Duck (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 8)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Duck

  Rebel Wayfarers MC

  Book #8

  MariaLisa deMora

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Cover image by Michael Meadows Studios

  Cover model: James Xavier

  Cover design: Debera Kuntz

  Copyright © 2016 MariaLisa deMora

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  First Release 2016

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9863562-8-5

  DEDICATION

  Everyone has three lives: a public life, a private life, and a secret life. ~ Gabriel Garcia Marquez

  Public or private…or secret, sometimes the right decisions are the hardest ones to make. This book is for all the extraordinary people I know who keep carrying on with those honorable and true decisions, and then building on that, regardless of popular opinion. You’re righteous. Rock on.

  Contents

  No sanctuary

  Nothing changes

  Keep her safe

  Going home

  State of things

  Caught off guard

  Hidden blessings

  Dreaming

  Making amends

  Took you with me

  Good together once

  Wanting too much

  Giving space

  Shaping up

  Have it sweet

  Keeping secrets

  Watcher’s girl

  Three hours

  Hands reaching far

  Back to you

  Twisted justice

  Things are different

  Full home, full life

  Finding our way

  Duck’s spot

  Things that matter most

  Can’t we have easy

  Deacon

  War looms

  Perfect for me

  Love like a rock

  Learn the history

  Waking up

  My fears

  Epilogue

  Watcher

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Can I be honest with you? I still don’t know exactly how Duck came to be in my head. There’s no one person or moment that defined the character, but rather this was a story that revealed itself to me in bits and pieces, fits and starts. It’s a tale plundered from dream observations, misheard and overheard conversations, and the brilliance of human imperfections.

  From the beginning, back when Mica began coming to me as I slept, I liked the idea that she brought along her friends. It was cool to see the people she surrounded herself with. I noticed along the way that there was this one guy who worked in the background to keep her safe. Who tried to steer bad things away from her. An undefined man who often accompanied her, but edged through the shadows.

  For a chick who hadn’t much good in her life, it made me happy to know this mysterious character cared enough to give her that and, over time, I found something there I could work with. An echoing kaleidoscope of beauty that helped cement the man, taking him from the shadows and into the light, bringing Reuben Nelms out where we all can benefit from knowing him.

  The story spinner in me wanted to know: What would it take to become that person? What could drive a man or woman to devote their life to keeping another being safe when there is no benefit, and in fact, a significant sacrifice required in order to do so? What would have to happen in order for them to become that person doing right, holding on to that charter? And once there…what would motivate them to stay the course?

  Life would be good for the person under that kind of protection. What a boon it would be to have someone to count on like that. Someone who we’d know would do right for right’s sake. A guardian who dealt in justice from a position of strength; who would shield and keep us safe at any cost.

  This book is about finding that within yourself. Digging deep and discovering the bones to build yourself into that person. That hero. About learning how to heal from what might have seemed a crippling blow. An injury, not on the outside, where people can see the struggle, but on the inside, where things fester. That hollow inside us where bad things have the darkness and isolation needed to grow and take root. Infestations of fear and guilt brought about by betrayal, beaten back when we find a way to shine light on them. Take away their power to hurt, and scar. Becoming righteous. Heros.

  Becoming…a man like our Duck.

  As always, the book you’re reading is a product of much love and hours of hard work. Here’s where I get to express appreciation to the folks who’ve helped along the way!

  I want to say thank you to Hot Tree Editing for a phenomenal job. As ever, your editorial and beta-reading efforts are much appreciated!

  The cover photo of James Xavier by Michael Meadows Studios is one of my all-time favorites. To me, James makes a perfect Reuben Nelms, and his secret smile in this image holds so much mystery. Makes me want to get in there and see what I can learn about his story. Get in his head, find out about the character…the man. Love the shot, love the man, love the fotog who made it all possible. Thank you both!

  Debera Kuntz, thank you for being willing to tackle this project with me, I adore the cover! You rock, chickie!

  My alpha readers: Individually, you each deserve more thanks than I can fit in a single book. Collectively, you’ve helped me distill the story down to a place that allows the characters to shine through, and I love you for it! Kristen, MirandaPanda, and LeeAnn – your feedback helped me find the ways and means to give Duck his voice. Thank you for your efforts to keep me, and Duck, on track.

  My friends and family: You are all my heros. Muuwah. Love alla y’all. <3

  ~ML

  No sanctuary

  Lamesa, Texas

  Reuben stood stock-still in the mouth of the short upstairs hallway leading to the bedrooms. He had his eyes closed tight to shut out the sight greeting him, but couldn’t deafen his ears to the sounds coming from the room to his left—his father’s bedroom.

  The sound of his father’s playtime surrounded him. Door standing wide open so anyone walking past could see, but the woman standing at the foot of the bed would never know, thank God, with her eyes bound by tape as they were. The air was thick with effort-filled grunts, sounds of leather slapping bare flesh, and openmouthed vocalizations accompanying intentionally inflicted pain, all working to twist a knot in his stomach. The brief glimpse was enough to stay with him for a long time. He reached out to find the wall, using touch and his knowledge of the house’s layout to ease past the nightmare room towards his own.

  “Rue.” He heard his younger brother call out loudly and Reuben knew his full-body flinch had to be visible. His reaction extreme because he also knew the single word would capture his father’s attention. Two quick strides carried him past the doorway and he opened his eyes to find Raymond blocking the hall.

  “You runnin, bro? Why you runnin’ blind, Rue? Why you runnin’?” The questions came in a singsong because Ray knew why he didn’t want to stay in the hallway, why he didn’t want to see…or stay around and watch. It looked as if Ray had just come from the shower and was naked except for his jeans. Reuben flicked a glance down to see the buttons on his fly only halfway done up, a clear indication Ray intended to join their father in his evening’s entertainment.

  A pause in the sounds emanating from his father’s room, then he heard, “R
euben…boy.” A long pause, followed by the sound of an open palm against flesh, then, “You better get your ass back over here.” That order came from David Nelms, patriarch of their family, and not someone he could safely ignore.

  “Damn it,” Reuben muttered, glaring down at Ray. At fourteen, his brother was barely five feet tall, while Reuben had topped six already, only a year older. It didn’t matter. Over the past two years, they had learned size had nothing to do with having the stomach for their father’s playtimes, because Ray could—and would—match their old man moment-by-moment for cruelty, cultivating a capacity to deal out pain exceeding anything Reuben could ever imagine.

  Ray was rigid hardness, having no give in him anywhere, while Reuben, according to Ray and his father, was the soft one. He felt every pain, lived his life flooded with guilt and shame. Pathetic and weak in his father’s eyes, he was the son who helped their women clean up at the end of the night. Gently tending their bruises and wounds, he would urge them to get medical attention if, as often happened in the Nelms’ house, things had gotten intense. With the summons from the open door behind him, he had to return to the entryway at least, would have to witness again the extreme demands being placed on the too-willing woman.

  His brother nimbly dodged around him and sauntered up the hallway, turning and entering a room ringing with stifled sobs. Reuben took a breath and then followed him, stopping short at the doorframe. She was tied to the footboard of the four-poster bed, white knuckles on desperate hands clenching around the ropes binding her wrists, legs spread wide with already-bruising ankles secured to the foot of the bed, her own feet suspended off the floor. Since his initial glance inside as he’d passed by, his father had stuffed the woman’s panties into her mouth, creating a makeshift gag to muffle her cries.

  There were ropes wound around her upper body, tightly binding her breasts into protruding, discolored lumps of flesh. From the bright red striping on her titties, it looked as if his father had been whipping her, probably with the leather straps resting on the floor at her feet. Broken and discarded reins put to a use never imagined by their maker.

  Clothespins were fastened to intimate parts of the woman’s body, lines of them jutting out from her skin like alien wooden appendages. Reuben knew each would leave their own tiny bruise, and from the interlocking nature of the lines, he wondered what his father had spelled out on her body this time. Whore was one of his favorites, but slut and fuckhole were also go-to phrases in Nelms’ arsenal.

  She jerked against her bonds, giving a muted squeal. Ray’s arm stretched out, his fingers brutally clenching around one of her painfully swollen and purple breasts. “You eat supper, boy?” The question surprised him, and he swayed in place, pulling his attention back so he could focus on his father, hearing him impatiently ask again, “Well? Did you eat?”

  “Yes, sir,” Reuben responded, desperately trying to keep his eyes averted when the woman wailed again, higher pitched this time, pain bleeding through her tone in spite of the fabric in her mouth.

  “All right.” David Nelms shook his head in what appeared to be disgust, and Reuben knew the look on his own face must be sickened. Horrified. Weak. His father’s next words underscored that knowledge, reinforcing the belief that in this area, as in most, Ray held their father’s approval while Reuben did not. “Close the door, boy. Go on to your room now. This is men’s work.”

  Reuben did as he was told, pulling the door shut, muting the sounds of hard thuds made by hands slapping flesh, those sharp noises punctuated by broken sobs. He stood in the hallway for a moment, sucked in a harsh breath, turned, and went to his own room at the end of the hall. He couldn’t wait until he was old enough—to be on his own, to leave. For good. Just walk off the ranch and never look back. That wasn’t now, though, so he would just have to get as far away as he could. It was never far enough to escape the sounds coming from that room. He knew from experience there was no place in the house where he could go to find peace. No sanctuary to be found.

  Nothing changes

  Goddamn it.

  Reuben stood across from their parking space on the contestants' lot and watched as Ray led a cute—but obviously tipsy—redhead into the living quarters of their trailer. She was new to the circuit, a promising young barrel racer and pole bender, stumbling along, giggling and giddy at the attention paid her by the reigning champion bull rider.

  Reuben knew if he stayed, there would be no sleep for him tonight. The skin on a redhead like that would mark up in ways which would make Ray creative, and he knew his brother would keep at her long past the point where she would have had enough. Ray’s evenings ran late when he had company, and even if he wouldn’t go as hard on her as he could one of the gals he had already broken in, Reuben did not want to listen to her cry as Ray took her dry and rough. Or hear her gag and vomit around Ray’s cock when he thrust it down her throat. Or listen to the girl scream, if Ray had occasion to show her the sharp blade of his displeasure.

  Untying his horse from the side of the trailer, he led the mare towards the barns. He would rent a stall for her, saving the horse from having to deal with the stench of terror that would surround their equipment by morning. Then I’ll take my happy ass to the fucking motel yet a-fucking-gain, he thought, deliberately slowing his quick retreat to a swaying saunter. It wouldn’t do for anyone to wonder why he was fleeing his own rig, and he had long ago learned not to risk bringing attention to Ray’s proclivities. Not if he wanted to keep getting invitations to meets and rodeos with good paydays.

  Part of his avoidance was fear. Since turning eighteen, Reuben expected if things went bad, by him leaving the gal in Ray’s clutches he would be counted as an accomplice. Part of it was embarrassment, because if people knew what kind of animal his brother was, if they knew what their father had raised Ray to be, he knew they would wonder about him, too. Already their nosiness and distrust of his family was brought home by sidelong glances, or whispered conversations that trailed off when he got near. The townsfolk weren’t above talking about the Nelms men. God knew he already had a full measure of that type of talk, just from the rumors flitting around the rodeo grounds when Ray held court. His brother didn’t have it in him to be quiet about what he liked, frequently boasting about the quantity and quality of the buckle bunnies he scored, along with the kind of hard riding he liked best.

  Two more rodeos. Two more, then I’m bailing on him, Reuben decided as he walked. Enough was enough. With what he had in the bank now, two more rodeos gave him a chance of earning enough money to keep him going for a while. He could stomach two more, then leave Ray to his own devices, let him dig his own hole with the rest of the competitors on the circuit. Reuben could stay on the ranch, work for the stock company, and deal with his father. A third-generation business, DN Rodeo was a stock contracting outfit, supplying all sorts of livestock for both the close-to-home southwest circuit, as well as several further afield. If a wrangler or event organizer wanted to locate hard-to-ride bulls, rank bucking broncs, fresh-from-pasture roping calves, or steers ready to be wrestled, DN was known as the go-to company. As shitty as it would be back in Lamesa, it was still a lot better than continuing to try to cover for Ray.

  He walked through the open archway into the shed row and nodded to the barn manager. Five minutes later, on his way out with his stall assignment, he caught sight of another of the circuit’s talented barrel racers. Mica Scott.

  His mare pulled up lame at a rodeo a couple weeks earlier. Out of options, he had been ready to scratch from his events when Mica came up and talked to him about the injury. She had a massage treatment she wanted to try, and by that point, he didn’t have anything to lose. So he’d bought her dinner, then watched as she worked some kind of voodoo magic to unkink pinched nerves in the horse’s hip, her strong hands sure and confident as they pressed and stroked.

  She had done an excellent job on the mare, enabling him to compete, and he had gone on to win big that weekend. He wanted to see if she thought
the horse could use another one of her tune-ups. A side benefit of this interaction was since she was sweet, sassy, and cute, Mica was everyone’s favorite on the circuit, including him, so talking to her was no hardship. She was sorting gear near where her horse was stabled across the way, so after settling his mare, he walked over to talk to the girl.

  Keep her safe

  Chicago, Illinois

  “No, Prez,” Reuben said in response to the clipped question. “She’s not my woman. She’s…” He shook his head. “Jesus. My brother hurt her. It’s been years ago now, but I just gotta…”

  Frustrated, he trailed off, looking down at the bar in front of Davis Mason, national president of the Rebel Wayfarers, a motorcycle club he had recently patched into as a prospect. He was trying and failing to explain why he needed to head out of town tomorrow, which would mean he had to bail on a club party this weekend. As a prospect, that kind of thing just wasn’t done. A prospect’s life was the club, and he was expected to be in attendance at all events.

  Lifting his head, he looked Mason in the eye, trying to convey the depth of his commitment to this woman. “My brother hurt her. I could have stopped it, should have, but I didn’t. I ran like a coward, leaving her to pull her own fat out of the fire. Friday night, tomorrow…he will be heading into her town, down where she’s going to college. After everything he put her through, she’s just getting her life back on track, barely starting to make her own way again. He’s a hell of a threat from a distance, now he’s rolling into town and she doesn’t have a clue. I can’t let her down again.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Reuben continued, “I have…I need to make sure he doesn’t catch sight that she’s within reach, Mason. That means I need to get down there and see the lay of the land once the trucks show up, figure out how to keep her…safe.” His words were rushed, tumbling over themselves as he said, “Means I can’t do the gig here, man. I’m sorry, but this is—“