Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 4

by MariaLisa deMora

  By the end of the night, when he returned to the parking lot across from the studio so she could retrieve her car, he was sunk. The only way he’d been able to stay in his rental and watch her drive away was because he knew they’d be having breakfast together.

  Their third dinner started differently. He asked to follow her to the apartment she shared with a roommate so he could pick her up. “I wanna make it a real date, B.T.” Eyes wide, she’d stared at him for a minute that stretched to two, and then slowly pulled in a deep breath.

  “A date?” The questioning lift at the end of her words told him so much. She wanted this but hadn’t expected to get what she wanted. She’d been disappointed in the past, but he shoved aside the thought of his Bethy with someone who didn’t take a care for her feelings. He reminded himself, She wanted this. Wants me.

  “Yes, ma’am. A date.” Leaning forwards, he settled his hand over hers, gaze to that joining, feeling her clench as he threaded his fingers between hers. “I’m asking you out on a date. If you’re interested.” His answer was another involuntary clench of her fingers. “Please be interested.”

  “A date.” Repeated, but now this was a statement. Her trying on the words to see how they fit, and he lifted his gaze to her face, seeing a rising flush in her cheeks. Staring intently at her, he felt a smile curl the corners of his mouth. “Okay.”

  “Good.” No room for a repeat of her question, he wanted it clear that he hadn’t been willing to accept any other answer. “Now, let’s get out of here.” With his free hand, he gestured at the sound room of the recording facility they were touring. “And we’ll begin.”

  “Begin?” Breathy and soft, this question revealed a brutal insecurity that lived just below her skin. Right there, waiting to pounce. He knew how that felt, hated she had that inside her. The weight of knowing you weren’t enough.

  “The date.” Shaking his head, he dropped his gaze to their hands, watching and feeling his thumb sweep across the satin bumps of her knuckles. “With me.”

  “With you.” Another statement, and he didn’t lift his head, looking at her from under his brows. She made an amused sound, and repeated, more firmly. “With you.”

  Mason’s voice broke in on his memories, and Fury looked up when he said, “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.”

  No chance of getting out of this now. “Fuck. When we leaving?”

  “Right the fuck now.”

  Occupy Yourself

  Bethany, Lamesa, Texas

  Standing on the elevated porch outside what had temporarily become the media room of the rodeo grounds office, Bethany shook her head. She was in Lamesa to help her most recently signed band work promo stuff with the radio stations before the opening of the rodeo. Taking an early plane into Midland, she’d driven over and was about to walk in on the group. Bethany Mason-Taylor, manager and promoter for Occupy Yourself. I still feel kinda like a fraud, she thought, then plastered on a grin and pulled the door open.

  Chase was sprawled on the only armchair in true teenaged-boy fashion, legs over one arm, head tipped far back on the other, tossing corn chips in the air and catching them with his mouth. He paused, and slowly rolled his head to look at the door and then bolted to his feet, “Aunt Bethy!” It only took him two steps to get close enough to wrap his arms around her, picking her up and whirling them both around. Bethy was laughing hard by the time he stopped and put her feet back on the floor. Weaving for a moment, she grabbed the front of his tee for support.

  “You swarmed me,” she accused and looked up into a carbon copy of Davy’s face grinning down at her. I’ll never get used to this. Chase had the Mason trademark dark hair and grey eyes, and over the past months, she’d seen a maturing in his face. A defining of his already square jaw, giving him just rugged enough features to ensure he was called handsome and not pretty. He looked a lot like her son, the cousin he’d never get to meet.

  My nephew, she marveled. As she had every time she’d seen him. The day they met, he’d been slightly more reserved than today, but only until she had put him at ease by picking on Davy. She hadn’t been aware of the boy’s full story then, and when she’d learned that was his first real introduction to how a family could tease and play, it broke her heart all over again. That’s why I gave Michael up, so he’d have a normal life.

  Those had been hard days. Not her darkest time, but close.

  And here I am, nine months later, virtually okay. That was her sales pitch to herself, anyway. Her dreams put the lie to that every night, but no one would ever know. Except for Ty, and that doesn’t count. He’s still got his own demons.

  “Okay,” she said, slapping her palms together. “Tell me what you’ve done, and we’ll sort out what’s left for me. Get everything lined up.” Swinging the laptop bag off her shoulder, she looked around for an outlet, finding one beside a small table. “Hook me up, boys.” Her energy set the tone for the next several hours, as she took calls and worked bookings around the other things already scheduled. One after the other, calls, e-mails, interviews—the never-ending cycle of promotion for a band relaunching their brand.

  Resting her butt on the arm of the couch, she looked around at the group, grinning at the self-imposed labor divisions she saw. Benny Jones, the lead singer, was going over a printed spreadsheet, marking things in pink or yellow. That would be the swag delivered here yesterday. Armbands, beanies, buttons, drumsticks, and a few T-shirts would be handed out to VIP guests, or sold at a merchandise table. They’d been assigned a spot near the concession stand for the table, and that would be Bethy’s focus tomorrow.

  “I know there are a few more things I should deal with today, but I’m beat, guys and gals.” Six faces turned and looked at her. “Two more interviews and I’m calling it, going to head to the hotel. This trip piled on top of a few busy days back in Nashville means my bed is calling.”

  “You must have been up before daybreak to get to the airport,” Chase said, reaching over and grabbing a handful of chips. “No wonder you’re beyond tired.”

  Looking around the room, she noted the band members had all stopped their activities. Apparently, her announcement provided the permission they needed to switch back to lounging around, bottles of water and soft drinks in hand. At least their nerves were eased by today’s early interviews. Benny was an old hand at this, but the rest of the group were less polished. Bethy glanced over at her nephew with a grin, thinking it was a good thing Mason hadn’t told Chase about the gig ahead of time. As it was, the young man looked wrung out. She knew if he’d had even a couple of extra days to worry and fuss, he would be a whole other level of exhausted. She was about to offer to take him to the hotel too when the door abruptly opened.

  Bethy’s breath caught in her chest as she watched a striking redhead walk in, complete with a full, thick beard and an attitude of owning all the space around him. It’s just not fair, she thought, assuming he was one of the radio promoters. Why are the good-looking ones always in out of the way places like Lamesa?

  Benny stood, hand out, evidently thinking the same thing about the guy, but before she could move forward, Chase was hooting with laughter, yelling, “Fury, dude. Totally didn’t expect to see you here!” He turned to her, a delighted grin in place on his face as he introduced them, “Aunt Bethy, this is Fury. He’s one of Dad’s trusted few in Fort Wayne.” Twisting, he held out a hand to point at her, speaking to Fury, “This is my best Aunt Bethy. She’s the coolest. She runs the record label for Dad, and signed Benny’s band.”

  Standing slowly, she took the look Fury was giving her, half-appraising and half-aggravated. She held out her hand to shake, and when he wrapped his fingers around hers, she felt a zinging awareness of him zip through her and watched his eyes widen and then develop a laser intensity as he studied her. Shoulders ris
ing and falling as he pulled in a deep breath, he reintroduced himself, “Fury. Otherwise known as your escort while in town.”

  With a nod, she responded, “Bethany Mason-Taylor, otherwise known as the awesome Aunt Bethy.”

  He smiled at her, white teeth flashing in the midst of that dark red beard and she found herself smiling back at him. Damn.

  ***

  Fury

  Damn, she’s still so fuckin’ pretty, was the thought that trailed through Fury’s head when she introduced herself after the fiasco of Chase’s mouth running ragged. Always so fuckin’ pretty.

  It had been the moment of truth, a scene he’d been dreading since rolling out of Chicago, and the weak fizzle of nonrecognition burned. Nothing at all like I thought it might go. It killed him that he so clearly remembered her, had held on to every moment he had with her, and she didn’t recognize him. Not a bit. Again. Her eyes were clear and without guile, and without a single ounce of acknowledgment. A decade and a half was a long time, and he’d changed, sure. Remade the businessman she’d known for that week in Nashville into the outlaw standing before her. Still…shit.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected and knew even less what he’d hoped for, but it sure wasn’t being forgotten—cleared from her life so completely that she didn’t know him from a fence post.

  Pretty, and hella smart, but he already knew that. She’d been running one of Mason’s businesses for nearly half her life. Lifting his chin, listening to Chase being a chatterbox, he tried to convince himself he could pull this off. I’m still a con man, right?

  Fury stood at the back of the room for the next half an hour, keeping all occupants within view as Bethy finished the final interviews scheduled for today. He had been pissed when he came through the door, ready to tear someone a new asshole. Chase had flown in early but didn’t wait at the airport for his ride; the resourceful little bastard had grabbed a cab, leaving Fury searching the not-large, not-small airport fruitlessly because his charge had fled the scene. So, he hadn’t been in the best of moods when he walked in.

  At least until he had seen Bethany. Seen and watched her, liking everything she showed him. Loving everything he saw. The years had changed her, but in only good ways.

  All the hard in Mason had found a soft counterpart in this woman. Lips, cheeks, jaw…the only piece of her that matched her brother were her eyes. As with Mason, when she looked at you, it was with certainty that you would be doing whatever she desired. Those eyes saw way too much; they looked deep inside where you would prefer the shadows remain, but she picked her way around those feelings, giving you an assurance that all would be well.

  Chase adored her, that was clear, no matter that they hadn’t been acquainted very long. He’d only known her since Utah, a marker in time that every Rebel club member knew well. Shooter was doing time in Cali right now for kidnapping and damaging his own daughter, while Judge, the nephew, had been put to ground.

  “Can I have everyone’s attention for a moment?” Fury swept the group with his gaze, marking each member of the group from the information Myron had fed him. So many more ties to the club than most folks would see at a glance.

  Occupy Yourself was an up-and-coming restart band, having done well on the charts and the tour circuit for several years, before imploding because of the addictions of their lead singer. Ben Jones, baby brother to Slate, Fort Wayne’s chapter president, had rolled into town and promptly drank himself into rehab, leaving his brother to clean up his mess. Something Slate seemed good at doing, as if he had a lot of practice somewhere in his past.

  Not just fucking up his band, Ben had managed to piss off some important people when he’d borrowed a fuckton of money, bought some heroin, and then skipped town out of Denver before repaying that money. The way the stories ran, there’d been Mexican mob and Chicago mob involved, as well as a big-ass Mexican MC, but somehow Slate had cleared all that shit up so his brother was still suckin’ air, and not doing it through a tube.

  This show in Lamesa was to be the kickoff of their relaunch tour, with mostly new members, and entirely new music. Bethany must be good at her job because these days, you couldn’t listen to a rock station on the radio for ten minutes without hearing one of Occupy Yourself’s songs.

  So there was Ben Jones, lead singer, not quite two years sober. Sitting on the couch next to him was Lucia Foscan, daughter of a past Rebel member. A jacked-up betrayin’ club member, who also happened to be very dead. That had opened the door for her and her three brothers to be adopted by another Rebel member, Bear. A man whose old lady was Mason’s goddamned fucking niece, the same one whose father saw her as a pawn to his ambitions. The tight pull of family in each of those ties.

  The band’s drummer was a good old boy, southern born and bred, Victor Montrose. No one’s high school prom king, all through school Vic worked every spare moment to make enough money to support his crappy garage band. He’d skipped college, gone straight to Nashville and picked up studio gigs where he killed it, his genius finally recognized. Good kid, real straight shooter. He didn’t put up with any of Benny’s shit and would probably be the reason when Slate finally let Ben’s sober companion resign. Until then, they had Mercedes Gruffudd along for the ride, too. She was sprawled on the floor near the wall, legs angled straight up against the surface, ankles crossed primly.

  Bonnie Dupont played bass for the band, and she was as nasty as Vic was sweet. Tatted up one side and down the other, her rebellion against everything played out over her skin, and she had a fucking attitude to match. Talented, sure, but from Fury’s perspective, no pussy was worth all the drama she brought to the band.

  Dmitri Glass was the only original band member to hang with Benny through everything. He and Vic had kept the gear out of hock while Ben was in rehab. Big, muscled, and tattooed, all that topped with matted and felted dreads, he looked like a fucking badass, but Fury had watched with disbelief as Glass teared up during ballads at one of the band’s gigs in Marie’s in Fort Wayne.

  Then there was Bethany, Mason’s baby sister. When Fury had worked her in Nashville, she’d been going by just Taylor, but he’d noted she hyphenated it now, introducing herself as Mason-Taylor. He suspected no one had the full story behind her marriage, but he’d been there at Tabby’s graveside when she exposed enough of what went on in the Mason religious compound for a judge to take action on her behalf. Sixteen at the time, already two years into a forced union.

  Jesus, why any man would let that walk away was hard to fathom. As soon as the thought rippled through his mind, Fury tried to clamp it down. Tried and failed. I was that stupid. I had her in my bed, and I fucked up. Had her so close I knew every breath she took. If I hadn’t fucked up, I could have fulfilled every wish, not even making her say them aloud.

  “My role here is to make certain you are all safe.” The faces turned his direction were transparent, every emotion and thought showing plainly. Interest, caution, dismissal, and from two, fear. Bethy didn’t surprise him, but Benny’s expression was just short of terror for a moment. Interesting. “I will have another dozen men later tonight, and we’ll be camping out in your space for the duration. You done fucked up and pissed me off this morning,”—he pointed a curled finger at Chase, shaking it for emphasis—“ditching me at the airport. Don’t do that shit again. If you want to know the threat, tell me, and I’ll share with you what I can.” Scanning the group, he noted a puzzled look on Bethy’s face and saw she was intently focused on him. Not what he was saying, but on him. Huh.

  The message had to be delivered, so he forged on. “We’ve got two nights until the show, and then you’re all in town for a bit following. We’ve got a couple more folks coming in tomorrow, or the day of the show, and I’ll be adding to the detail at that time.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out the cards Myron had made. “This is my cell number. I expect you to text me in the next five minutes with your name. I can access your info in other ways, but it’s easier like this. Make sure you get me i
n your contacts, so you know it’s a safe call to answer if I need to get ahold of you.” He twisted his neck, scanning the group again. “From here forwards, at a minimum, you buddy up. Do not go off on your own. My plan is for you to stay at the hotel, and not on the bus. Do not answer your suite door at the hotel without confirmation you know exactly who is on the other side. Do not answer calls from people you don’t know.”

  Bethy rolled her eyes, and he scowled at her. “Serious as fuck, Bethany. I get that this is your business, but my business is keeping you safe.” When he said her name, she’d frozen, going stiff as a post, slowly relaxing as he kept talking. “Help me do my job.”

  “My brother’s a pain in my ass.” She shook her head. “But we’ll do what you need. I won’t try and make things harder than they have to be, because God knows this gig is going to be hell enough. The heat alone…” She trailed off, fanning her face with one hand, and smiled at him.

  Fury didn’t know how he kept it together, how he managed to nod at her, but he did. Beautiful, smart as fuck, sweet…his thoughts stuttered to a stop as he watched her reach over and slide her fingers through Chase’s hair. She pushed it back off his face, leaning in to press her lips to his forehead, eyes closing with what seemed to be sadness.

  After dealing with Dion, Fury had made it his business to dig up every detail about that little revelation, finding out all about her son in Nashville. He’d even seen pictures of her with the family the boy lived with. Boy was a Mason through and through, which meant it wasn’t her roommate’s kid. He knew name, birthdate, and how often Bethy saw the kid, which was often. More than you’d expect an adoptive family to put up with, but the Marshalls seemed to welcome every visit with open arms. He’d heard a lot from sources in Nashville. What he hadn’t heard was boo about that boy from Mason. He hadn’t pegged the absence as odd until just this instant, but he realized he also hadn’t heard boo from Chase. Chase, who couldn’t put a filter on his mouth for anything, would have surely said something by now.