Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 4

by MariaLisa deMora

  Movement attracted his gaze and, spell broken, Hoss, also known by his government name of Isaiah Rogers, narrowed his eyes as he watched his agent stop and speak to her. The two women were familiar enough his agent could loosely embrace the short blonde and force a pair of uncomfortable looking air kisses. Tamera Lienstill wasn’t the nicest of people, but that’s exactly why he’d hired her. Once she had gotten in line with the program that came part and parcel with his demands of how he wanted his art treated, she more than got the job done when it came to protecting his paintings like he needed.

  Often he wouldn’t part with any pieces at shows, and she would still manage to get asses in the door even when there wasn’t anything to buy. When he did have a painting or drawing he was willing to give up, the prices listed in the brochure were always astronomical, and again, Tamera would manage to not only get asses in the door but could pack the joint like tonight. And, more often than not, by the end of the night, he’d find that every piece had sold. Quickly. The lookie-loo shows were the least attended of his events because people understood there was no reason to be there if you weren’t fascinated in seeing the progression of a series or to see the advancement of his skill and art.

  Digging through faint memories of past shows, Hoss felt confident he had seen this chick at some of those evenings, which meant he had her pegged pretty accurately as art lover. For this show, mostly due to Tamara’s persistent demands, Hoss had somewhat reluctantly selected three of his newest paintings, ones he hadn’t grown overly attached to, and placed them up for sale. Tonight, the light-haired woman had been parked longest in front of one of those pieces. She must be a buyer. Setting aside his desire to approach her, pushing those fantasies aside, he slipped his hands behind his back, leaning deeper into the wall, anchoring himself in place. A buyer. Not someone he could approach for other, more personal reasons. Just…a buyer. Obviously just here for the art. Why else would Tamara know her?

  Stretched and framed, the canvas on the wall was an oblique side view of a woman. Highlighted by the sun as that glowing ball hovered just over the distant horizon, the rays illuminated an expression of pure joy on the subject’s face, sharing with all observers a deep pleasure at the warmth of sunlight on her skin. She stood with chin lifted, the slightest of smiles stretching her lips. There was a mass of curly blonde hair captured in midfall down her back, individual locks appearing to bounce in place. The background was a scene of boundless fields of ripened wheat, stalks painted as multihued as her hair. The entire painting was golden-toned, from the vegetation to the woman, and the title he’d given it was Endless Golden Beauty.

  Hoss stared at the painting, all thoughts of the other woman fleeing when he felt the familiar painful clench in his chest as his heart acknowledged what he’d held in his hands and lost.

  Hope Annabelle Collins-Rogers. Beloved wife and mother to his two children. Dead now these fifteen years.

  The art lover

  Cassie

  Cassandra Williamson sat on her couch and stared at the wall. Tomorrow, that empty, bare spot would be filled with beauty. Tomorrow.

  The artist’s gallery show ended yesterday, and from past experience, she knew it took the service two days to crate and move the sold pieces. The timing was predictable, happening like clockwork, something she deeply appreciated. Tomorrow she would have to open her door, allowing people she didn’t know entry into her house. Maybe they’ll send the same delivery men. Barry and his crew. I can hope. Scant solace in that thought. Even if she liked him, Barry would still be invading her sanctuary. She drew a shuddering breath through her nose and then slowly blew air back out her pursed lips. I can do this, she thought, fists clenched tightly, pressing hard against the tense muscles in her thighs. I can do this. Another hard-earned breath, pulling air through an ever-tightening constriction.

  She flicked her gaze towards the door, and her heart raced faster, picking up more as she looked back to the empty space. Then—and the conscious focus shift allowed her to relax slightly—to the covered walls that surrounded her. Over the past seven years, she had collected six paintings from the same local artist. Six pieces of art which, when she looked at them, drew her out of herself and back into memories of the world for at least an evening, remembering the first moment she saw them. Love at first sight. She released a humorous snort, the near brush with panic slowly ebbing away, fingers of tension easing from around her lungs. Paintings initially glimpsed across a crowded room, the colors and composition of the art calling out to her with such impact that she couldn’t walk away without knowing she would take some of that beauty with her. Each of the six provided her with a window into a world she hardly inhabited any longer.

  Not for almost ten years.

  That thought snaked through her mind, bringing the panic back full force, freezing her into place, eyesight dimming around the edges as she fought for control.

  Cassie had been dealing with the affliction of anxieties all her life. From the near-normal teenage angst of obsessing over socially awkward moments up through now, when her fears could practically paralyze her, they were always there. She had pushed through when she could, found comfort in draping herself in soothing rituals, and used coping strategies to smooth over the anxiety when she couldn’t. Lately, the struggle seemed harder than ever, and it took real work to find reasons to force herself out of the house. Cassie wanted to refuse to bow before the demands of her anxiety, needing to experience anything, trying to bull through dealing with even the most uncomfortable situations in an effort to keep her world from narrowing even more than it had.

  The art shows were one way she’d determined she could draw herself out. But it couldn’t be just any shows. God, no. The art has to be worth it. She had gained that knowledge after dealing with horrifically public panic attacks in the middle of more than one gallery.

  Logically she would know afterwards that not every eye had turned towards her. But, in that moment, the weight of imagined stares could nearly bow her in half, making it impossible to move even an inch towards the temporary reprieve and safety in a bathroom, or the emotional failure of an exit. She’d be stuck in the center of a room, face, by turns, burning red or pale as death, her breathing fast and loud or drawn as tiny, short pants that invited dancing black spots of hyperventilation along the edges of her vision, and her skin damp with sweat that smelled like terror.

  Just the thought of a public attack raised her respiration rate and Cassie had to fight to bring herself under control, refusing to spiral while sitting on her own couch. I’m safe here. Safe. Safe. Safe. She held tight to a failing conviction that felt slippery as an oiled snake. I hate being like this.

  She stared at the uncomplaining empty space on the wall, a blameless opening patiently waiting for delivery of the piece she bought. There’d been wide-open terrain surrounding the beautiful woman in the painting, but somehow those vast, unfenced fields hadn’t been frightening when captured in stillness on canvas. Ease with an expanse like that was an anomaly for her, and she looked forward to hours of exploring the shading and pigmentation the artist used.

  The artist. Cassie let herself think of him for a moment. Isaiah Rogers, semireclusive phenomenon and conundrum. A man who could create impossibly beautiful art while living the life of a solitary biker, at times compared by art critics to eccentric masters of the past. She pushed from the couch and stood, still staring at the wall. Breathe. She attempted to pull a ritual into play as she consciously ran the script through in her head.

  Tomorrow morning I will hear the doorbell and open the door. Nothing bad will happen.

  I will let the men in, and they will hang my new piece in place. Then they will leave. Nothing bad will happen.

  Things will go just as they always have with the deliveries. Nothing bad will happen.

  Their job. They will do their job, and then they will leave. And, nothing bad will happen to me. Never again.

  ***

  Her sleep that night was fitful,
uneasy, and she woke several times. Cassie found herself checking the clock on her phone each time to gauge how much time had to be endured before she could reasonably allow herself to get up.

  Finally. She turned off the unused alarm two minutes before it would have sounded. A confirmation e-mail received from the service last night had informed her that the deliverymen would be here between eight and ten, which meant she had two and a half hours to prepare. To get ready, as if for war.

  With a sigh, she sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the already cramping muscles in her legs, and began the first of her normal routines. This one was a pep talk, a way to shore up her psyche after the edges of sleep had scraped off into the raw and bruised shadows of her memories.

  “Be a fucking lion,” she spoke softly, rubbing her thighs with deliberately stiffened fingers, working the last of the ache away. Anxiety and tension had a way of turning any bed uncomfortable, as rock-hard muscles made themselves known. She closed her eyes for a moment and pulled in a breath, then opened them as she blew it out and said, “Become the person you want to see in the mirror.”

  Each phrase paired with a familiar motion, working together to center her mind in preparation for the day.

  Rocking her head side to side, she stretched her neck and settled back into place before saying, “Color outside the lines.” Tipping her head far back, she held the position until muscles in her throat complained about the prolonged strain, then whispered to the ceiling, “Take back your power. They get nothing.”

  Cassie opened her eyes and glanced at the sign over the door, gaze tracking along each letter as she read the words aloud. “Actually, I just woke up one day and decided I didn’t want to feel like that anymore, or ever again. So, I changed. Just. Like. That.”

  By eight, she was standing in the dining room, situated halfway between the kitchen and front door, waiting. Sweating and shaking, but holding her position with counterfeit courage.

  When the doorbell finally rang, she was startled into paralysis for a moment, unable to move forward as a desperate need to run away clawed at her resolve. Needing a reminder to break the stasis she forced herself to say aloud, “Nothing bad will happen.” Drawing a deep breath, Cassie wrapped herself in the mental reminder of that certainty and forced her feet to take the first step, then another.

  Reach out, she thought as she matched action to her mental prompt and turned the knob. Come on, Cassie. Suck it up. Nothing bad is gonna happen. Not today. With a smile plastered on her face, she prepared to fake normal as hard as she could for the next thirty minutes, the amount of time it usually took the crew to hang the frame. That smile stuttered and faded as the door swung open and she saw a stranger standing just on the other side of the screen door.

  Her gaze flicked back and forth, trying to make sense out of the change from what she’d expected. The movers were back a small distance from the door, more near to the descending steps than the opening into her home. Those were faces she knew. These were the men the service had sent to her before. Known, and relatively safe. Relatively.

  But, right in front of her, between her and the known men was Isaiah Rogers. The artist. Reflexively, her legs took one step back before she could halt the retreat. Coward, she scolded herself. “What are you doing here?” The question leapt from her lips, and when she realized she’d said it aloud, she slapped her palm over her mouth. Rude much? Her cheeks heated at her verbal mistake, and she felt flaming red climbing her features until she imagined she looked like a ripe tomato. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. She knew air was rushing in and out of her nose but already felt lightheaded, the gray fog of panic swirling along the edges of her vision. In an effort to regain control, she dropped her gaze to stare at the bottom panel of the door. Why is he here? Sounds of boot soles scraping on her porch ratcheted up her fear, because she assumed the men behind him were preparing to leave. No, no. No, please no. Not with her painting. They can’t, I need her.

  Hands fisting, she dug deliberately blunted nails deep into her palms. He shouldn’t be here. But, he is. The tiny bit of pain was a known quantity, expected, stabilizing her in miniscule ways. Okay, steady. Be a lion. Blank wood and paint filled her vision, undemanding and uncaring of her faux pas and social stumbling. She could talk to blank wood and paint all day long. “I meant to say, this is a surprise. You’re Mr. Rogers. Was there a problem with the purchase?” Maybe if I avoid looking at him, I’ll be okay. And maybe, just maybe, she could hold it together against this unexpected off-rhythm disturbance to what had been a carefully thought through and rehearsed script. And maybe the earth will open and swallow me to hell.

  “Miss Williamson, pleased to meetcha. I hope you don’t mind me ridin’ along with the boys.” His voice and words caught at her attention, slightly disrupting the fear. The cadence was unusual, and she found his accent interesting. Nothing she’d read about him had mentioned he was from the south. However, that origin echoed plain and clear through his voice, the soft rhythm of his speech somehow soothing and calming her nerves enough that she was able to lift her gaze to his chin.

  His chin, which lined up with the tidily fastened buttons of his shirt, the three nearest his neck undone, leaving the shirt to gape slightly, a sun-browned triangle visible between the edges of fabric. Smooth, flowing up to the notch of his throat, and that leading to the strong, corded column dented with a prominent Adam’s apple. Every bit of skin looked touchable in a way she’d never noticed on anyone else.

  With a flinch, she halted her gaze there, instinctively knowing that to make eye contact would probably blow what little control she still held entirely out of the water. “I know I oughta apologize for just showin’ up like this, but when Barry—” He twisted as he gestured to the tallest of the men behind him, the neck of his shirt gaped wider, and she devoured the expanded view of shadowed collarbone. “—told me he was deliverin’ this piece today, I just had to come with. I hope you don’t mind. This is one of my favorites, you see, and I wanna see where it’s gonna live.” He gave a shrug that managed to be both masculine and elegant in one motion, his confidence and control demonstrated in everyday movements. “Then, when I heard from him that you had several of my paintings, I surely had to meet you.”

  He stepped forwards and without thought, she took a matching step backwards, seeing muscles along his jaw tighten as she moved away to maintain what her mind screamed was the only safe distance. “May we come in? Can the boys—” He indicated the men again, that gape folding fabric differently to expose the hard plane of his chest, “—bring in the canvas?”

  Cassie knew her nod was jerky, but she forced her head to move, glad when he took it as a certain invitation she couldn’t put voice to. He reached out and smoothly opened the door, holding it in place with the heel of a boot while two men carried in the long crate. As part of her preparations this morning, she had anticipated the process and had placed a small crowbar and hammer along the bottom of the wall underneath where she wanted the canvas hung.

  Six years ago, the very first delivery had nearly been a disaster because the men had to go in and out of the house several times to gather tools. The sound of her front door opening and closing, opening again, closing, had scraped her nerves raw, resonating through her mind and in her nightmares long after the men were gone. Each new breach had seemed a chance for unseen dangers to enter alongside the workmen. To forestall that fiasco from happening again, for each delivery she now made certain everything needed would be close at hand.

  Mr. Rogers stood just inside the arch that led to her living room. He looked at ease standing there, broad shoulders seeming to fill the space as he swept the walls with his gaze. Cassie watched as his appearance changed, brightening in a way she thought might not happen often, and she saw a wonder-filled expression break across his face.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured, the drawn-out word sounding so heartfelt and raw she couldn’t help it. She smiled.

  Cassie’s walls

  Hoss

  F
lighty as a hummingbird, he thought, catching her shift in expression from the corner of his eye. But, Jesus, she’s flat-out gorgeous when she smiles. He’d come along with the crew today after Tamera had dropped a mention about the buyer and he’d put two and two together to come up with his elusive art lover from the show.

  Looking around at her collection, he thought it was gorgeous, too. His pieces on her walls looked right somehow, more at home than he could have ever dreamed or hoped for even if the arrangements were eclectic and interesting. Perfect, and thought-provoking. They appeared randomly arranged at first, spaced unevenly on the wall. Some frames were crowded around with a mix of pop culture pieces and what looked like photographs of her family. After moments spent studying each placement, he began to understand the method behind the puzzles. She had somehow matched the emotions of his paintings to the pieces that supported them, building on living sentiment and passion to create an arrangement that made his paintings…more.

  Looking at them, he found his breath coming faster, heart pounding in a way it hadn’t in a long time. Ideas crowded his brain, the collaborative aspect feeding off the work giving rise to a thousand inspirations. Each frame held his art—those were his brushstrokes on canvas, but she’d morphed them into something so intensely personal it was as if she’d absorbed the passion imbued in each piece and returned it ten-fold.

  “God, I love it. Every one of ’em.” He let his gaze sweep around the room again before landing back on the light-haired woman. Hoss didn’t like to see how her gaze flinched from him, but what she’d done had woken such excitement inside him he pushed through because he wanted—no, needed her to know he understood. “I get it. I totally get it, and what you’ve done with each display is amazing.”

  Eyes wide, her gaze flicked past him to where the crew was working on hanging her latest acquisition. She didn’t say anything in response, just nodded slowly while staring at the men. Huh.