Disappointed at her lack of reply, he turned in a circle and noted an oddity on the short wall over the arch leading from this room out into her house. He recognized the saying, but it was out of place in this tiny home gallery. Not art, the Hunter S. Thompson quote was a cheesy, cheap font treatment mass produced and available at any number of low-cost outlets. Reading it, he wondered if it could possibly mean the same thing to her that it did him. Why the fuck should it matter to me? Hoss lost a brief battle against not caring and decided he absolutely needed to know. “Hmmm. I like Thompson, too. Even so many years later, his words are relevant, yeah? This one especially, I always thought it was a mandate to live intentionally.”
“Yes.” Her voice was melodic, a sweetness that pulled him in like gravity. He turned to look at her, meeting her eyes for the first time, the darker hazel fading to a golden ring around her midnight pupils. God, beautiful. Hoss watched, mesmerized, as they dilated slightly, a thrill of discovery coiling down his spine that she also recognized the uniqueness of whatever this was between them.
Hoss’ mood changed a moment later and his stomach fell when he realized the look was fear, and not arousal as he first thought. She didn’t seem able to look away from the stare and the longer their gazes remained locked, the more her breathing sped up, grew ragged and out of control, her lips parting slightly as she panted for air. Jesus, I’m scaring the fuck out of her. He dipped his head, breaking the connection, giving her back her space.
“Always liked Thompson.” Hoss spoke softly, evenly, keeping his eyes fixed to the side. Using his peripheral vision, he registered she had flushed red again, probably embarrassed at the near panic she had been in when looking at him. “I do like how you’ve got my pieces displayed, Miss Williamson. Done ’em justice. They look very much at home on your walls.”
“Cassie,” she corrected him on a near whisper and he nodded, softly repeating her name back to her before offering her his true name.
“My friends call me Hoss.” He grinned, letting his gaze skip across her blazing face as he looked over to where the men were cleaning up the crate pieces they had disassembled to remove the framed painting. Shit, have we been here that long already? “I’d like it if you called me that, too.” With regret, he saw they were ready to go and squared his shoulders towards the wall, looking at the painting of Hope on this stranger’s wall. Not a stranger. Contentment settled inside him in that certain knowledge. She’s on Cassie’s wall. “What will you surround my golden girl with?”
“I met your kids once,” she blurted, “at a show.” When he turned, he saw her fingers twisting into the fabric of her shirt, stretching and folding the hem. She looked terrified at having spoken, mouth now clamped tight.
He knew the smile he wore was proud and caring, because those were the strongest emotions he had inside him these days. “Love my kiddos,” he told her with a nod, and then asked, “were they behaving that night?”
“Oh, yes,” she said softly, and he studied her, capturing a mental snapshot of her face. Her expression was a dichotomy of emotion, shame and joy mixed together. She was staring at a painting of Sam and Faith, his son and daughter. Done a decade ago, when Faith was barely five, Hoss had enjoyed putting this vignette of protective devotion to canvas. Faith was shown balancing on the blades of tiny skates while Sammy bent over her from behind, holding his hands out to steady her. Framed in his arms, he was helping her glide across the expanse of open ice in front of them both, freeing and shielding her all at the same time. The look on his boy’s face was intent, Sammy’s focus firmly and totally fixed on his little sister, determined to keep her safe.
“Good.” He stepped towards Cassie, gratified when this time she stood her ground, not retreating before him. Holding out a hand, he waited, remembering only belatedly that Tamera had said the woman had some quirks about being touched. Shame she hadn’t mentioned the overwhelming fear, too, he thought with a frown. He hated he had caused this pretty woman any distress at all, found it insufferable that she looked more fragile now than when she first opened the door. Hated the memory of watching the eagerness bleed from her face when she’d found him standing on her front porch.
Tentatively Cassie reached out, slipping her hand palm-first into his and he folded his fingers around, holding the heat and unexpected strength found in her grip tightly for a moment, watching as her lips parted on an indrawn breath. Reluctantly, he released her hand and saw her lips move slightly, the bottom one bowing up sweetly before she rolled them into a flat line, biting down. He frowned. Again, he was causing her distress he didn’t understand but did not like one bit. “Cassie, it has surely been my pleasure to meet ya. Thank you for giving me a chance to see things from your perspective.” With intentional emphasis, he told her, “I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve seen today immensely.” Everything, including you.
With a brief shake of his head, he rejected the thought and heard the screen door close behind the movers. “I hope you have a really good day.” That was heartfelt, and he saw her lips quirk. Then, knowing what Tamara expected from him, Hoss followed with a less sincere, “Thank you for your support,” seeing that almost-smile fall from her lips faster than it had appeared, wiped away by his impersonal words.
He walked towards the door and turned, surprised to find her right behind him. Looking down at her, he stopped for a minute, seeing the question in her eyes at his abrupt change of direction. “If you are ever interested in seeing my studio, to see the pieces I don’t display for shows, I’d be pleased to give you a tour.” What the hell? Did you just invite this stranger into your house? With an inward snort, he realized that at least he was inviting her, she wouldn’t just be showing up on the doorstep like he had today, demanding a welcome no matter the unexpected nature of the visit.
Pain flowed across her features, and the muscles in her arms and neck tightened, turning any softness into hard, corded tension until she was fairly quivering as she stood there. “Mr. Rogers.” He frowned, not liking the retreat to impersonal words any more than she had. With apparent effort, she corrected herself. “Hoss.” Her gaze lifted to his face, and he nodded encouragement. “Hoss, I’m sorry. I doubt I could make that work.” At his repeated name from her mouth, he smiled, then frowned at the rest of her response. A heavy disappointment he hadn’t expected wedged tightly in his chest.
Digging his wallet out of his back pocket, he twisted the chain out of the way and retrieved one of his personal business cards. Holding it out, he waited for her to take it, which she did, her fingertips now carefully avoiding his, and he was surprised at the sense of loss that gave him. As if he’d instinctively wanted one final reminder of the connection he’d so briefly felt. “My cell number is on there. Text me, or call me, we’ll set up something that will work, Cassie. I’ll make it work. I promise.”
***
Cassie
She watched him stalk down the front steps and over to where a monster of a motorcycle was parked at the curb behind the truck. Standing beside it, he shook the hands of the deliverymen and then reached out, doing something along the handlebars of the bike. She jolted when the machine started, the low, deep rumble rubbing up against something deep inside her, and she liked the sense of thrill it gave her. Coiled power, sitting hobbled, just waiting for someone to take control and direct it. Maybe that’s something I can do. It would be solitary, but in the world.
Filing that thought away, she moved to close the door, halting in place when he turned to look back at her house. She raised one hand in farewell, and he raised his chin with a jerk and a smile. His hands were busily working to roll and fold his sleeves up, then he lifted one hand and unbuttoned his shirt midway down his chest. As she watched, mesmerized by the smoothness of his movements, he tugged black gloves onto his hands, and then slipped his arms into a jacket, rolling his shoulders to settle it into place. He swung a leg across the motorcycle and lifted it upright, holding the bike in place with strong, thick thighs as he raised the kickstand,
all the while that rumble rubbed up against her again and again. She shivered as she watched him pull smoothly into the street and envied the wide grin on his face as he rode away. Maybe so.
Bring out his happy
Hoss
Hoss aimed his wheels to the clubhouse, gaze sweeping the parked bikes as he idled onto the lot, nodding his thanks to the prospect manning the gate. Currently serving as president for the Rebel Wayfarers MC’s Fort Wayne chapter, he had been patched in for decades and considered himself a lifer, someone who would die a Rebel.
Backing his bike to the building, he killed the engine and sat for a moment before dismounting. His thoughts were still circling around the woman he had spent a mere thirty minutes with, while holding a mostly one-sided conversation. He’d been surprised at the frustration and regret that had flooded through him when she turned down his invitation to see his private home gallery. An emotion that hadn’t left even as he put distance between them.
Hoss rubbed his fingertips over his palm, skin still tingling from the brief touch of her hand. With her being such a big fan, he had expected her to jump at the idea of a private tour. Wanna see my sketches, baby? I got some big ones. He smirked and then laughed aloud at himself. Shaking his head, Hoss stood up off the bike and walked to the door, pushing the thoughts aside.
With a wry grin, he looked around to see several members and a couple of prospects in the main room, playing pool or sitting at the bar. Good things never change. This could have been a scene from the same clubhouse five years ago. Hell, even twenty years ago. After walking to the open office door, he rapped sharply on the frame with his knuckles and didn’t wait for a response, stepping in and seating himself on the couch along the wall.
“Yo, Prez,” he greeted the man behind the desk they shared, and the redhead looked up with a grin, the flash of teeth white in his beard.
“Hoss, man.” Fury stood, holding out an arm and Hoss leaned up to grip it. “Didn’t know you were back in town. Does this mean Sam is back, too?”
“Yeah. The team’s road trip ended Friday. I had a show this weekend, so I came back a couple of days early. First home game for this series is tonight, and Sugar Kane’ll be on the ice for the first time. You gonna be in the box?” He knew the same proud grin from earlier was on his face again, because having a boy who played hockey at the professional level was surely something of which to be proud. Sam had become a teammate to two other Rebel kids, Tyler and Jonny. Tyler’s brother, Kane, would be starting his professional career tonight for the opposing team, but because the boys belonged to all of them, the whole club was behind the boys’ careers.
Three of them had been adopted by a member who was also an ex-hockey player, Jase Spencer, the driving force behind the Patterson-Spencer Hockey Foundation here in town. Jase was one of Hoss’ most trusted brothers and also happened to be the husband to a woman every man in the club loved like a mother, DeeDee. The couple had taken in nine kids, survivors of a beloved member’s death, and then took on another child, Jonny, that one a blood relation to DeeDee.
The minute first Tyler and then Sam had made the draft and it became known they’d be assigned to the local team, the club had booked one of the boxes at the arena for the season. Then when Jonny and Kane proved their worth and earned long-term spots on different teams, keeping the box was a done deal for the foreseeable future. After last season, Tyler had left active play for coaching and right now was in his stepdad’s hometown of Red Deer up in Alberta, his hands on the reins of the local juniors team there.
There was a shout from the main room, and both Hoss and Fury tensed. They rose to their feet and turned towards the door before either of them could make out the words. Then the high giggle of a child broke through the noise and Hoss grinned, turning back to look at Fury. “Sounds like your woman’s here, man.”
With an answering smile again flashing through his red beard, Fury walked around the end of the desk just as a small woman walked through the door with a toddler on her hip, holding an older child by the hand. “Baby,” Fury greeted as he leaned sideways to kiss her while tucking his hands under the toddler’s arms and lifting her high. “Beauty,” he said, nuzzling the side of his daughter’s head, and Hoss remembered the reaction he’d had to the paintings on Cassie’s walls, his mind whispering an echo of Fury’s word, Beautiful.
Shaking his head, Hoss raised a hand and said, “Bethy, darlin’. Good to see you.” Bethany Mason Ledbetter was the wife of his international president, Fury, also known as Gabe Ledbetter. Bethany was the sister of their past president and club founder, Davis Mason, who, until an incident a number of years ago, had intentionally separated her from the life. Kidnapped by an estranged family member, Bethy had been thrown into the harsh world of bikers in a shocking way, only learning about the depth of resources Mason had at his disposal during her rescue.
Then, a few months after that had happened, she had hooked up with Fury when she once again fell into the middle of a club war. The two had struck sparks from the beginning, and it hadn’t taken Fury long to talk her around to his way of thinking they needed each other. Now Bethy and Fury had two kids, raising the next generation of Rebels alongside so many other members who had found their own soul mates.
Nate, Fury’s boy, ran around the couple who were still embracing in the middle of the room and launched himself airborne with a shout of, “Hossman!”
Hoss bent over and caught him in midjump, swinging the boy up onto his hip. He hugged him tightly for a moment, then leaned back to ask, “Davis Nathan, boy, what you think you’re doin’?”
“Jus’ sayin’ ’lo,” came the shouted answer and he was reminded of Sammy at this age. Nate was just about the same age his son had been when he first met him, the only child of a hardworking, beautiful woman who had captured Hoss’ heart with a single glance, a single word.
“Well then, ’lo backatcha,” he said, pulling Nate close for a tickle and snuggle. “You being good for Momma?”
Bethy scoffed, turning to look at them as Nate said, “Yessir. Always.”
“Hi, Hoss,” Bethy said softly, leaning against Fury as he wrapped his free arm around her shoulders. The couple’s biggest hurdle to overcome so they could be together had been convincing her brother that loving a member was what she wanted, and not some kind of belated reaction to her kidnapping. Uncharacteristically willing to believe the worst rumors about the man he’d already been grooming as his replacement, Mason had put plans into play that had backfired on him, only serving to strengthen their bond. One of damn few miscalculations Hoss had seen Mason make through the years.
Now you’d never know the man had ever been against it, praising and leaning on the redheaded biker at every turn. Years ago, when Slate had decided to step back from the leadership roles he had occupied for years in order to focus on his ever-growing family, Mason had tapped Fury for chapter president. That was before the club had gone international, which had necessitated changes at the local level. That’s where Hoss had come in. Having been VP of the Fort Wayne chapter for years, it was a logical step when the club needed Fury to step up.
Slate and his old lady had been blessed with two sets of twins only a year apart, giving them four baby bottoms in diapers at the same time. That had been followed by a solitary son only a couple of years later. Slate was still a member, and a trusted part of the inner circle, just without the heavy demands the office laid on his shoulders. Now that the twins were older, aged sixteen and fifteen, everyone expected he would step up again, and soon, but for now, Hoss held the office.
“Y’all out gallivantin’ around, darlin’?” Fury asked as he pressed a soft kiss to his daughter’s cheek. “Havin’ fun with my Beauty?”
Bethy laughed. “Errands and such, just wanted to see if you needed anything.”
“Nate, you want to go to the game tonight? Sammy’s playin’ here in town.” Hoss spoke without worrying about permission, knowing Fury’d always be down for some alone time with Bethy. Th
e schedule Fury kept meant he was frequently out of town, and often the country. Hoss turned to see a bright smile on Bethy’s face, and Fury was already holding out his daughter slightly, lifting her in invitation as he waggled his eyebrows. Hoss grinned as he took the hint and offered, “We could take your sister, too. I bet Beauty would like to see Faynez again.”
Faynez was the nickname Sam had saddled his sister with, inventing it about the time she’d first started school. Since then, most folks who knew the family well called her the bizarre combination of first and middle names. “Whatcha say, Beauty? Wanna go watch Uncle Sammy play some hockey? Give the grown-ups time to play their own kinda game?” He knew his Faith would be happy to help watch the little girl, nicknamed Beauty for her personality as much as her looks. The little girl chortled adorably and waved sticky fists at him.
Two hours later, he was at the arena and dropped a bag of snacks, juice, toys, coloring books, and crayons on the floor of the box for Beauty, having promised to pay Faith for her babysitting efforts. Slate and Ruby’s oldest kids had ridden with him, too, and the four teenaged girls had spent the drive unsuccessfully arguing they should be provided equal compensation since they would all love on the little girl all night. Dani tried to claim ownership of the largest slice, given she was the oldest by about a year, and Hoss hadn’t been able to contain his laughter as her two sisters, twins Hayley and Kayley, argued they’d be twice as good since they were a whole year younger.
The Rebels had all popped out a crop of kids around the same time, seeming to find their better halves in a single, lasting wave. Now their kids ranged from thirty-four to the three-year-old seated by his daughter.
Slate’s oldest son, Allen, sat near the front of the box with Nate, the younger boys excitedly talking to Sammy and Jonny who had popped into the box to say hello. Now Hoss watched and laughed quietly as the soft-hearted players were finding it hard to leave the kids hanging. Raising his voice, Hoss called, “Sam, don’t you need to be in the locker room in five?” With a wave and an acknowledging nod, the boys—Men. They’re twenty-five, old man. Need to give them their due—left the box to slip into their normal pregame routine. Tonight would be the first time Kane hit the ice and played at this level, and Hoss was glad he would be here to see it.
Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 4 Page 66
