Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Once the sun came up, he shrugged on his jacket and strolled outside to check on the gelding. Standing near the horse, he saw Mason coming down the street, and watched his bike slow as he took in the strange vehicle set-up and the sight of Slate comfortably handling the horse.

  Slate waited on Mason to walk over after he parked. Meeting him with a chin lift, Slate gave a succinct summary of the evening. “Rig belongs to Mica’s cousin, Essa; she’s eighteen. She and Mica’s sister, Molly, got letters with pictures and this address, so she came to see. We’re taking Essa to Urbana this morning, where she’s competing in a rodeo. Mica and I both think the letter and pics probably came from Nelms.”

  Mason nodded at him; their version of shorthand worked both ways, and he’d gotten all the key details from what Slate had said. He looked at Slate, narrowing his eyes. “Okay, got it. Sounds under control. Now tell me about trouble in the club.”

  Fuck, he’d nearly forgotten about Tucker with everything that happened last night. Slate blew out a long breath, looking into Mason’s face as he told him what Mica had said about Tucker. Mason was visibly upset, his dark grey eyes turning steely and hard. Slate watched as the muscles in Mason’s jaw tightened and jutted out; he was grinding his teeth together. His question was a snarled, “Tucker put hands on her? Before or after we patched the fucker in?”

  Slate frowned; he knew it was an important question, and one that would determine the future of the biker, and perhaps their club. “Both, I believe, Prez.”

  “Think anyone saw?” Mason asked. “Because if they did, and didn’t tell, we’ll rip more than one rocker off a fucking patch’s cut.”

  “Nah, Prez, this will be a he said/she said if I’ve ever seen one.” Slate didn’t think any of their brothers would have covered up for a freshly patched new member, not when everyone knew how important Mica was to all of them. Slate was a little worried about their ability to defend the accusation, but he knew in his gut she’d told the truth. He shared that confidence with Mason. “I believe Mica though; I pushed her until I got a real reaction, and I know what I saw was truth.”

  Folding his arms across his broad chest, Mason shrugged. “Then there’s only one question: Do we stop with the rocker?” He turned and walked towards Mica’s house.

  ***

  Headed into the house behind Mason, Slate grabbed a hot cup of coffee and lounged for a bit, cocking one hip against the kitchen cabinet. He watched the girl stumble into the room, her eyes still half-lidded with sleep. He reached out to set a mug on the cabinet near the coffeemaker, and watched as she filled it and carried it over to the breakfast bar. She wriggled that rounded ass onto one of the stools, leaning far over onto her elbows and keeping her hands wrapped tightly around the mug.

  After a few sips of coffee, she seemed more aware of her surroundings, and he caught her looking between him and Digger more than once. He knew that Dig was probably a lot closer to her age, but he was intrigued by this girl, and found himself frowning whenever he caught her eyes on Dig. Mason grabbed her mug and refilled without saying anything to her, and Slate saw her shiver when she looked up at him. She blurted out an “I’m sorry,” to Mason, making Slate want to tell her she’d done nothing wrong. Mason beat him to it, asking her “What the fuck for?” Essa’s response was nonsensical, and Roach laughed loudly at her, bringing quick tears to her eyes that she tried to hide.

  Mica checked the time and began hurrying everyone along, so Slate headed outside, saying, “I’ll go load the gelding and get the rig ready to go.” As he swung through the door onto the little back porch, he heard Essa yell, “Breezy, his name is Breezy” and he laughed at her constant defense of that pretty, gray gelding. He loaded the horse, stripping the blanket and putting that and the water bucket back into storage in the living quarters. He closed and locked the gate, shaking it back and forth to ensure it was latched securely.

  He headed back into the house, hoping to get another half-cup of coffee, but saw Essa walking through the kitchen with a black cowboy hat in her hand. He grabbed it from her, thinking it was Nelms’ hat, but then he realized it was much too small. By this time, though, he was committed; hell, he had the hat in his hand already. So, to cover, he asked Essa, “Where are you going with that?” wondering what she’d say in response.

  She looked confused, responding, “It’s my hat; I’m taking it to my truck.”

  He wanted to keep talking to her, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say about the hat. He spit out the first thing that came into his mind, “It’s black.” Fuck, that was random. She was going to think he was crazy at this rate. He needed to shut up now, before it got worse.

  She responded very slowly, “Yes. It is black. Black goes with my outfits.”

  Slate closed his eyes and shook his head, handing her the hat back without speaking. They headed out, and Essa checked in the trailer and then leaned in to start the truck, grabbing a tire gauge from the glove box. He watched her shirt and jeans stretch and tighten across her body as she moved. God, she smelled good as she brushed past him towards the trailer. She was wearing the same clothes as last night, and he had caught a quick hint of a musky, sweet scent. It smelled of arousal and sexual frustration. As she moved away, he climbed into the truck, sitting in the driver’s seat. Essa made the rounds with the rig, checking first on the horse, then on every tire and light. She made sure the gate was closed and latched, returning to the driver’s door, and gaped when she saw Slate sitting there. “Umm, you’re in my spot,” she said, opening the door.

  Slate was focused on her, and saw the firm lines of her mouth, thinking to himself, This has to be her annoyed face. He couldn’t keep looking at her, or she’d soon see the evidence of his arousal from being around her. “Nope, I’m driving today; I am your chauffeur and bodyguard, Ms. Essa.” Slate stared straight out the windshield in front of him, not daring to look her in the face.

  “Look, dude,” she started and he glanced over at her, laughing.

  “Did you just ‘dude’ me, little girl?”

  Unfazed, she argued with him, “Slate, it’s my rig, my horse, my responsibility...so you need to get out of my seat, now.” Slate turned to look at her, and she was so beautiful he couldn’t breathe. He felt his eyebrows arching up towards his hairline. He was trying to take her in, drink in the spirit of Essa. She stumbled verbally, stuttering as she said only his name, “S-slate,” before Mica squashed her defense, supporting his decision to drive. Essa had a petulant look on her face as she slammed the door beside him, muttering, “Fine, but it’s my rig,” which made him smile.

  Arriving at the fairgrounds in Urbana, they unloaded and setup, and Essa walked with Mica to pick up the paperwork for her event entries. Essa and Slate stalked cautiously around each other, each seeming to recognize there was a connection between them, but unsure whether to acknowledge it.

  Essa worked the horse, and Slate was impressed with the skill and patience she exhibited during the session. She was also very attuned to the horse, and noticed quickly when a shoe became loose. He watched as she gathered her farrier bucket and secured the horse, removing the loose nail and quickly replacing it with a new one. Crimping and trimming the nail, she tightened the shoe down and he saw how her tight jeans caressed her legs and ass, forming into a deep “V” at the apex of her thighs, where he imagined being buried deep inside her.

  As she worked, Essa asked Mica if she and Slate were dating, which he found hilarious. Then she asked about Mason, and he was surprised to hear Mica easily dismiss any thought of her and Prez being together. He frowned, wondering if she knew just how deep into Mason’s life she had drilled, how much she mattered to him—shit—to all of them.

  He focused back on what Essa was saying, just in time to hear her say, “Mica, there were four really HOT men in your house this morning, example: this guy,” and watched as she pointed at him, and he shouted with laughter again. “Four REALLY hot men, with muscles like Greek gods…and you are telling me that not
a single one of them is your boyfriend?” She shook her head at Mica’s response of, “Not any one of them.” Laughing, Essa asked her, “Cuz’, I’m sorry. How did you get friend-zoned like that?” Slate didn’t even try to hold back his laughter this time, and he roared even harder when he saw Mica’s face, her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, because she was speechless. She stalked off, and Slate followed her, leaving Essa standing next to the trailer.

  ***

  Returning to the trailer, Slate saw the door to the living quarters standing open, and the horse was tied to the side, saddled and ready to go. He stepped over to the door and peered in to see Essa standing there dressed only in her underwear. Facing away from him, she was bent over to pick up something from the back of the closet, giving him a clear view of the dark shadow between her legs and the high-arching cheeks of her ass. “Essa, fuck,” he choked out, startling her.

  She turned quickly and grabbed something to cover herself, yelling at him, “Pervert, what are you doing, peeping? Get out! Shut the door!” He grabbed the door and slammed it shut, and then heard her yell in a panic, “Open the door! Open the door!” So, he opened the door in fear, and then saw her still standing there in her panties and bra, and he slammed it quickly again.

  Oh God, she was so much more than beautiful; her body was glorious. His cock was hard as bone, and he was breathing like he’d run a marathon. He couldn’t imagine touching her without having her, and Slate was struggling against opening that door again. The mounds of her breasts had been plumped up by the low-cut sports bra, and those thin little panties didn’t cover anything. God, he wanted her. He walked over to the horse and leaned his head against the gelding’s hip, trying to get himself back under control.

  He heard movement from within the trailer, and a couple minutes later, the door slammed open, and Essa stood in the doorway. She yelled, “What were you doing looking into my trailer?”

  He shook his head, leaving his forehead against the horse. Closing his eyes, he asked, “Why was the door open, Essa?”

  She sighed. “Because it’s hot in there, and there’s no one else over here. It was not intended as an open invitation.”

  Lifting his head, but keeping his feet planted, because he still didn’t trust himself, he slowly looked her up and down. She was even more beautiful with her eyes blazing and color in her cheeks. Her black shirt didn’t have buttons; it had pearl snaps, and he could see himself ripping it off her. “God,” he muttered, “it’s black.”

  She looked puzzled, but responded, “Yes, my outfit is black, and so is my hat.” She moved to untie the gelding, and Slate stepped back, watching her. When she lined herself up to get on the horse, he slid in behind her and gripped her leg firmly. His hand slid up her calf, to the bend of her knee as he lifted, boosting her into the saddle. She thanked him quietly, and then asked him “Where’s Mica?”

  He looked around…no Mica. “Fuck me, goddammit,” he growled. “Mason’s gonna kill me.”

  He stepped around the trailer, and saw Mica walking towards him eating cotton candy that was the color of Smurfs. “Mica, you know better, damn it. You go, I go...you get me?” he scolded. She held out the neon blue spun sugar, offering him a bite. He shook his head. “Goddammit, Mica, I don’t need this shit. I’m the only one here right now, and what if fucking Nelms walked around the corner? I need you to fucking pay attention, and I want to hear you say you get me. So give me the fucking words, princess. Say, ‘I. Get. You. Slate.’ Goddammit.”

  She looked over his shoulder at Essa working the gelding on the grass. “I get you, Slate. I’ll stick close; I’m sorry.”

  After the first runs for her events, Essa came back to the trailer and dismounted. Slate grinned at the wide smile on her face, and he grabbed a bag to rub the horse down. He knew that would give her a few minutes to relax. While he worked on the horse, he watched her sit beside the trailer as she grabbed a book and pencil. She looked cute as she concentrated, making her notes in a stop and start fashion as she jotted things down. Sitting like this, she looked very young, but he only had to close his eyes to see her nearly naked form in his mind again, remembering she was all woman, and found himself getting hard.

  He watched her hat tip backwards; she let it hang by strings around her neck. God, he imagined his hands sliding up the column of her throat, caressing the edges of her jaw. He leaned his arms against the horse and locked his eyes on her, watching the movement of her mouth and lips as she chewed on her pencil.

  Essa looked up, catching his eye, and she watched him as he stared at her. He saw color rising in her cheeks again, and wanted to see her eyes flash like they had earlier, but instead of from across the room, he wanted to see them looking up at him from a bed. Fuck, he needed to get this under control, had to sort his shit. He shook himself and went back to working on the horse, thinking this might be the hardest order Mason had ever given him, and he couldn’t fucking wait to go home.

  He was startled when he glanced at her and she stuck her tongue out at him, and a frown slipped onto his face. What the fuck was he thinking? He was nearly twice her age; nothing could happen here. This was Mica’s family; Essa was off limits, and he knew that was an important thing to remember.

  He continued working on Breezy, and asked Essa when she was supposed to compete again. He assumed it was soon, since she hadn’t untacked the horse. She checked the time, and responded, “In about forty-five minutes…they’ll get team roping done first. Poles aren’t until tomorrow, so I only have the two barrel events today.”

  He shot a look at her. “Tomorrow?”

  She leaned back, nodding. “I’ve got four events tomorrow; it will be a faster-paced day.”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. Slate looked over at Mica, and asked hopefully, “Home tonight?”

  Shit. She shook her head no. “Mason will be here soon; he is coming to pick me up, but we need someone to stay here with Essa,” she informed him. Oh no, Mason had better be bringing someone...but not Digger. He didn’t want Dig around her...and not Tucker either; that fucker didn’t need to be around any women. Slate mentally rejected every Rebel he could think of, and felt his face pale as he realized what that probably meant.

  Essa yelled at Mica, “I do not need a babysitter, Cuz’. I’ve been doing this on my own for nearly three years now; I do not need someone to stay with me…especially him!”

  Still hoping it was a terrible joke, Slate asked, “Mica, you shitting me?” as he looked over towards her, frowning. She tossed him her phone, and he read a long text from Mason that told her to let Slate know he was on babysitting duty for the night, and that Mason would be down soon to pick Mica up to take her home. He closed his eyes and turned away. “Fuck me. Looks like you are stuck with me, little girl.”

  When he arrived, Mason had brought dinner for them; he started handing out food containers to Essa, who slammed them down on his hood. She began her tirade with, “Okay, Really Angry Guy, let’s be clear here—you are not my daddy or one of my brothers; you are not even any real kind of family. You are not dating my cousin. You are not the boss of me. I do not want him to stay with me, because I do not, let me repeat...I do not, need a babysitter. Plus, he doesn’t even want to. So, you can take them both with you and leave me alone.” She stood there with her hands at her waist, one hip cocked out and her chin tucked down angrily.

  Stopping a moment, Mason looked at her puzzled, and then grinned. “What did you call me?”

  Mica made a rude noise in response as Essa repeated, “Really Angry Guy, but that’s not the point.”

  Mason asked Mica on a laugh, “Were you this bad when you were eighteen?”

  She responded, sighing and nodding her head, “Worse, probably.”

  Mason laughed again briefly, but then Essa seemed to catch his mood change as his eyes turned steely. He stopped laughing and leaned forward. “You will have a fucking bodyguard tonight, Essa. You are Mica’s cousin, which puts you under my protection, like it or not. We are famil
y, whether you recognize it or not. Now, Slate can stay, or I can, but one of us will...so choose, now.”

  Essa looked stunned, and then jumped in again with, “Hello? No one is staying with me. Why is that concept so difficult to understand? Are you simian? Seriously, dude, go away. I’m fine.”

  Before Mason could respond, Slate distracted Essa by reminding her, “Little girl, don’t you need to warm up? It’s nearly time for your run.” He thought he had effectively derailed her argument until she told Mason, “This is so not over.”

  Slate gave her a boost up onto the horse again, patted her leg encouragingly, and then handed her hat up. He, Mason, and Mica all watched her warm up, and then Slate asked, “Nelms has dropped off the radar, hasn’t he?” Mason responded by nodding silently. Rubbing his hands distractedly through his hair, Slate frowned, and then cut his eyes over at Mason. “I got this, Prez. He’s gonna show up. After all, he sent her here, right? We’ll get him, Mason. I got this.”

  They followed Essa to the arena, preparing to watch her compete in her event. Sitting in the stands, his elbows to his knees and chin in his hands, Slate leaned forward and watched as tiny Essa raced her horse at full speed out of the darkness of the alleyway and into the brilliant sunlight shining down on the arena. She deftly moved him in a cloverleaf pattern around the barrels, using her heels and hands to guide him into each turn and pivot point with precise movements. Riding fast, but skillfully, she cleared the final barrel. Leaning far forward and over his neck, she rode like hell out of the arena whooping, laughing, and fanning him with the reins.

  Stunned by the sheer brilliance of her athletic grace and confidence, Slate sat still for a moment, listening as the announcer called her name for best time. They met her back at the trailer, and before she slipped off the horse, she looked down, locked eyes with Mason, and said, “Okay, you win. I choose him…Slate.” Dismounting, she unsaddled the gelding quickly, starting to work on grooming him.