Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Mason responded to him in a low, pained voice, “Did you hear? Did you get that, Slate?”

  “Yeah, Prez, I got it all,” he breathed out across the top of her head, softly stroking her hair as she sobbed.

  Mason told him, “Dig is booking tickets now. I’m bringing Mica. We’ll meet you in Longview when we get in; I’ll text you where.” He sighed. “How’s the girl?”

  Slate looked down at Essa, noting how she was still clutching his shirt to her face as she sobbed and hiccupped against him. “Better, now that she’s not alone in this.” He heard an approving noise from Mason, and hung up the phone.

  “Shhhh, baby girl. The hard part is done, and you were there for your family. You done good, babe,” he said, trying to calm her. “No one could have done better. I’m proud of you, Essa.” He softly kissed the top of her head, wrapping both arms around her as he scooted back across the bunk, leaning against the bulkhead. “Shhhh,” he soothed, holding her like that as she cried herself to sleep, her face nestled against his neck in the darkness.

  The next morning, Slate woke up with a start, jerking his eyes wide open as he realized she was still sitting in his lap. He shifted her slowly, easing her down onto the mattress and arranging her limbs before he covered her in a blanket. Stepping outside, he walked over to the gelding, checked on him, and then went in search of coffee on the fairgrounds. He passed and waved at other competitors, and grabbed a couple of breakfast burritos, along with the coffee he needed so badly. Back at the trailer, he knocked until he heard her answer, and then opened the door to pass in the food and drink.

  She had only one event today, and he began packing things up to be ready to leave as soon as she was done with the competition. Before long, they were driving west and south towards Tyler, where they’d meet Tug outside the airport. He’d caught an early morning flight down, with Mason and Mica coming in on the first afternoon flight. Mason wanted the four of them to talk as they were heading to Essa’s folks’ place, and the plan was for Tug to take the rig and gelding home.

  Sitting in the back seat of the truck Mason had rented, Essa reached over and took Slate’s hand, sliding her fingers in-between his and holding on tightly. Mica didn’t want to talk about Nelms or Molly, so the conversation flowed back and forth between the seats casually for most of the drive. Mason and Mica wound each other up into a fierce argument, which left them all sitting on the side of the road listening to a much needed air-clearing confession. What Mason and Mica disclosed floored Slate because it sounded very much like they’d slept together, and he thought it sounded as if they both harbored some guilt over the encounter.

  Their palpable pain filled the words they threw at each other, but looking from one to the other he could see their love and affection clearly. In direct contrast with what he saw and knew, he heard them recite all the valid reasons they could never be together…and those reasons resonated with him, making him think again about Essa, sitting beside him, still holding his hand. He held his breath, listening to their words, and the silence that followed, hearing their harsh breathing that sounded in the truck cab before Mason reached out, enfolding Mica in his arms. He laughed silently at Essa, she’d broken the tension with a funny comment, helping bridge the moment and allowing the group of them to move past the revelations.

  Pulling into the lane that lead to the ranch, they were met with a large group of people, mostly family. Mica’s father was there, which was an unpleasant surprise, since he wasn’t welcome on the ranch. Mica confronted him, with both Mason and Slate backing her up. He left, along with her brother, and Slate watched as Mason fairly vibrated with rage towards those men.

  Mica took her aunt and uncle inside to talk about what had happened to Molly. He stayed with Essa, and they worked alongside each other to unload the trailer, settling all her gear into the barn and tack room. He smiled a little when he realized they were working in quiet tandem, not needing words for most tasks, knowing and anticipating what the other would do next.

  He bunked with the ranch hands that night, soliciting stories of Essa growing up from them, and laughing to himself about some of the scrapes she’d gotten herself into, like the time she decided to take the tractor to school, but wanted to take a shortcut across a field and got stuck in a creek. The lead hand had been proud of her, because she’d gotten herself unstuck using a chain and winch, but she’d missed nearly an entire day of school and was grounded for a month.

  There were lots of grins from around the room as they trotted out escapade after escapade that she’d gotten up to—moonlight rides, sneaking out of the house to meet her friends, trading a cow for a car three years before she could legally drive, skinny dipping in the stock pond, stink bombing the teachers’ lounge at school, a few moonshine stories, and how she’d talked her younger brother into jumping off the barn roof one summer, which resulted in a broken arm. Those were all from when she was younger, and then as she gained focus in her life, the stories changed.

  The hands all talked about how good she was with the horses, and listed champions she’d ridden and trained. They thought she’d probably get enough points on the circuit this year to get to junior nationals in Vegas. She’d nearly made it last year, but had broken her hand the last few weeks of competition.

  Even though she was riding again the same day, the cast on her hand had her off-balance, and it had showed in her performance. It was a close competition, and even though she’d learned to compensate within a couple of days, by then, she’d lost too many points and couldn’t make up the ground. One of her brothers laughed and complained about how she’d come home cussing a blue streak about the cast, but gotten grounded for only a week that time.

  Slate wanted to know more; he couldn’t get enough of the stories about her. He kept steering the conversation back to Essa every time it started to drift, and thought he was doing a good job of covering up his interest until he saw Tug looking at him with a considering gaze. Time to drop it, probably, but he’d gotten some interesting information. She’d only had one serious boyfriend the hands knew about, but when she’d caught him with another girl on the circuit, she dumped the boy and his horse on the side of the road in Oklahoma. A competitor who put her career above everything else, she had skipped out on proms, parties, and even graduation in order to compete.

  As he lay back on the bunk, listening to the rustle of the men in the beds around him, Slate thought back over the stories, and saw a clear thread running through them all. Essa was a self-sufficient, confident young woman who didn’t like asking for anything. She wanted to make her own way, and knew what she wanted from life. She was driven, passionate, caring, and he thought he could love her.

  ***

  The next event on the girls’ calendar was a couple days away in Houston, and the whole group stayed in Texas and went along. Mason was sticking close to Mica most of the time, as he normally did, and Slate and Tug were tasked with keeping track of the girls. None of them really expected Nelms to show now, but they were vigilant anyway.

  “Slate,” he heard, and turned to see Mason looking at him. He gave a head jerk, and Slate followed him away from the trailer and people. “Daniel’s coming into town, man. His hockey team is doing an exhibition game, and he was already planning on being here. I called and talked to him about Mica, and he is willing to see her.” Mason closed his eyes briefly, and scrubbed at the back of his neck with one large hand.

  “She doesn’t know he’s coming, and I don’t want to tell her yet, but I gotta head to the hotel and pick him up. Stay here with the girls; Tug will be with Mica. I’ll call you when I get back to the fairgrounds to find out where she is, okay?” Looking more unsure than Slate had ever seen him, Mason lifted his eyes to Slate’s face. “Is this the right thing to do, man? It hurts so fucking much it has to be right, right?” he asked in an anguished voice.

  Slate shook his head as he answered, “Prez, I can’t tell you that. I know you love her, but she’s not club material, and we both k
now it. You called that a long time ago. She’s only now putting herself back together; the life in the club would tear that all back down again, but you have to live in your head, brother. If you can see your way clear to keeping her, then push Daniel out of the fucking picture. If you can’t see that—if you can’t keep her—then you should let her go. She’s a fucking treasure, and that shit is the truth.”

  Slate stared as Mason turned to look at Mica. She tipped her head back, laughing at something Tug said, and Mason’s eyes darkened as he took her in, moving from tips of her cowboy boots, to the dark hair on the top of her head. His face tightened, he rolled his neck and shoulders, and then turned without a word and stalked away. Slate watched him until he went out of sight between the trucks and trailers, and then turned to walk back to the rig.

  Tug and Mica went for a walk through the fairgrounds, while Slate, Molly, and Essa headed over to the local firemen’s fundraising booth, looking for dinner. They sat and ate, laughing at the stories each girl took turns telling about the people they saw walking through the fairgrounds. This was a tradition they had with Mica, it seemed, and they made up more and more outrageous stories about the strangers they saw. Slate’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up to see a text from Mason: Pulling in now—where is she?

  He quickly typed back, Looking, and told the girls they needed to head back.

  Walking up to the rig, he saw Tug sitting on the ground next to the trailer. There was one horse tied to the outside of it, and the back gate was down. Tug’s hair was dark in the evening light, and with shock Slate realized he was covered in blood. He pushed Essa and Molly behind him, crouching down beside Tug. Essa gasped and reached out a hand, then pushed into the living quarters and grabbed up something from the floor, pressing it against the back of his head.

  Slate and Molly heard the scream at the same time, their eyes meeting for a second before they scrambled to their feet. He yelled at Essa to stay with Tug, and was a half-dozen strides behind Molly when he thought he saw her stumble, going halfway to the ground and coming up with an odd twisting motion.

  There was a yell from in front of them, and he saw a woman on the ground in front of a man. The man was holding a hand to the side of his head, and Slate saw Molly stoop and scoop something off the ground again, coming up with that same odd, twisting motion. There was another yell as the man clapped a hand to his forehead, and then Slate saw Mason running past as Molly yelled and hit the man with another rock.

  Mason tackled the man, and Slate recognized Nelms’ face as they went down together. Daniel was right behind Mason, and he stopped next to Mica, who was still sprawled on the ground, clawing and scrambling away from the fight behind her.

  Slate’s breath stopped, “Essa,” he breathed, and rounded on his heel, running back to her where she was crouched by Tug. “Baby, are you okay?” he asked, and she nodded, handing Tug a bottle of water. He was sitting on his own now, holding a bandana to his head to staunch the blood flow.

  “Mica, where is Mica, Slate?” Essa asked, “Is she okay? Please tell me she’s okay. Oh, please.”

  He reached out a hand and stroked slowly up and down her arm. “She’s okay; Mason and Daniel are there. Molly saved her. She’s okay.” They helped Tug move from the ground to the entry of the living quarters, which had been trashed. Slate looked up and saw Mica, Molly, and Daniel walking towards them, all huddled together in the middle of the road.

  He stood, headed towards them, asking Mica, “You okay, princess? You look like shit on toast. Gonna go help Mason take out the trash, but I’ll be right back.” He waited for her nod, and then turned to Daniel. “Ice, ibuprofen, clean her up—you take care of her, Daniel, or you answer to me.” He moved around them to walk quickly towards Mason and the unmoving Ray Nelms, stretched out face-first in the dirt. “Prez, you okay?” he asked low and quiet, looking around, but not seeing much of an audience.

  Mason looked up at him from where he straddled the unconscious man. “Gonna end this, Slate. Gonna end it here. Walk away if you want, or if you don’t agree, but this piece of shit isn’t going to get another chance.”

  Slate shook his head. “No, I got your back, brother. He’s fucking evil on earth and needs to go away. How do you want to play this? Because I’m in. I’m so in. If you don’t want this on your hands, then stand the fuck up and let me over there.”

  Shaking his head, Mason thought for a second. “You have connections. Make a call. We’re going to need a pickup and drop. See how fast they can get someone here; make sure they bring a cage, not just bikes.” He looked down at Nelms lying there with blood crusting the dirt on his face into whirls and lines. “We need something to secure him. Go see what you can find, brother.”

  Heading back towards the rig, he saw Mica and Daniel beside it, standing close to each other with his hand at her waist. Slate paused for a second next to Mica, telling her quietly, “Get the horses out of the trailer, leave the ramp down,” and then he was past them, looking into the living quarters and spying the roll of duct tape he needed. Grabbing it up, he turned and headed back out to where Mason was now crouched next to Nelms.

  They used the tape to bind his hands and wrists together, and then taped his legs together, making it easier to pick him up and move him. Slate checked over his shoulder; it looked like Mica had things moving, and they’d be able to get Nelms out of sight soon.

  He slid his phone from his jeans pocket, and pressed a couple of buttons to bring up his contacts. Hitting a number he hadn’t called in a while, he wondered if it was even still good, until he heard a laughing feminine voice answer, “Ray’s Crab Shack, need some crabs?”

  His heart eased a little at the joy in that voice—this had been one decision he made that was good and right. “Lottie, it’s Andy. How the hell ya doing?”

  He jerked the phone away from his head as she squealed loudly, saying, “Holy cow, Andy! It’s been forever. Randi, put that down; it belongs to your brother.”

  Slate heard a child’s chattering voice from the background, and the beginning of a heartbroken wail. “Hey, Lottie, is Blackie around?”

  Her voice got quiet, asking, “Club business?”

  Slate nodded, saying, “Yeah,” into the phone.

  “Blackie, baby, Andy’s on the phone, needs to talk business,” she called, her voice moving away from the phone, then returning to the handset with, “He’ll be right here. Good to hear from you, Andy. Give Blackie an address, and I’ll send pictures of the kiddos. Randi hits middle school next year, and she’s grown so much. Tater and Possum are both in third grade; they look just like their daddy. Punkin is nearly two, and,” he heard satisfaction in her voice, “we’re expecting again.”

  He grinned; she sounded so happy and complete. “I’ll do that, Lottie; I’ll make sure he has my address. You guys make cute kids. It’s good to hear your voice too.” He paused in the silence on the phone. “This is Blackie, isn’t it?”

  A deep laughter came through the phone. “Fucker, you gotta start calling her Peaches, or you gonna be Rabbit all your fucking life.”

  Slate said tightly, “Got some business, Blackie. Need some assistance in Houston—you got anyone down this way? You’ll own a Rebel marker if so, on my word as Slate, Lieutenant of the Rebel Wayfarers, mother chapter from Chicago.”

  More laughter came from the phone. “Don’t need no fucking marker, Slate from Chicago. I still owe you my life for bringing Peaches back to me, so no fucking talk of markers. Yeah, I got boys down there. Where abouts you need that help?”

  “We’re at the fairgrounds down here; we caught that motherfucker we’ve been hunting for years. Need a cage pickup, and then a final dropoff, man. Tell me now if that’s too big a thing to ask, and I’ll go away…figure it out on my end.” Slate held his breath for a second, waiting on Blackie to back out.

  “This your number, brother?”

  That short sentence told him everything he needed to know. “Yeah, call me back with info, I can give you th
e row and space we’ll be waiting in the competitors’ parking,” he said on a rushing breath out. “Thanks, brother,” he finished, and the call was disconnected.

  “Got assistance on the way, Prez. It’s a personal favor, no club marker. This is me for her; you got what I mean?” he looked over at Mason, who nodded once. “Blackie is a good man.” Slate ran his hands roughly through his hair. “His woman was nearly mine, Mason. She could have been my Mica, but she needed him, and he loves her. This is from me for Mica. He’ll call me back in a few. Let’s get things taken care of, yeah?” Slate stood, reaching down to pull Mason to his feet, and together, they stooped and grabbed Nelms’ arms, lifting him.

  “Fuck me,” Slate muttered as he and Mason stood with Nelms between them. He saw Essa was facing Mica, and her wide eyes were frozen on him over Mica’s shoulder. She moved her eyes between Mica and him, and then turned and walked away with Molly. Slate called out to Mica softly, “Don’t turn around, princess. Just give me a minute here.”

  They manhandled Nelms’ limp body into the trailer, which rocked and creaked as they moved inside to lay their burden down. Stepping out, Slate closed the gate and locked the ramp into place. Mica asked, “Okay now?” and Slate responded with, “Yeah.”

  The men all stood near Mica, except for Tug, who watched quietly from his place near the trailer. Mica looked at them a little frantically, finally whispering, “What do y’all want from me? You are all looking at me, and I don’t know what you want me to do.”

  Slate laughed without humor. “I think we’re checking to see if you are gonna freak, princess.” She shook her head at that, muttering, “No freakage, Slate. It feels…I dunno…final—like it’s over, after so many years of looking over my shoulder and not sleeping. It’s over, finally. My face hurts, though.”