“You can call me Myrt.” She forced the corners of her mouth up for an instant before releasing the uncomfortable smile. “Rhymes with dirt.”
Instead of the grin she’d expected, an expression of deep sorrow passed over Sharon’s features, leaving behind an echo of pain Myrt didn’t understand.
“Myrt, derived from Myrtle, who shares a classic beauty with a gorgeous flowering shrub.” Sharon acknowledged her preferred name with a gentle correction, which drew a line under what had bothered her. She nodded as if her statement had the authority to change Myrt’s first words. “Myrt.” Leaning back, she shouted down the stairs. “Willy, can you bring up the bags? Kids are sharing the room at the end of the hall. I’ll be with Vanna Mom in the main bedroom, and you’ll have the one next to Myrt.”
“Sharon, can you please stop calling me that?”
The man’s voice was gruff but rolled through with amusement like honey in a rich, dark coffee. His tone was sweetly affectionate, proving his annoyed words a lie.
“If he’s not Willy, then who is he?” Myrt whispered her question, surprised when it traveled enough so Sharon could hear.
“His club name is Bane.” Sharon shrugged, as if renaming the man wasn’t a big deal. Myrt had heard and understood enough from Truck to know he owned his club name in a proud way, even more than his given name. “I like to pick on him a little.”
“More like a lot, little sister.” The voice only preceded him by an instant, and then all Myrt could do was stare at the man who loomed over Sharon’s shoulder. “You must be Myrtle.” He nodded, his chin going down and up as his gaze never left Myrt’s face. “Pleased to meetcha.” He took another step, now looking at Myrt from over Sharon’s other shoulder, another pace farther along the hallway. “I’m gonna get things sorted for the hordes.” His biceps bulged, visible in the sleeveless leather vest he wore, as he lifted the suitcases and bags out to the sides in further explanation. “I’ll be right back.”
Bane disappeared, and again Myrt found herself short of breath, as if every ounce of oxygen had been sucked out of the room for the length of time he’d been visible.
“Oh, sister.” Sharon took a step into the room Myrt had come to think of as hers, a pleased expression on her face. “I’m glad to see that whatever happened to you…and before you ask, no, I don’t know. Vanna’s good at keeping secrets. But I’m awfully glad to see no matter what it was, it didn’t kill that curiosity. Bane’s a good guy. I’ve known him for a couple of years, met him on a trip to Texas. He’s never had a steady girlfriend in all that time.”
Myrt swallowed hard and dropped her gaze, taking a step backwards so her shoulders bumped the wall. “I don’t know why that should matter to anything.”
“Just sayin’, sister.” From the corner of her eye, Myrt saw Sharon retreat a step. “I’m going to head down to check on my kiddos, make sure they haven’t talked their Vanna Mom into anything they shouldn’t have.” From the hallway, she yelled in the direction Bane had disappeared. “I’m going downstairs. Totally just headed down to check on my kids. No other reason. But I’m going now. Floor’s yours.” She aimed a smile at Myrt and winked, then disappeared.
Myrt’s feet were stuck to the floor, legs stiff as boards. Butterflies had her stomach turning over and over, and she couldn’t catch her breath. It seemed like hours passed, weeks even, before the assertive tread of what had to be Bane’s boots came striding up the hallway towards her open door. Saliva pooled in her mouth, and she closed her eyes to block out the view of the doorway. The footfalls slowed and came to a stop, then began again, but instead of aiming towards the stairs, preparatory to going down to the main floor, they grew louder, angling towards where she stood.
“Myrtle? You okay, honey?”
She swallowed and choked, hands flying up to cover her mouth as she bent at the waist, coughing.
“Hey, hey, you okay?” A hand gripped her arm while a second settled in the center of her back, patting gently. “Slow down, honey. Take a breath.”
Face flaming, she coughed again, finally pulling in an unimpeded lungful of air.
“There you go.” The palm between her shoulder blades rubbed in soothing circles. “Take a minute, catch your breath.”
“I’m fine.” She choked yet again, trying without success to reassure him as she folded over. The hand around her upper arm pulled her back upright, then tugged her tight against his side, his arm strong as it braced across her back. The fingers that had been caressing her disappeared, then reappeared cupping her chin as he angled her head up and back.
“Take a breath, honey. You’re gonna be fine.”
Seen from this close, his eyes looked more robin’s egg blue than steely, the dark brows drawn together, framing them beautifully. He was so handsome.
“Myrtle, you got a voice?”
His gaze held her fixed, and her voice trembled as she answered him. “I’m okay.” Her lips refused to lift, even in a semblance of a smile. “Sorry for the bother.”
“No bother, honey.” One corner of his mouth quirked, curling into a cheeky grin. “Long as you’re okay now. That’s all I care about.”
His arm around her back gave her a squeeze, the backs of his knuckles pressing into the side of her breast. She tingled all over, nerves up and down her spine firing while heat pooled low in her belly. The butterflies were back in earnest, fluttering madly as Bane looked at her. Looked into her, stirring something deep inside.
Myrt jerked free from his hold, stumbling sideways until her shoulder jarred against the wall. A picture not far away swayed and teetered, settling back into place against the wall after a couple of terrifying moments. She turned away, cheek to the wall, and whispered, “I’m fine. Please…please go.”
It was silent in the room for long enough that she’d taken a half a dozen breaths before the leather of his boot soles scuffed against the floor. “All right. Okay, I will.”
The shuffling came closer instead of retreating, and she squeezed her eyes closed, flattening herself against the wall in avoidance. If I can’t see him... She knew it was an idiot’s thought, a fool’s idea, but she couldn’t stop the refrain from running through her head. I can’t see you.
“Myrtle.” Her name was spoken so close she felt the touch of his breath against her cheek. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” She slid down the wall away from him, heedless of the way the rough plaster scraped her cheek. “I’m goin’. Don’t hurt yourself, honey. I’m…I’m goin’.”
She tracked his footsteps through the door, then left towards the top of the stairs and down each groaning tread to the main floor and out the front door, slamming shut in his wake.
And still her arm tingled, the nerves on her skin where it had touched his sparked, and her breasts ached. It was as if she’d grabbed tight to a live electrical wire, energized by the current as it flowed through her, unable to shake it loose.
All because a man named Bane was nice to me.
The rolling of her stomach was for a completely different reason.
***
Bane
He rocked to a stop next to the van and heaved out a frustrated breath. No fuckin’ ride. Hands on his hips, he stared back up the road they’d followed from the highway, overwhelmed by the silence surrounding this house in the middle of no-fuckin-where. Son of a bitch.
When Horse had taken a call that the ole lady of a national officer in a friendly club had run into mechanical problems in eastern Arkansas, with no brothers of that officer within easy range, he’d tagged Bane to be Sharon’s rescuer for her trip home. Horse was the enforcer for the Freed Riders MC, the club Bane had patched into a couple of years back. That officer with the ole lady in trouble had been Gunny, with the Rebel Wayfarers MC. Presented the problem, without question, Bane had hitched a ride with a brother and gotten on the road, treating the ask as an honor. Keeping the ole lady of an RWMC lifer like Gunny safe, then being trusted by his own president as escort for the duration of her trip, was a pri
vilege.
He knew the honor was only because the RWMC wasn’t aware of his history, which felt like all kinds of a lie.
When Bane had first landed in east Texas and found the Freed Riders, he’d latched tight to the idea of patching into the club. That had been years after he’d left his hometown of Philadelphia in the dust. With the back of his vest bare of any patches, he’d approached an officer named Horse and laid out all the reasons and benefits that had seemed most likely to get him through the door. Unfortunately, that attempt had run up against a big ole nope. Horse had listened to him, but still shaken his head and said the efforts Bane was willing to put in wouldn’t ever be enough, could never be enough, because of his former affiliations.
To say the disappointment had been crushing would be an understatement. From where he’d stood—and everything he’d witnessed between the members—the brotherhood within the FRMC represented everything he’d ever needed. Third time’s a charm, and all that.
Still, Bane hadn’t blamed them. FRMC would have been the third patch to ride between his shoulders. Even divorced by geography as diverse as Michigan to Wyoming, and then Texas, that was a fuckton of history to be dragging in his wake.
Of course, then there was the real reason.
William Douglas Crow, known to his FRMC brothers as Bane, had been born into an interesting life.
The youngest grandson of an old-blood mob member, he’d broken from tradition and set aside the blind loyalty bred into him. Bane had shunned the kind of violence in which his family seemed to revel, staying well clear of the pack of sycophant jackals. The final straw that had sent him running was the clear and present threat of being forced into his brother’s motorcycle club. Called the Monster Devils, they’d been known for their lack of self preservation, unafraid of upsetting the status quo with war after war. Bane had longed for a sense of belonging, but knew he’d never find it in that bloodthirsty bunch.
That isn’t how it’s supposed to be.
He shook his head. Bane had deftly managed to stay well clear of both family organizations, not wanting to be associated with a way of life he no longer recognized. But blood was blood, the bonds strong—so he’d known if put in the same position but on the other side of the table, he’d have said the same thing Horse had done. Protect the club.
Stubbornness seemed to run in his family, though, because Bane hadn’t given up. As he’d told Horse the next night—showing up with a black eye and bruised jaw as evidence Horse’s prospect had done per request and delivered a thoroughly discouraging message—except Bane wasn’t listening. He’d decided he wouldn’t stop working to show the FRMC the kind of member and brother he could be.
It had taken ten days. Ten beatings where he refused to lift a hand to defend himself. Ten mornings when he’d prayed he wouldn’t piss blood. And ten times Horse had patiently listened to the whole of his spiel and then slowly shaken his head.
Eleven had been his magic number, it seemed.
This trip would be a brief foray out of his club’s Texas territory but could be a huge step forwards in the depth of trust Horse and other FRMC officers had for him. As well as increasing his standing with the RWMC men—something he’d been working hard to gain since meeting several of them a handful of years ago.
Following a multi-club party, Blackie, the FRMC president, had tasked him with inter-club relations, hoping to leverage the already-friendly level of trust between their Freed Riders MC, based in Longview, Texas, and the Rebel Wayfarers MC, based out of all-the-fuck-over.
Tipping his head back, he gave up staring at the road and shifted his gaze to the slowly swaying tops of the trees surrounding the house. Blackie, via Horse, asked me personally. I can’t fuck this up. The gig was supposed to be watching out for Sharon and the kids, with a side quest of making sure Vanna was safe with this most recent rescue in her home. The women in the house had more than one connection to the clubs, Sharon being sister of Captain, an RWMC officer, as well as Gunny’s ole lady. Factor in Vanna being Gunny’s adopted mother as well as Truck’s ole lady.
Truck was a sergeant-at-arms for the RWMC, posted out of their Little Rock chapter, even if he now resided in the Florida panhandle. He was married to Vanna, and both were well known to Bane. Cross-club meetings, rallies, and chance encounters had given Bane a good idea of what kind of man Truck was. A fuckin’ good one I’m damned lucky to call friend.
Then there was Vanna’s association with Blackie and the Freed Riders MC, and how before Truck stormed into her life, she had long worn a Property of patch for them without even being an ole lady. Protected by the club itself for her service, friendship, and loyalty. Layers and layers.
Breathing deeply, Bane lifted a hand to ruffle through his hair. He dragged his fingers through, trying to dampen the nerves plaguing him since he’d first seen the woman through the window. He’d known Vanna had a guest. That had been the topic of several discussions between Gunny and Sharon, conversations conducted over speakerphone, caring only that the kids were asleep. It had given Bane a good idea of what he’d be walking into. The two of them had drawn correlations between this woman and Sharon, and as he’d driven through the night, Sharon had talked in painful transparency of the challenges in her life prior to Gunny’s entrance. The cover of darkness had given her courage, and she’d shared a lot of what had happened to bring her to Vanna’s house so long ago.
Myrtle’s story sounded much the same, from what evesdropping could tell. Vanna had rescued the poor thing and asked her to stay awhile, and the girl had agreed. Hell if he’d be the one to spook her into going before she was ready.
Seeing her up close hadn’t given him any concerns about the authenticity of her need. She was painfully thin, the angles of the bones underneath her skin close to the surface and casting shadows across concavities more exaggerated than normal. Her collarbones jutted from the edges of her shirt’s neckline, and her wrists were birdlike in their fragility.
The way she’d looked at him, though, had driven all ideas of her physical condition out of his mind. Her gaze had devoured him, head to toe, and the most alluring blush had risen from her chest to her cheeks, the blood singing underneath the covering of her skin, just enough to show off her interest. Even Sharon had seen, based on the encouraging look she’d given him as she exited the room. Then Myrtle—and what a unique name, old-fashioned in a way that seemed to fit her well—had choked suddenly. He hadn’t known what to do other than patting against her back like burping a baby. The episode had eased, and she’d leaned against him, relaxing into his hold for the briefest of moments.
In an instant, though, she’d been feet away, hiding her face. He’d never seen someone try to melt into a wall before, but she’d pressed tight to it as if she could obtain invisibility through will alone. Alarm, not something as simple as fear but a more extreme terror, had been reflected in every line of her body. His attempts at understanding had been shut down. She’d asked him to go, and he’d done the only thing he could. He’d exited the room.
In body.
In his mind, he was still right there, listening to Myrtle’s every breath, absorbing the rightness of her in his arms, her slight weight as she leaned against him, and the expression on her face as she’d looked at him.
A look that had said a lot.
Myrtle was a damsel in distress who wouldn’t be against being saved by a knight.
White knight, right. He snorted at the thought. I’m about as far from good guy as I can get.
Which meant he wasn’t the right one to try and save her.
Oh, but he’d like to.
***
Myrtle
Peering around the corner of the house, she looked out across the nearby field and sighed.
He was there. Standing next to the gate with Vanna, Josh on his back, arm wrapped around supporting the boy’s bottom.
Bane.
Even in her thoughts his name sounded mysterious.
He glanced up, and she stopped
in place when their gazes connected. He stared, studying her so intently Vanna started to turn. Bane saved Myrt the embarrassment of being caught peeping by talking louder, shifting so Vanna turned with him, putting her back to the house.
He was a good man, a kind man, all the things Sharon had promised he was.
Why then was Myrt so afraid of finding herself alone with him?
***
Bane
Letting Josh slide to the ground, Bane stepped behind the gate and stood as casually as possible with a raging boner.
All it took was a look from Myrt and he was a goner.
Later, he promised his dick, as he had every day of the week they’d been at Vanna’s.
He suspected Vanna knew his frustration, since a bottle of lotion had mysteriously appeared on the nightstand in his room.
So later he’d jerk one out, imagining the sweet lips and soft words of the woman currently hiding around the corner of the house from him.
So fucked.
Bane laughed, caught Vanna’s look of confusion, and shook his head.
Or not fucked, as it may be.
Chapter Five
Myrtle
Perched on the edge of the bathtub, Myrt scrubbed across her forehead with the palm of one hand. The other rested against her stomach, fisted and pressing deep, as if her actions could force the nausea away. In the week Sharon and her kids had been here—and Bane, her mind needlessly reminded her—as if I could forget him—the sickness had settled into a terribly regular routine, there all day but far worse in the early morning.
She concentrated as she counted the days and then counted them again. The words of the holler’s witch echoed in her mind.
“Day one to day one hundred twelve of delayed courses, here are your tools.” Old Tabitha gently placed stalks of dried plants on the table in front of Myrtle, spreading them in a fan with her at the center. “Equal measures, just a scooch more than a pinch with hot water, steeped for twenty minutes. Three cups a day for three days, no more. Otherwise your water will sicken.”
In Search of Solace (Rebel Wayfarers MC) Page 5
