by Moxie North
The load they were carrying was actually medicine that Deacon had procured from Canada. There were a number of underground charities that worked in the black market prescription drug trade. The cost of daily medicine that a lot of retirees needed was too expensive for many of them.
Although illegal, Deacon had decided a long time ago that breaking the law was allowed if it was for the greater good. Whether it was black market medicines or beating up an abusive husband, Redemption MC were the tarnished angels of Oregon.
“Alpha, I’m out tomorrow. King is covering for me,” Maverick said, taking advantage of his Alpha’s distraction.
King was the treasurer that liked his books, liked the solace of his numbers, but also was happy to knock your lights out for looking at him funny. He was liked a pissed-off accountant during tax season. He could easily run point or take on any head-busting that Deacon needed.
Deacon didn’t break eye contact when he nodded. He was still glaring at Skid until the man grunted and moved to follow Mav.
Outside in the bright sunshine, Maverick waited for the other man to show up behind him.
“You know you shouldn’t push the Alpha’s buttons.”
“I’m tired. Why can’t someone else do it?”
“Because he trusts you, asshole. He obviously thinks that this is something he only wants you to handle. Instead of acting like a whiny bitch about it, you should see that he wants you to take more initiative in the pack and the club.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be higher in the pack. Blending is just fine with me. I’ve always been a blender. It’s not a bad place for anyone to be.”
“You seriously lack ambition. Hanging back isn’t an option. This isn’t just a club and you know it. Your animal wants to find its place too.”
“Don’t tell me what my animal wants. We wouldn’t be here if we weren’t all a little lost.”
Maverick didn’t have anything to say to that. Skid had been around almost as long as he had. But he never stuck his neck out like Mav had. It wasn’t that Mav needed to prove himself; it was that he didn’t have anything to lose. His family pack was a memory for him, his former job and life was gone. If Deacon hadn’t found him he wasn’t sure where he would have ended up.
Now his life was a narrow view of what the pack wanted—or more importantly—what Deacon wanted. His ability to put his pack first was something that kept him from the depression that ravaged him while he was in recovery. The darkness was a memory that kept him company when he was alone. It was the first time he could remember in his adult life that he wasn’t totally confident in who and what he was. Losing his leg made him feel like less. He felt like he was less of a man, less of a wolf, less of everything.
He’d like to say that he’d gotten over those feelings in the last few years. Instead, he’d shoved those emotions nice and deep. He didn’t get any pushback from his wolf. His animal felt the loss of who they had been too.
His wolf was taking a back seat while they weren’t shifted. His animal was content that Maverick was on autopilot. When they shifted, the souls switched places and his wolf let instinct take control.
Maverick liked when he was working. Deacon said go, he went. Today that meant following the truck that Skid was going to be driving for the next two hours in the sweet pre-rain air. That also meant he got to spend two hours back on his bike. This was not a bad way to spend the day. Plus, they would be making a good chunk of money for the club while providing something that was desperately needed.
Deacon like to joke that they were Robin Wolves. Stealing from the rich to give to the poor, except they weren’t giving it away. They were still selling it for profit. Wolves had to eat too.
Swinging his leg over his bike, he started it up and slid his skull cap helmet on his head. His brown hair was too long and needed a cut. His eyes were covered with a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses that covered his bright blue irises. Unlike other shifters, his eyes were the same as his wolf’s.
He slid on a pair of leather gloves and adjusted his cut over the long-sleeve black shirt he wore. The leather vest bore the patches and emblems of his club. It was a source of pride and was always shown respect. You earned the cut. You belonged to a brotherhood that was stronger than blood. It was something earned and something you’d be buried with when your time was up. His worn jeans puddled over a pair of scuffed motorcycle boots. He always wore long jeans to cover his prosthetic. It was a tactical move. At least that is what he convinced himself was the reason. An enemy that didn’t know about his leg couldn’t use it against him in a fight.
Not that he had a lot of enemies exactly. But it wasn’t uncommon for one of the club’s runs or tasks to go awry. Maverick was the best fighter in their pack even with his leg missing. Once he decided not to return to his family, he trained to be the best he could, knowing he wouldn’t have his pack at his back if he needed them. His military training and natural anger at the world made him lethal when necessary.
Now there wasn’t a man or shifter out there that could get Maverick Hale on his back.
The engine of the truck, parked around the side of the main mess-hall-turned-bar, started up. It was a white box truck with the name Baylor & Sons Moving on the side. It was nondescript and designed not to draw attention. Maverick would make sure to stay back far enough to keep an eye on the truck, but not so close it would look odd.
The prescription drugs were hidden inside the cushions of a new couch that was still wrapped in plastic. Their contact would be selling the drugs to those that needed them for a greatly discounted price. It was a win-win as far as Maverick and Deacon were concerned.
Maverick pulled out and led Skid to the freeway before he fell back and kept a steady pace towards their meetup. The weather had broken and it turned out to be a bright clear day that made his wolf roll and stretch in his head. He wanted out to run, and Maverick promised he’d give him the chance.
The ride was uneventful and good for both of his souls. They made the drop and returned to the compound. When he pulled up there were only a few bikes out front. One light shining from the window of the bar meant there wasn’t going to be an impromptu party that evening. Maverick had to think that Deacon had kept the club quiet knowing that Maverick didn’t want two nights of babysitting duty.
He strode up to the biggest cabin that faced the lake and knocked twice on the door. His shifter ears picked up a grunting noise, and he opened the door.
His Alpha was sitting in a large leather chair in front of a stone fireplace. The man had a closet of black t-shirts. It was the only answer that Mav could come up with, since his Alpha always wore the same shirt every day. His jeans were always faded, his boots scuffed. His hair he wore short on the sides and long on top now. It often fell over his eyes, making him look younger than he was.
The one-room cabin had been a dorm that was originally one giant room. Deacon had remodeled it, adding a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. It was done in biker chic if there was such a thing—heavy, sturdy furniture that looked like it had been sat on by large greasy men for too long. There was a carburetor sitting on the kitchen table along with a few other spare parts. The rest of the furnishings were scavenged from varying sources with no discernible theme.
“Drop is done,” Maverick said in way of greeting.
“Good, got the cash?” Deacon asked without looking up from his cell phone.
“Yeah. Do you want me to wait until you’re done texting your girlfriend?”
“Nope, I want you to shut your pie hole and hand over the money.” This was said again without Deacon looking up.
Maverick tossed the manila envelope onto the coffee table and took a seat on the battered couch before propping his boots up on the table.
“Don’t scuff the table.”
Maverick stretched back into the cushions. “Oh yeah, like you could tell.”
“That’s an antique, dickhead.”
“Only if you collect shit from the late Seventies.”
/> “Maybe I do. I’m bringing disco back.”
“Seriously, what are you looking at?”
“Candy Crush.”
Maverick looked up at the ceiling. “Fucking hell.”
“So you at the VA tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Getting a fucking ulcer on the back of my leg. It’s okay right now, but it’s pissing me off. Got a new leg to order.”
“Must be nice, ordering new body parts.”
“Sure it is. Nothing like a government-funded upgrade.”
“You’re alive. That’s something,” Deacon said, finally looking up from his phone.
“How many more years are you going to give me that speech? ‘Lucky to be alive. You can go home to your family anytime you want.’”
“Until you hear me. You have a pack and a family. That is more than most of this lot can say. You didn’t do anything to have your pack reject you. You rejected them. Never even gave them a chance to welcome you back. Instead, you were chicken shit and tucked tail and ran. I like to remind you of that so someday you will return and there will be a few less broken hearts in this world.”
“Damn, you’re getting soft in your old age.”
“That is the fucking truth. Don’t end up like me. A grumpy ass Alpha with an equally disgruntled wolf. We don’t have a family and we probably won’t ever find mates. There are a lot of things we won’t be able to do. That’s not the same for you. Just remember—you have options.”
Maverick had heard this many times before. Since the first time he sobered up in a motel room with Deacon sitting on a bed watching him, his new Alpha had given him the speech of not giving up. It was nice to hear, no matter how much shit he gave him for it. It just wasn’t something that was going to happen for him.
Deacon didn’t have a family because of much more horrific circumstances. Maverick made his choice to leave his pack. It wasn’t like he was looking for them. He knew where they were if he wanted to see them. He had no reason to track them down. After his first few calls when he returned stateside, he’d started sending postcards. That’s what he had been doing for the last few years. It started out with a simple “I’m alive.” Now he just sent the postcards without anything on them. Writing those words started to seem like a lie. He wasn’t alive. He was surviving.
Chapter 4
“I just need a moment to speak with someone in charge. I really don’t mean to bother anyone. I want to help, really.”
Prudence Boyer leaned against the high counter at the Veterans Rehabilitation Center trying to do something good. Or at least it seemed like a good idea. Her mother always said when she got an idea in her head she was like a hyper fox terrier until she got what she wanted.
Pru thought her mother was wrong. She was tenacious and persistent. It was obnoxious at times, and she understood that. But she was willing to make herself look a little foolish if it meant helping someone else.
The man behind the counter was eyeing her up and down like she had come in dirty or smelly. She unconsciously smoothed her patchwork skirt. She hadn’t really thought about how she would be presenting herself today. She’d been so excited when she’d woken up to get her plan started that she threw on her normal outfit.
The skirt was a kaleidoscope of colors, and she’d worn her t-shirt that said ‘Namaste in bed’ along with her favorite primary-colored Birkenstocks, and with her hemp purse slung across her body she’d been ready for the day. Her dark brown hair was piled up on her head with a few long braids hanging down that she’d threaded with colorful silk. To the starchily dressed, probably ex-military man, she suspected she looked like a freak show. A pretty freak show, but not the professional appearance that might have gotten her through the door quicker.
“Miss, can’t you leave your name or a card or something? I don’t know if the manager is available.” The exasperated man was trying to shoo her off like an annoying bug.
“No, because this isn’t the 1800s, I don’t have calling cards. I rode here because I want to help.”
“Rode here?”
“Yes, on my bike.”
The man had the audacity to lean around her and she watched his eyebrow rise up.
Maybe pointing out her pink and orange Huffy with the white wheels wasn’t the smartest move to prove her seriousness. It was a gift from her parents, and although it was new and not recycled, she totally loved it. Prudence was a very big supporter of reduce, reuse, and recycle. Why buy new when you could repurpose something? The bike, on the other hand, was too beautiful of a gift to reject.
“Let me go see if he is available,” the man finally said with a sigh.
Prudence gave him a nod. She was used to people finding her odd.
Her parents replaced her old bike that they had—if they were to be believed—accidently sold at a yard sale. Prudence was the odd duck daughter of parents that never quite understood their own child. Her father was an investment banker that spent more time at his office in Portland or jetting off to New York than he was home. Her mother... well, Prudence never really understood what her mother did exactly. If you asked her father he said she supported him and made sure they maintained the appropriate contacts. Like that was an official job title.
Prudence only had memories of her mother sprinting off to tennis or social meetings. To her young eyes it always seemed frivolous. At six, when Prudence declared herself a vegetarian, her mother just rolled her eyes and served pork for dinner. She did tell Pru not to mention her dislike of meat to the other children for fear of them passing it on to their mothers, which would somehow reflect back to her own mother.
At eight, she harassed her parents into not using plastic bags at the grocery store anymore. Her mother said it was embarrassing to be lugging around a random assortment of fabric bags everywhere she went. Prudence wasn’t deterred and loaded the car with bags she’d scavenged from the house. She held them open while the cashier loaded them. She was determined to single handedly save the ocean, one bag and six-pack ring at a time.
Twelve rolled around and she had started getting kids in her middle school to sign petitions for everything from save the whales to having the school turn off the overhead lights on sunny days. By the time she hit her teenage years, her mother had given up and her father would just pat her on the head when he walked by reading his paper.
Her parents only started paying attention to her again when she was close to graduating high school. Where she went to college was a very big concern of theirs. There were some heated arguments. Her parents wanted Ivy League and prestige, and she wanted something a little more her. She held out and negotiated for Berkeley. Her parents finally agreed to pay for her education, figuring it was at least a school their uptight friends would recognize.
There was one condition she had before going to college. She wanted to take a leap year and go backpacking. Her parents thought some time in Europe was an excellent idea. Prudence had another plan in mind.
She wanted to tour South America. Peru, Columbia, and Bolivia called to her. She wanted to ride local buses and meet people, real people, and see how they lived. How they used less but had more. Prudence was interested in subsistence living. It seemed a natural and happy way to live.
After she arrived in Peru she found a new passion—textiles. Weaving in all colors of the rainbow was a passion for those that lived small but still wanted their lives full of color. It brought her back to her childhood. Long days sitting with her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth while she tried to get a stitch right. Her grandmother had taught her how to knit as a young girl and she’d always loved it. The quiet and the repetition while creating something real and useful brought her satisfaction.
When she returned home she gladly went to college and split her major between women’s studies and anthropology. She spent her down time between classes knitting hats for preemies and making brightly colored quilts for the kids in the children’s hospital.
When she couldn’t keep up with demand she start
ed a knitting club on campus. When more people became interested she started teaching classes. After graduation she kept up on the classes and found a job at a fabric store owned by two sisters who had a combined age of at least one hundred and sixty.
Ethel and Claire opened their store Two Knotty Ladies when it was clear they were never going to be the marrying sort. They were known as the spinster sisters of Port May. Every day they would open their shop promptly at 9 a.m. and then would sit in rockers by the front window knitting and watching the world pass by. They were happy to have Prudence running the shop after she started. They only wanted to sit and gossip while they knitted. Getting up and down to sell items was a nuisance. Prudence suspected the women lived off an inheritance, as they had a large house on Main Street they shared and never seemed too concerned when sales were slow.
Prudence’s parents were waiting for her to do something useful with her life. They’d been waiting for almost six years. Prudence was twenty-seven and happily ensconced in her little community and her current project of raising awareness about non-compostable fast food containers.
She had her own place in a cozy duplex in town. When she first found it, it was as generic as possible. Eggshell white walls, beige carpet, and tan linoleum. Her parents offered to buy her all new furniture for her place. She’d refused, but did tell her mother she could help her antique shop. It was a compromise that gave Prudence the used items she wanted and her mother the satisfaction of spending money. After her mother bought her the key pieces to fill the space, she searched through yard sales, swap meets, and found items on the curb to create her bohemian oasis.
There was no theme to her home except happiness. Everything in it made her happy in one way or another. Either it was the beauty of the item or the story behind how it came into her possession. Color, patterns, and saved treasures were what she called home.
She rode her bike to work most days unless she got a ride from a friend. Spinning through town kept her connected to the small-town feel she loved about Port May.
