the north, a very good couple of weeks. In the Texas panhandle now, he was headed west to Las Cruces with an honor escort, carrying new patches for each of his members in one of the bags strapped to his bike.

  After passing the traffic, he signaled and changed lanes again, seeing Opie shift right behind him. Years and miles of experience bonded the two men, neither of them could make a move without the other anticipating it, all of which made for not only a tight formation but also a close friendship. Opie was all in on this change, as was Diamond, Pops, and nearly all the members Watcher had spoken to personally. He’d spent a significant amount of time on the phone in the last two days, setting plans in motion, pulling all his men to Las Cruces for the changeover.

  That was what he and Mason agreed to call it, a changeover. Soldiers had been wearing an RWMC support patch for a long time now, and it wasn’t a merger, not like they were trying to blend two families into some kind of a yours-mine-ours club. His men were already Rebels; they just lacked the official backing of the larger organization. This would alter their position, and the act of Watcher and his men dropping their center wouldn’t be like some of the clubs in the past. It wasn’t adversarial, not at all. This was a planned change, but not a shift in local structure or power.

  Glancing in his mirrors again, he grinned at the sight of Mason riding to his right. Mason didn’t have to give him this, could have mandated all the Soldiers come to Chicago for the changing of the patch. Didn’t have to show this level of respect by riding at Watcher’s side. From what Mason had confessed this morning, it might have slightly less to do with respect, and a little more about avoidance. Willa was pregnant again and grumpy as hell, so this would give Mason at least a week of peace. Watcher rolled his eyes. Not that the man seemed to want it, really, because every stop he was on the horn with the woman, demanding updates on Garrett and he
r condition. Like things would change in ninety miles. Or every ninety miles.

  He looked at the bike’s odometer and shook his head. Speaking of that…

  Watcher lifted a fist, then pointed to his tank, checking his mirrors to see the motions repeated down the line of bikes. Next exit saw the entire column stopped on the lot of a small truck stop, lining up at six pumps for fuel, each member respectful of the citizens around as well as each other’s time. Backing into a parking spot near the front doors after his turn, Watcher tipped his chin at Mason as the man settled his bike to its kickstand, sharing the space with him.

  “Brother,” Watcher called, seeing Mason looking down at his phone. “She doin’ okay?”

  “What?” Looking uncharacteristically distracted, Mason glanced up at him. “Willa? Yeah, she’s good. Got a text from her. Layin’ down for a nap while Gar sleeps.” Mason stared down at his phone again, poking the screen with his finger, then glancing up and across the lot. Watcher suppressed his shiver as a trickle of tension rippled down his spine. This wasn’t normal attentiveness. Not for Mason.

  “Trouble?” Watcher sat up straight on his bike, unconsciously mimicking Mason’s posture and alertness. “Whatcha got, Mason?”

  “Not sure, brother.” Head down, staring again at the phone, Mason seemed to be waiting for something. A moment later he got it in the form of a text and at the chime. Watcher heard his groan. “Diamante.”

  “Where?” Now Watcher put both feet on the ground, standing upright, ass just off his seat, still straddling the bike. He kept a steady watch, head sweeping left to right, glancing over his shoulders at the end of every arc. The same kind of watchfulness that had earned him his name.

  Mason looked up, reacting to the tension in Watcher’s tone. “On the Interstate, they’re about fifty miles west of us. We’ll pass ‘em on the road, man. No worries.” He looked at the people still fueling, and said, “Soon as the brothers are ready, we’ll roll. Go ahead and stage out there so they know to put a hustle on it.” Mason tipped his head towards the drive and Watcher nodded.

  Finger to the button, he started his bike and rolled forwards, calling Opie to him with a chin lift. “Diamante rolling,” he said, gesturing towards the holster strapped to Opie’s handlebars. “We’ll pass ‘em in probably twenty minutes. We need to head out soon as we can, brother.” Opie nodded, lifting a hand to stick his fingers in his mouth, producing a piercing whistle that gained the attention of nearly every rider. Hand in the air, he whirled a finger to urge speed and got a dozen nods in response.

  Mason pulled up beside Watcher and put his bike in neutral, still bent over the phone in his hand. He got another update and looked to Watcher, the expression on his face conflicted. “Lalo’s leading.”

  Shouts and dust followed Watcher out of the lot as he punched through the gears, hitting eighty before he settled into the shadows covering the westbound lanes. Looking straight ahead, he didn’t flinch when a bike came up on either side of him, the only thing he could see was Bella’s limp body cradled in Duck’s arms. I went south, and if it weren't for Duck, she’d have been dead. Lalo’s gotta pay. He’s gonna pay in blood.

  Thirty miles later, he saw a doubled column of bike headlights approaching and knew it had to be at least another ten miles to the next exit. There was a rough crossover ahead. He could just make out the strip of dirt in the dimness cast by an overpass.

  Without signaling his intent, he leaned left, dogging the rear brakes hard, his back wheel chattering and chirping as it slid sideways, his downshifts locking the rubber for seconds at a time. The squeal of tires surrounded him as men struggled to accommodate the accordion effect his actions had on their speeding column, but he didn’t care. As long as they didn’t hit him, didn’t take his chance for vengeance away, they could ride past and leave him standing alone.

  He didn’t care.

  Lalo mattered.

  Bella’s face as he’d last seen her flashed in front of Watcher and he winced. Bright eyes, a carefree smile curling her lips as her hand curved around the bicep of the man standing next to her. That man’s hand lifting to cover hers, protection evident in every line of his body. Bella leaning into Tater’s side, sighing with happiness when he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. A man promising with everything in him that his woman would be healthy and happy. Always.

  Mela facing him down, standing shoulders back, strong, even as he shouted at her. The shocked pleasure in her expression when Hurley stepped between them, pulling Watcher’s ire in his direction. Deflecting and protecting her in one movement, making it clear he had a claim on her. Hurley would not let anything hurt her. Never again.

  Juanita’s voice last night, listening as she whispered naughty secrets to him, hearing the breathy catch in her voice that meant she was close, measuring his strokes so they came together. Laughing at their solo cleanup tasks, him promising to be home today. She’d been happy with all the news he’d offered, glad things were settling out so well with the girls. His Juanita had come back from so much in her life, and knowing this, knowing she’d come to the other side, he knew she was finally—God, finally—okay.

  Gravel tried to slip away from his wheels, and he had to yank and lean to keep the bike upright, heard the click of a downshift and crunch of stones behind him and knew at least one brother made the turn. But Watcher focused ahead. Not behind. Never again. Bones had taught him that. Things change, he thought as he saw the shocked expression on Lalo’s face.

  Still fighting the bike for control, Watcher found a solid piece of ground and with that traction, gunned his engine, arrowing straight at the bastard who took his baby girl. Nearly took her from him. Been hunting you for months, he thought, bike wheels finally back on the pavement. Watcher reached behind him, pulled out his pistol and brought it up level, hand steady. Left-handed practice paying off, he remembered Mason’s long-ago story about Roadkill’s death. Knees clamped tightly on the tank, Watcher squeezed the trigger, feeling instant satisfaction when he saw the crater appear in Lalo’s neck, blood filling the air in a fog around the lead riders, knowing there was no way the man could survive that wound. Dead man. Fuckin’ finally.

  Then he was among the oncoming riders, no time for avoidance. None for terror, either. His bike jolted sideways from a hit. Keeping it upright, he rode that one out. Then another bike smashed into him, turned him entirely around, and he was sailing, legs screaming as they unwrapped from where they’d bent the wrong way around the handlebars. His shoulder was the first thing to hit. He tried to tuck away from the piercing pain, failing as his limbs whirled through the air. Ragdolling through the sand and brush as his body bled off speed, leaving skin and flesh in his wake.

  Gunfire sounded nearby. Shouting, the words unintelligible.

  An explosion rocked the ground underneath him, drowning out all external sounds. He thought he heard Ma’s voice, “Mikey, see to Tabby.” I did, Mama.

  He’d come to rest face down, mouth full of sand and grit he couldn’t dislodge, blinking to expel the darkness creeping around the edges of his vision. Bella, he thought, remembering the weight of her tiny body in his hands. My miracle.

  Darkness closed in, the pounding in his head slowing, his body heavy, held immobile under the mass of a mountain.

  Love you. Knowing what was coming, he projected the thought as hard as he could, praying Juanita would feel him loving her. Honor. Club.

  Family.

  What comes after

  Fury

  Fury folded in half and sagged to the bench behind him, forehead supported in one hand while the other held the phone to his ear. Shouts and curses sounded in the background, but silence otherwise filled the call as he struggled to pull in a breath that didn’t break, making his chest hitch. He cleared his throat and swallowed, then swallowed again before he could speak. “Brother,” was all he got out before he had to stop, throat tight around the words he wanted to say. Something tickled his top lip, and he flicked at it wi
th his tongue, tasting bitter salt trickling through his mustache.

  Clearing his throat again, he held his breath, letting his emotions settle a moment. Even to his ears, his sigh sounded painful, but he bulled through, beginning again. “Brother. Tell me what happened.”

  “Lalo. Fuck man, I knew I shouldn’t tell him, but I didn’t—” Mason stopped speaking, not trailing off, but interrupting himself and Fury heard the inrush of breath which wasn’t weeping, but rode the blade of grief, and knew it felt very much like pain. “Didn’t expect him to go off the reservation, Fury.”

  “And Lalo?”

  “Very dead.” That response was quick and definite. “Watch took care of that.”

  Sirens sounded in the distance, and Mason cursed. Fury knew what it meant. “In the wind?”

  “No.” This was firm, definite. Mason’s next words were pained. “Won’t leave him behind, man. Can’t. I’ll get him settled and then get to Las Cruces. Juanita deserves to hear it from me.”

  Gooseflesh raised on Fury’s arms at the emotion held in check. “You want me to make some calls?”

  “Yeah, start the tree. This ain’t a text message notification. Chapters need to get a call. We do this like he’d already changed his patches. All respect, brother.” Silence, then Mason finished with, “Talk soon.”

  ***

  Bones

  With careful, precise movements, he laid the phone flat on the table in front of him, and reached to pick up his beer only to find he lacked the strength to lift the glass. Bones remained in this position for a long time, chill fingers wrapped around the glass slick with condensation, beer slowly warming, the ring of wet collecting underneath spreading. A body entered his view, and he slowly lifted his gaze, taking in the questions bubbling underneath the surface of the man’s features.

  Without moving, Bones asked, “Did you also receive a phone call?” Road Runner, someone he’d known a long time, one who’d worn a Rebel patch long before he did, nodded. There was a honed anger on his face, warring with grief. Bones released his grip on the glass and sat up. “You received more than a phone call, didn’t you?” Mouth twisting to one side, Road nodded again.