Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Does the girl know Nelms is watching over her?” Slate mused, “It seems weird, man. I know you helped him get his scoot, but have you been down with him to see her? Do you trust him? Does she meet with him and have fucking coffee? Fuck me, but this feels off.”

  “Nah, I haven’t run down with him, but he talks about being careful that she doesn’t see him. I think she’d bolt. Sounds like he just ducks around corners and shit. He’s not perving on her, simply making sure his brother isn’t catching a sniff of her.” Mason grinned. “Maybe she’s hot. Reminds me, we need to get you an old lady soon, or you’re going to be too ancient to fuck.”

  Slate flicked a coaster at Mason, grinning. “Fuck you. You’re the old man at the table. Where’s your old lady, hmmm? Haven’t seen anyone riding tail with you in months. You give up fucking for Lent and forget to start back up?”

  “No man, I gave up talking to assholes; that’s why it’s been so long since you heard from me,” Mason shot back. The two men grinned at each other; they’d become close friends over the years, seldom apart.

  “I’ll ride down with him tomorrow, get a read on this shit. I can take Gypsy with us, maybe Bear? That would leave you two prospects as gofers if needed, Hoss and Tequila. We still thinking about voting Bear in on Saturday?” Slate stretched in his chair, sliding his ass down in the seat and crossing his legs at the ankle.

  Mason nodded. “Yeah, at Saturday’s church we need to vote on Bear and Tequila as full-patch brothers, and about Nelms and Steward as prospects.” He dropped his voice. “We also need to vote on Monster, figure this shit out for the last time. Motherfucker has dogged me too often in the past few years, and I’ve found proof he’s skimming on runs. I don’t want to take him down without a consensus, but the bastard is going to be sorry he fucked me. I am the Rebels, and he’s fucking with them, so he’s fucking with me.”

  Slate looked at him levelly. “Mason, full fucking backing here, and you know it. I’ve been hungry for his ass since his lies cost a brother’s life. I can take care of that fucking business before sunset today; you just gotta give me the word.”

  Waving a hand casually, Mason brushed off his offer. “Nah, man. Church, consensus, closure—it will do us all good.”

  14 -

  Mica

  Four years ago

  “Are you fucking kidding me, brother? She bought the house next to Mason? Does he know yet?” Slate listened on the phone he was holding against his ear, lying in his bed at the clubhouse with eyes closed. The call had pulled him from sleep, but he wasn’t ready to fully commit to waking up yet. He jerked as a hand pressed against his bare chest, sliding down towards his belly. Reaching down with his free hand, he stopped the progression of the feminine fingers, trapping them against his chest with a hard fist.

  “Mason needs to know, but this is a good thing, Duck. Makes it almost a joke to keep an eye on her. No fucking way will your dickhead brother get a finger on her now.” He paused, listening again. “Yeah, I know. I’m here; I’ll see him in a few, and I’ll get a read on this shit. Later, brother,” he said as he pressed a fingertip against the screen, cutting the call.

  Turning his head, he stared at the woman in his bed. “Tawny, I told you to get the fuck out last night. Don’t fucking do this shit again. I’m not sleeping with you. I’m not fucking you. You’re not giving me head. I got nothing to do with you.” He sat up in bed, flipping the covers off her. “Now get the fuck out.” He watched her slide from the bed, glad to see she had on a t-shirt and panties at least. Without a word, but with more than one dirty look his way, she pulled on a short skirt and slunk from the room.

  “Goddamn shit,” he muttered to himself. “Fuck me.” Dragging his body to the bathroom, he took a hot shower. Half an hour later, he strolled into the meeting room, seeing Digger on bartender duty. He was a good prospect, but damn shy. “Where’s Mason, Dig?” he asked as he rolled his shoulders.

  “In the office, Slate. He said to let you know he wanted to talk to you when you got up.” Digger slid a glance over Slate’s shoulder, and then back to his face.

  Slate turned to see who was in the room, and was surprised to see Tug, a favorite brother and long-time friend. Grabbing him in a tight hug, Slate pounded him on the back. “Good to see you, greybeard motherfucker. When did you get back from Fort Wayne?”

  Tug laughed. “Good to see you too, Slate. I got back last night. It’s not a far run; dunno why you seem allergic to the town. Bingo said he’d like to see your face once in a while.”

  Nodding, Slate responded, “I’ll head that way in a couple of weeks. I need to take the prospects down to meet the club, get the lay of the land. Will do everyone good to get me the fuck out of here for a few days. Brother, sorry for this, but I gotta talk to Mason now, but I’ll be back out in a few. You sticking around for a bit?”

  Tug nodded, stroking his mustache. “I’ll be here. Take care of business.”

  Knocking twice and pushing open the door to the office, Slate stuck his head in. “Hey, is now a good time, Prez?” he asked, and waited on the affirmative response before he fully entered the room.

  “I got something to tell you,” Mason started with a big grin on his face. “You are not going to believe what happened yesterday. Pretty little gal moved into the house next to mine. Man, she is fucking hot, feisty as all hell too. Movers were giving her shit about fixing her yard after they drove all through it, and she was up in their faces about it.” Mason was smiling as he talked. “Her name’s Michaela Scott, and I need a favor, man. I want to know about her. I was at Jackson’s last night, and no one seemed to know shit about her. I want everything you can get, okay?”

  Blowing out a sigh, Slate wrinkled his forehead, frowning at Mason. “Brother, I already have some news on this one. Want a beer?”

  Mason frowned back at him, his expression sobering. “Sounds ominous if you think I need a beer this time of the morning, so spit it out. Tell me what I’ve missed.”

  Slate nodded. “You remember Duck’s girl, the one we’ve been helping him protect and watch? Mica Scott, from Texas, by way of Springfield, Illinois…Michaela—that’s who bought the house. I think everyone in the club except you went down to Springfield, and they’ve been hanging around the business she started after college. We still check on her every couple of days. A few months ago, she started renting office space in a Rebel building; it helps make it easy to watch over her.”

  He laughed, gauging Mason’s response, “But, dude, buying the house next to you? Not organized by us, but I can’t help but feel it’s a happy circumstance. It will make it a damn sight easier to keep an eye on her, for sure. It’s been so many years since she ran from Duck’s brother that we keep hoping Nelms has given it up, but we watch anyway.”

  Looking down for a second, Mason said, “Slate, goddammit, I get it now. I see why Duck wanted...no...needed to keep her safe.” He looked up at Slate. “I get it. That’s why the brothers never get tired of babysitting. She’s something, man, and you can tell she’s been tore up, totally fucked over and back again, but she’s pulled herself together better than before, strong as shit. She turned her back on me to tear into the driver, with me offering to help her sort it out. Turned her back on me—didn’t give it a second thought. Fearless, or at least courageous, she’s…” he shook his head, “…she’s a fucking treasure, man.” Taking a deep breath, he urged, “Tell me what else you know.”

  Pressing his lips into a straight line, Slate organized his thoughts. “She’s a Web and software programmer, and her business is doing all right for being new. She’s got one employee; you’ve met Jess in Jackson’s, and she dates the gal who owns that bakery we all like. Mica’s got a fuckwad of a brother back in Texas, and beyond that, there’s some deep shit with her family back home. She never goes back, and barely sees a select few family members at scattered destination cities. Her sister lives with family, but not the father and brother.”

  He cut his eyes up at Mason. “Prez, sh
e has a terrible enemy in Duck’s brother. He’s never stopped talking or threatening about getting back at her for leaving his ass all those years ago. He’s got a fucking screw loose, and we make goddamn sure he’s never close enough to get even a fucking sniff of Mica. For the gal herself, she’s isolated. She’s got damn few people in her life here. Jess is her friend, as well as an employee, but in all the years we’ve watched her, there’s been no boyfriend, no steady man…she’s never been married...never even spent the night with anyone that we can tell. She doesn’t trust people…at all.”

  Blowing out a deep breath, Mason looked like he made a decision. “There’s something about her, Slate. I want it known that she’s under our protection, that she’s Rebel. We make her Rebel property. You make it as blatant and plain as needed, and have it be known this shit comes from me, not Duck. I’ll talk to him and take care of letting him know, but starting right now, we put anything we need on the street in order to keep this woman safe.”

  Mason nodded, excitedly planning on the fly. “We can do more for her than that, though. More than just protection, let’s get her comfortable. I don’t want her leaving. We can steer a few clients her way, and get some extra security online in her offices—tell her it’s a landlord’s upgrade or something, and hell...just fucking be there for her as needed. Let’s get her into Jackson’s. That gal Jess should be able to help out there; she knows some of us. I want Mica...it was Mica, right?” he paused, questioning.

  Slate nodded slowly. “Yeah, she doesn’t go by Michaela, just Mica.”

  “Okay, I fucking want Mica comfortable with us as fast as we can get it done. Slate, she’s a fucking treasure, and...well...let’s get shit moving, okay?” Mason tilted his head back, looking up at the ceiling. “One more thing, let’s make sure the other clubs are crystal that she’s our Princess.” He nodded at Slate. “Use the title, man; that’s a sure way to make it clear.”

  Slate opened his eyes wide in surprise. It was not a title he’d ever heard used around the Rebels, but he knew from years of conversations that a club offering that level of protection was also establishing ownership. This would identify Mica clearly as Rebel property, and untouchable.

  Licking his lips nervously, Slate nodded. “I’m on it, boss. I got this.”

  ***

  One year ago

  Goddamn, Slate was tired of babysitting this woman. He had years put into this bullshit. Nowadays, about four nights out of the week, he slept on the couch at her house, because Mason was certain the shit was about to hit the fan.

  Following a nasty beating and near kidnapping, which took her weeks to recover from, Mica received some pretty frightening threats. They didn’t have any proof it was Nelms, but everything pointed that way, so they’d ratcheted the security up to a crazy level. Before he moved to Chicago and in with Mica, her brother had met up with her ex-boyfriend. Then, on the very day she kicked her brother’s sorry, lazy ass out, she’d gotten the shit beat out of her.

  Mason had been right there when it happened, and had helped save her. Slate helped him clean up the mess once they got their hands on the men, but unfortunately, they hadn’t learned any useful information from them. Now, they were months down the road from the event, but the threats still felt real.

  Sitting in her kitchen with Tug and Tucker, a prospect, they had barely finished eating when Slate thought he saw something outside. He watched the window out of the corner of his eye, catching another hint of movement against the horizon.

  He poked Tug in the arm. “Watch the window, man,” he mumbled, and stood to walk across the living room. Mica was sitting on the window seat, like she did most evenings, with her head lying on her folded-up knees, simply staring outside. Slate stopped behind her, looking at her face in the reflection of the window, and saw her eyes were closed. Tilting his head down, but keeping his eyes up and looking outside, he reached down to touch the top of her head, and then ran a lock of her hair through his fingers.

  He bent over and inhaled near her hair, surprising himself by thinking, God, she smells good. With a sizzle-like electricity, he saw her eyes jerk open, and her hand swept up to knock his away. Strolling back to the kitchen, he sat back down in his chair.

  Tug leaned up. “There was movement out along the road, brother. What are you thinking?” Slate shook his head and waved his comment away. He knew it was probably nothing; they were all jumpy as hell about everything going on. Mica stood up and told them she was headed to bed. Slate sat watching her as she walked up the hallway to her bedroom, waiting. He’d seen this routine often enough to be surprised when something varied. Her bedroom light didn’t turn on.

  “Be right back, man.” He stood abruptly, walking towards her room.

  Tug sat up straight. “You sure that’s a good idea, Slate?”

  Tucker simply looked from one to the other, unsure of what was going on. Slate thought he might not make it past prospect status; there was something missing in this kid. “I got to see after her, Tug,” Slate muttered.

  Tug caught up to him with quick strides, putting a hand on his arm. “Not a good idea, Slate.”

  “Tug, if you want to keep that fucking hand, you’ll take it off me, Brother,” Slate put emphasis on the word, wanting him to back off so he could fucking focus. Something wasn’t right; he could feel it.

  Pulling away, he watched Tug shake his head and move back towards the kitchen as Slate strolled on towards her bedroom, where he thought he heard muttering. He stayed back a little, not wanting to scare Mica if it was nothing, while staying out of sight if there was. There was barely enough light from the hallway to see something on the floor. It jerked and rolled, and as he saw a booted foot flash into and out of the light, he realized the figure on the floor was Mica.

  Hands came into view, pulling her pants and underwear roughly down and off her legs, and then the booted foot flashed again, kicking her hard. Slate yelled and jumped into the room, catching himself before he stepped on Mica. He put up a defensive hand just as a hard kick to his face took him off his feet, smashing him into the wall. “Fuck,” he grunted out, sliding down the wall, unable to think or breathe.

  A short, dark-haired man ran up the hallway, and Slate heard the front door open and knew the man was gone. He looked around, but couldn’t find Mica anywhere. What the hell? How had the woman gotten out of the room without him seeing her? The man hadn’t taken her; he’d seen him clearly as he ran towards the light and fucking knew it was Nelms, Duck’s brother, and he’d been alone as he made his escape. Tug and Tucker burst into the room, taking everything in. Tug reached down and grabbed Slate’s cut, slamming him hard against the wall, yelling, “Slate, where’s Mica?”

  Fuck, that hurt. He had something wrong with his ribs, and his face was on fire. Shaking his head, he pointed towards the bathroom, reaching up to put a hand on the side of his face. Tucker stepped back, and turned on the light in that little room, which illuminated the blood-spattered walls and floor in Mica’s bedroom. The prospect stopped and stooped low at the end of the bed, reaching underneath, causing a commotion of noise and screams. “She’s naked under the fucking bed,” he said incredulously.

  Tug dropped to his knees, looking underneath the bed while Slate could only stay slumped against the wall. Tug reached under the bed slowly as, over his shoulder, he softly told Tucker to call Mason. Waiting patiently, he finally began to pull something slowly towards him. Slate saw Mica’s hand was folded tightly in Tug’s as he dragged her out from underneath the bed. Her face was bruised along her jaw, but the worst was the deep color marring the column of her neck. Purple finger marks clearly spanned the flesh of her throat, and through the rips in her shirt, he could see bruising already forming along her sides and hips.

  Tucker handed Tug the phone, and he relayed to Mason what had happened, telling him to come quickly before he hung up and tossed the phone towards Slate. Too slow, he fumbled the catch, and the sound brought Mica’s eyes towards him. She could barely speak thro
ugh her swollen throat, but she said something to Tucker that Slate couldn’t make out, because her voice was so ragged. She crawled across the floor towards him, shrugging out of her torn shirt, and pressed the fabric to the side of his head.

  “He kicked you, didn’t he?” she asked in an aching whisper. God, that had to hurt her as badly as his face and ribs did. It sounded so raw and painful he didn’t want her to speak again. She moved and he realized she was naked except for her bra; he watched her long legs accordion as she knelt back on her heels, letting the shadow of dark curls nestled between her thighs flirt with the light. She was classy and beautiful, even broken and bruised like now; he could see what made Mason want and love her.

  She had asked a question while he was woolgathering, and Tucker threw something at the wall. As it flew into view, she screamed through her agonized throat and crab-walked backwards, her moving legs exposing brief glimpses of her pussy. A black cowboy hat slid to the floor beside Slate, and he realized her eyes were locked on it, with a look of pure terror on her face. “Tug, get her to the kitchen. Get her out of here,” he said softly. Rising painfully to his feet, Slate put his hands flat on the wall behind him, wincing as his face and ribs throbbed.

  He followed them to the kitchen, sitting back down in his chair. He didn’t dare offer any resistance when Mica forced him to sit still for her inept treatment of the long split on his face. She ignored their repeated requests to put her sweatpants back on; it was like she couldn’t make sense of the words.

  The door burst open, and Mason suddenly filled the room with his rage. Slate was uncomfortably and totally aware that a nearly naked Mica was draped over him, finishing up with his face. Mason swept her into his arms, wrapping her up gently as he buried his face into her shoulder and neck for a second. The relief on his face was in stark contrast to the furious tone in his voice as he said, “Living room,” as he picked Mica up and carried her out of the kitchen.