Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 4

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Don’t. Please. Don’t lie to me. Give me that, at least.”

  Heard his response.

  “No, honey. It couldn’t be.”

  Twenty-year-old Bethany Taylor rested the heels of her hands against her forehead and pressed hard. Over the sounds of water splashing around her, she remembered the hollow clunk of the phone hitting the hook, the fluid movement of his muscles as he rose from the chair positioned across from her, and how he never broke stride as he walked away. Hollow inside, as she’d been since she left the prison after visiting the man she loved.

  She’d left the prison and gone straight to the bank, shifting money and borrowing under her own name, not the business, funneling in every cent she’d lost. Only once that was done, did she pull in a breath that wasn’t weighted with fear. All through the legal proceedings she’d expected her brother to show, expected him to swoop in like an avenging angel. Had woken with that fear choking her every day, slept but fitfully, plagued with the nightmare of having to explain to him how she’d messed up.

  Now that everything was settled with the money back in the business accounts where it should have stayed all along, there’d be nothing to explain. Better if Davy never knows.

  Tipping her head back, she used her palms to wipe the water from her face, turning to let the shower stream through her dark hair. If there was salt mixed in, no one would ever know. Never again, she vowed. I’m done being stupid.

  So much to do

  Bethany, six years later

  “Ty,” Bethy called, slapping a palm over her mouth and gagging as she stood in the doorway. She stared, looking around the apartment they’d shared for nearly ten years. “What in the hell is in those bags? A science experiment?” She waved a hand in front of her face, fanning to try and overcome the smell. “Jesus.” Pushing the door closed with one foot, she walked into the room, dropping her purse on the couch. “Ty?”

  “Yeah. Minute.” This was called from the bathroom, and with confirmation that he was at least here, Bethy turned to what she thought might be the source of the stench—several black trash bags lined up along one wall. Using the toe of one foot, she pushed gently at the side of one bag, wrinkling her nose as it mushed in a couple of inches. The way it gave to the pressure felt wet and pliable, and wrong. She had just reached out to tug at the top, wanting to open it and see what was inside when Ty came out of the bathroom behind her. “You’re home early.”

  “What is this? It stinks to high heaven, Ty.” She tugged again, still unable to lift the bag, but each movement released a fresh wave of the overwhelming stench. “Jesus.”

  “Deerskins. Bought them from a rendering plant. Gonna take ‘em to the cabin and stretch ‘em out.” Ty headed to the kitchen, and Bethy turned to follow him. “Make shit outta ‘em. Sell it. Make some money.”

  “What kind of shit?” She hiked her bottom to one of the stools and stared at him. “They stink, Ty. You need help carrying them to the truck?”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll take ‘em up tomorrow. Got a buddy coming over to help.” Ty opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a beer. He turned to offer it to her, bringing out another one for himself. “It ain’t that bad.”

  “Uh, yeah, it kinda is. I don’t know if I can stand it all night, honey.” She tipped the bottle, taking a long pull at the refreshing liquid. “Neighbors are going to complain again.”

  “Let ‘em complain. I don’t give a fuck.” Ty matched her movements, but he drained his bottle, throat working hard to swallow the entire contents without stopping for breath.

  Bethy sighed, knowing what this signaled. Not the first time down this road, she thought, and studied him.

  “You go to group today?” Ty was a good friend and she loved him like a brother, hating when he struggled. He had served in the military with Michael Otey, the older brother of her best friend growing up. Most of the time Ty had his shit together. Most of the time he held down jobs and dealt with people. Most of the time. Sometimes, however, his PTSD would get the better of him, and he would begin floundering, caught up in the currents of his emotions in a way that could pull him far under. She ran their conversation back through her head, and now picked up on several red flags. Screaming flags, she thought, and prepared herself for a fight.

  “Nope. New guy tweaks me.” Ty opened the refrigerator again, bringing out a fresh bottle, seeming surprised when he looked at the one she held, seeing it only had about an inch gone from it. “He’s an assclown. Can’t stand assclowns. They get people killed.”

  “Ty, he can’t get you killed. It’s just therapy group.” Picking at the label on her beer, she glanced up at him from underneath her brows. “You didn’t quit your job, did you? Why do you need the deerskins to make money?”

  “Assclowns there, too. I couldn’t take it, Bethy.” Drinking this beer at a slower pace, he didn’t look up, didn’t meet her eyes. There was a deep despair in his voice when he whispered, “I just can’t.”

  “Ty, you know I love you.” Bethy tipped her head to the side and waited for his nod. When it finally came, she pulled in a fortifying breath. “I’m going to call Sarge.”

  “No.” Quiet and low, this was so much better than the shouting she’d expected. “I got this, doll baby. I know what’s happening. That’s why I want to head to the cabin. I gotta come to terms with my own demons.”

  “Not on your own, you don’t.” Sliding off the stool, she pulled her phone from her back pocket and dialed, saying only, “Need you, Sarge” when the call connected. She listened for a moment, caught the grunt of understanding, then disconnected and shoved the phone back into her pocket as she rounded the breakfast bar. Arms out, she waited until Ty matched her posture. Then she closed on him, circling him with her arms. “Not on your own. We beat it back together.”

  She didn’t let him go, refused even when he tried to push her away as his shoulders jerked, chest heaving with each attempt to hold in his sobs. Still had him wrapped up when the door at her back opened, and she heard a deep voice call softly, “Ty, tell me what’s going on.” Slowly, she unclenched her fingers from where they’d been holding onto his shirt in a death grip, and shifting slightly, looked over her shoulder, knowing Ty’s head hadn’t risen from where he’d pressed it into the crook of her neck. Dwarfing the opening, an attractive man stood in the doorway, close-cropped hair accentuating the strong lines of his cheeks and jaw. She offered the tall man a trembling smile that faded when Ty’s arms convulsed around her, holding tighter. The man she only knew as Sarge narrowed his brilliant blue eyes, letting his gaze roam over where Ty was wrapped around her. “Ty.” He paused, then continued softer, “Brother.” His brows drew together when Ty’s arms convulsed again. “You gotta let Bethy go, man.”

  “Cain’t.” That single word was gritted from somewhere deep in Ty’s chest, rumbling and raw when it hit the air. “Cain’t.”

  “Yeah, you can.” Sarge closed on them, and as he moved, Bethy saw two more men file into the apartment behind him. “We got ya, brother. Won’t let you go. Bethy needs to step back so we can get you some help.” He stood beside them, put a hand on Ty’s bicep, and Bethy watched the fabric of Ty’s shirt move, knowing that Sarge had squeezed him reassuringly. “Let her go, Ty.” She echoed the movement with her arms, tightened and then slowly released. Ty clamped down for a moment, and her breath caught, then just as slowly, he let his arms fall away and lifted his head. She moved to the side and matched Sarge’s position, her hand on Ty’s other arm. Waiting until Ty nodded, indicating he was ready. She glanced at Sarge, then the other two men, offering them a small smile before she squeezed Ty’s arm one last time and stepped away.

  In less than five minutes, Sarge was the only person in the apartment with her. He stared at her and she waited, accustomed to his intensity. He ran a private charity that helped combat veterans dealing with PTSD, and seemed to take a personal interest in the men who had gone through their team-building weekend programs. Ty had been through the program three
times in the ten years she’d known him, which meant she knew when she called Sarge, he wouldn’t hesitate to jump in his truck and come over to help Ty. Now, she waited for him to follow the usual script. He’d ask, “Are you okay, Bethany?” Or his other go-to, which was, “Do you need anything, Bethany?” Never a “Do you want to fuck, Bethany?” Which was a question she would love to hear from him. Hot and alpha just does it for me, she thought. Jesus, I’m as fucked up as Ty is.

  “Need help getting this shit out to his truck?” Sarge motioned to the bags and Bethy winced, having forgotten the odorous evidence of Ty’s unraveling. “I don’t have anywhere to take it, but I can at least get it out of the apartment for you.”

  “That’d be nice, thanks.” She shuffled over and tugged at the top of the smallest bag, grunting as she lifted it. “Ty bought a bunch of deer hides, wanted to tan them up at the cabin.” She hitched the bag up, trying to get a better grip, but the bag was difficult to hold, nearly slithering out of her grasp. “They’re heavy.” She gave a mental eye roll. They’re like a metaphor for so much in my life.

  Five more minutes, and she was thanking Sarge again, standing in the doorway and wedging one of Ty’s shoes against the door to prop it open. “Gonna just let it air out a little. Thanks again.” She took a breath. Then, because it felt like a betrayal, she stared at Sarge’s boots when she said, “Pretty sure he quit his job.” She swallowed. “Again.”

  “Pretty sure you’re right, Bethany.” She frowned, hating that the only time he called her Bethy was when talking to Ty. “I’ll be in touch, let you know how Tyrell is doing.” Nodding, she kept her chin dipped, remembering the way Ty had looked as he walked out of the apartment between the two men, glancing over his shoulder and telling her with his eyes how sorry he was that he’d fucked up again. He never believed when she told him it wasn’t his fault. It’s not, though. Just because his PTSD isn’t visible doesn’t mean it’s not real. “You’re plenty brave, you know that?”

  She was so caught up in her thoughts, Sarge’s words startled her, and she lifted her gaze to stare at him, unsure what he meant by that statement.

  “Most women,” he gestured towards her, “your size and age,” his expression grew taut and intense, “would be afraid of a big man like Tyrell.” He shook his head. “Not sure if you’re that brave, or naïve. Whichever it is, I’m glad you called, Bethany. Never hesitate. You always make that call. Plenty brave.”

  “Of course, I make the call. He’s my friend, and I want him to be okay.” I’m glad he never asked that other question now, she thought, hating Sarge a little in that moment. Asshole isn’t an attractive look for him. “I’m far from stupid, Sarge. Ty saw me through some of the worst days of my life. I owe him everything.” He scoffed, immediately trying to cover it up with a cough, hand to his mouth. Now, she didn’t just hate him, Bethany Mason-Taylor was pissed.

  “You think you know me. You see me, what, a couple of times a year and you think you know me. Little woman, pitch a fit if she breaks a nail. No doubt you think me and Ty sleep together.” He made a noise and she ignored it, forging on.

  “Probably think I’m a stupid little girl who doesn’t know what the big, bad, scary world can be like.” She reached up, fingers tracing a scar on her breast through her shirt. “You don’t know me.” She pulled in a breath, then told him, “Ty’s my friend. He gave me somewhere to stay when after two endless years I left the man I’d been forced to marry at fourteen.” She didn’t pause, didn’t give him an opening to speak. “Ten years ago, I was sixteen and lost. He gave me somewhere to stay when I found out I was pregnant at sixteen. Gave me somewhere to stay while I carried that child, and he was in the room with me when that child was born. He helped me arrange an adoption that lets me see the boy, my son, but keeps that child safe from my own family. He pulled me back from the brink so many times. So very many times, Sarge. Ty deserves every ounce of my trust and love.” She leaned forwards at the waist, needing him to understand.

  “He’s never, ever asked me for anything in return. Me loving him, being his friend, and helping him like this? It’s the least, the absolute least I can do.” Resolved, she tugged the collar of her shirt down, exposing the scar on the upper swell of her breast. Sarge’s eyes fixed on the rough letters visible on her flesh. “This was put on me by my own father. Carved into me by a man I should have been able to trust, but who sold me into that marriage Ty helped me get out of. I was owned, Sarge. Bought and paid for.” She released the fabric and stepped back. “I can’t ever pay Ty back.”

  “Ty never said…” Sarge stopped to pull in a breath. Then eyes blazing, declared, “Hate that happened to you.”

  “Well, join the crowd, because I hate it, too.” Suddenly nervous, self-conscious in a way she hadn’t been in a while, Bethy avoided looking at him. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll pretend this conversation never happened.” She swallowed. “Just don’t let Ty know you thought I should be afraid of him. He doesn’t need that to deal with, too. He’s already conscious of how it looks, a white girl from the hollers living with a big, black man.”

  Turning, she kicked the shoe out of the door and put her hand on the edge. “I’m chilly now. I think the apartment’s aired enough. Keep me updated if you have time.” She swallowed again, her throat tight. “About Ty.”

  Sarge touched her, put his hand on her shoulder as he walked past her and out the opening. Bethy let the door swing closed behind him, ignoring how he’d paused and turned to look at her, not caring if he had another thing to say. Twisting to face the empty apartment, she loathed how her eyes burned, nose stinging from the tears she fought back, refusing them permission to fall. Weak. Crying is weak. Swallowing hard, she repeated on a whisper, “Join the crowd.”

  ***

  Forehead propped in one hand, Bethany stared down at the table in front of her. Silence surrounded her, then through the cans on her ears heard, “B.T., your intro. Pick it up.”

  Jerking her head up, she looked around the sound room, heard the soft background music that usually accompanied her gossip segment and realized she had ignored her cue. Glancing down at the notes in front of her, she said, “Speechless. That song by the Tufted Ottomans always leaves me just speechless.” Scrunching up her nose, she rolled her eyes at the lame segue and looked up to see the laughing face of her tech through the window. “Gonna be a classic. One day. But now, for today, we’ve got a ton of stuff to talk about because there is a glorious rumor going around that the Wrapped Potatoes are in the studio and about ready to finalize their sessions. You know what that means, right? Means we’re only weeks away from a new release and those guys are such good friends, they sent over a sneak listen of what will become the first single off that album.” With that, she was solidly back on track, and the rest of her show went off without any more issues.

  Hanging up her headphones, she waved to the guys in the other room, gathered her purse and quickly walked out, managing to avoid any conversation as she made her way down to street level. Stepping out from the studio into the warm darkness of a Nashville night, she paused a moment and tipped her head back, staring up at the black sky. It had been nearly a month since Sarge had picked up Ty, and all she’d gotten so far were terse updates that things were fine. This had been the fourth straight text that simply said, He’s good. Eyes up, she glared at the first star she focused on. Less a wish than a demand, she muttered, “I don’t want good. I want him well.”

  “You okay, miss?” An elderly man stood nearby, hand in hand with a woman of about the same age, and both were looking at her with some concern. Embarrassed, Bethy nodded, and he scrutinized her carefully, then nodded his own response. “Take care.”

  “You, too.” Bethy watched them stroll up the sidewalk for a few seconds, then turned to her car. Off to her second job, soon to be her main one, if things kept working out the way they had been. Within a few minutes, she was pulling into the parking lot of a building. On the front, above the door, was the logo for Iro
n Indian Records, the recording studio and label she owned with her brother, Davis Mason.

  As she climbed out of her secondhand car, two nearby vehicles disgorged their own occupants and she grinned at the men walking towards her. Aaron Rodneyns, Jed Neville, and Thom Dagwood were the voice, rhythm, and melody behind the rock group, Wrapped Potatoes. “Hey, guys,” she called, wiggling the key into the deadbolt and twisting it, pulling on the door at the same time and holding it open with one hand. “Go on in, get set-up. I’ll be right there.”

  “Hey, Bethy,” Aaron called, leaning in to brush his lips across her cheek in a barely-there touch. “Heard the plug. You’re amazing.” She gave the air near his face a lip smack and then grinned at the other two men, angling out of the way of Jed’s multitude of cases. She had a full kit set for him, but he always brought his own electronics, which was fine with her because those things were crazy expensive.

  “Beautiful.” Thom reached out, cupped a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her head forwards, dropping a soft kiss on her forehead. “How’s it going?”

  “It goes,” she responded, shifting, getting ready to close the door when a feeling of being watched pulled every hair on her body upright. Scanning the lot, she didn’t see any other cars. “This is everybody, right? You didn’t bring any groupies tonight?” They laughed, and she grinned at them. But, the feeling didn’t go away, and she scanned the lot again. The glint of a reflection in one dark corner slowly resolved into the shape of a motorcycle, and she shivered as she watched it pull onto the road and turn away, accelerating into the darkness. Brake lights flashed in the distance, and then the bike was gone. It looked like the same one she’d seen several times in the past couple of weeks. Never close enough to recognize the rider, but the bike itself looked the same. Wonder who in the world that is, she thought, knowing if it were her brother or any of his friends, they would have come in, or knocked on the door and greeted her at least.