Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  He knew her legs would be weak for a couple minutes after a long ride like today, so he jumped off the porch, coming up beside her and lifting her off the bike with ease. She twisted in his arms, hugging him, and then pulled his face close with both hands, kissing him softly on the lips. Smiling, she pulled back and whispered, “That’s from Essa.” A shock shot straight through to his cock, and he almost moaned at the thought of his girl asking Mica to pass that along.

  Slate stepped back as others crowded around her, everyone wanting to touch her and make sure she knew how much she was loved and had been missed.

  Watching Prez pad across the yard towards her, he recognized from Mason’s body language that their relationship had shifted in the days since he’d last seen them together in Texas. Fuck me, he mouthed, seeing the long-standing, familiar, sexual tension had changed to what looked like a lover’s knowledge of each other’s bodies. Fuck…maybe it was a good thing Daniel wasn’t here yet.

  He had given a three-fingered salute to Mason before he turned to walk through the party, listening as the music went from Blessed by Black Water Rising to the favorite Arms Wide Open by Creed; the fucking music rocked. He wanted to make sure no one got too rowdy, and that the mix of brothers and citizens remained as friendly as they were right now. Running into Hoss, he thanked him for helping get Mica up to her house safely, clapping him on the back.

  Hoss pulled him into a conversation about the benefits of an enforced perimeter around a clubhouse. He’d moved to the new Fort Wayne chapter a few months ago; he had some family down that way. Slate knew Fort Wayne had been having problems with gang activity near them, but this was the first he’d heard that they weren’t enforcing a goddamn neutral zone. Tequila was also a Fort Wayne brother; he was up here with Bingo for a few days, and Slate pulled him into the conversation.

  This sounded like sloppy leadership to him, which wasn’t like Bingo. The club needed a secure area around their house, where they could be confident of safety for both members and family, if needed. If the gangs were pushing that badly, Mason needed to be told, so he could manage the situation and expectations.

  Slate casually kept pushing on other topics, listening as much to what wasn’t said, as what was. The strip club business was doing well, but they’d saved money by not testing the girls for drugs or disease.

  Shooting range business was taking a hit; the lack of ammunition was impacting casual sportsmen’s ability to play with their cock-replacements. On the other hand, local law enforcement officers, otherwise known as LEOs, had arranged private times for the facility, which nearly made up the missing income. Something smelled of kickbacks there, but it was hard to tell without being onsite.

  The two bars sounded like business as usual, however he heard undertones of tension with the Highwaymen out of Detroit, which could be problematic. He was coming to the unwelcome conclusion that he needed to make a trip to Indiana soon. He’d have to track the shit there and figure it out.

  He was leaning against a tree, chatting with Tequila, when he caught sight of Tucker weaving through the edges of the crowd. Rebels held church about his shit months ago, but the fucker had done a runner, and they hadn’t been able to take things to the final conclusion. Anger boiled in his system and he found his jaw clenched, grinding his teeth together tightly. Stepping away from the tree, he caught Bones’ eye, and the Skeptics’ president strolled over. “Slate, my titanium-balled friend, you look positively enraged. Furious is also a good word.” He eyed Slate’s face closely. “Can I be of assistance, brother?” he offered quietly.

  Slate tucked his chin down, and then lifted his face. “Naw, man, club business.” He indicated Tucker with a nod. “We have some old news that just showed up; needa take care of it, is all. Your guys are probably gonna wanna watch, but I’d ask for some privacy, unless you hear otherwise from Mason.”

  “You got it, Slate,” Bones agreed readily. Clucking his tongue, he called his members to him, pointing to Tucker. “See that piece of Rebel business? We will assist Rebels as needed, catch and...not release, I think. Just catch, yeah.” He nodded at Slate. “Go get Mason, Brother. This shit’s contained.”

  Slate whistled low and then high, calling his own members to him. “Tequila, Wheels, Bingo, Duck—Tucker is here. Snatch him up, take him over to Mason’s backyard, and wait.” He looked around the ring of faces, seeing his own anger reflected there. He tapped his fist to chest, saying softly, “She’s a fucking treasure,” and heard the echo go around the circle of men. “Do not fucking fail her. We take care of this shit tonight,” he snarled, watching for agreement on every face.

  Bones walked with him for a few steps, his words pulling Slate to a slow stop. “It’s for her then?” he asked. “The Rebels’ Princess?”

  Slate nodded, staying quiet. “I’ve often wondered what it was about her,” Bones mused, “and then I saw her riding in today. I believe you Rebels have the right of it, and trust me when I say I mean no disrespect to her or the club as I say along with you that she is,” he tapped his chest with a closed fist, “a fucking treasure. Mason is a goddamn lucky man.” Slate silently nodded again, stalking off to where Mica stood between Mason and Daniel, symbolic of their months-long relationship struggles.

  He heard a short struggle behind him, and knew Tucker had been located and detained. He stopped a little ways from where Mason stood, and got his attention with a yell of his name followed by a single word, “Tucker.”

  Mason disengaged from Mica and walked towards Slate. “Took him to your yard, Prez,” Slate told him. They angled their steps that way, quietly acknowledging as Rebel members fell into step behind them. Mason nodded at the Skeptics guard standing outside the yard, bumping fists with Bones.

  Entering the backyard through the gate, they saw three Rebels standing in the darkness at the back of the open area. Mason nodded at two of the men, and stared at the third for a long moment. He turned back to the larger group, waiting patiently as they gathered and settled into place.

  “Rebel Wayfarers forever,” he began, and the crowd took up the saying, finishing with, “forever Rebels.” Mason nodded at them, trailing his gaze across every member present. “Weeks ago, we made a decision in church to remove a member. Has anyone forgotten the charges? Does anyone need a refresher on what the member did?” Mason had already begun the process of stripping Tucker of his place by reducing him to a member, instead of a name.

  No one spoke up, and a few heads shook in negation. “Does anyone question the charges?” he asked the group, receiving only head shakes in response. “Do we all stand by our original decision?” he asked, finally receiving head nods this time in agreement. His eyes ripped across the group again. “God forgives; Rebels don’t. Fucking right,” he said, and pulled out his knife.

  Opening the lock blade, he approached the group of three. Taking a step behind them and to the side, he waved his arm at Tucker, who was held facing forward by his arms between Wheels and Duck. “No longer Rebel,” he reached out with one hand to steady the leather fabric of the man’s cut; he ran his blade along the edge of one patch, severing the threads holding it in place, “no longer one of us,” he took his time around the larger center patch, treating the club colors with respect and care, “not club,” he said finally, releasing his hold on the leather, stepping back with the three patches held loosely in his hands.

  Wheels and Duck turned Tucker loose, stepping away. He rounded on Mason, speaking for the first time. “This is fucking bullshit, Prez. She fucking liked it, man, asked for it all the time by wearing those tight shirts and pants. You know you’ve done the same, Mason. I’ve seen you time and time again with your hands all over her. This is bullshit, man, and you know it. You’re just pussy-whipped by the bitch fucking the hockey star.”

  Oh man, Slate did not have a good feeling about the ending to this particular story. He watched Mason grind to a halt, turning slowly to face the former member. “You need to shut the fuck up now, Cut. I’ll give you fi
ve seconds, and then I’ll own you. One,” he said softly.

  “This is bullshit, Prez,” Cut repeated, and Mason’s hand reached out and closed over his throat.

  “Five,” he finished softly, his other hand coming up from nowhere to land one solid, crushing blow to the side of Cut’s head.

  He dropped the unconscious man on the grass and asked coolly, “Slate, you got someone to clear the trash tonight?”

  “Yeah, Prez, Skeptics indicated they’d be happy to perform catch and release for us, unless you don’t want Cut released,” Slate called across the yard, waiting to hear which way the scales would tip tonight.

  Mason nodded, saying only, “Release.”

  ***

  The room wasn’t really big enough to accommodate an angry Slate. He held the phone to his ear, pacing back and forth along the length of the room. Last night, Mason had sent him for a sit down at the Wisconsin compound with the leaders of the Disciples, and since it was late when they finished, he’d stayed and partied with their guests. Slate had a hangover, but it wasn’t bad, and wasn’t what had him riled this morning.

  “GeeMa, what do you mean he’s gone? Did his band go on tour early?” Slate softly spoke the question into the phone as he ran an absent hand through his hair, standing it on end. He listened to the voice on the other end of the phone for a few minutes, his face gradually falling into its normal, hard lines.

  “Wait up, wait up...you mean he stole money from you? Wasn’t he still working?” Slate ground out. He paced up and down again, pausing to lean against the wall, tipping his head back with a thump. “No, no, I believe you, GeeMa. I don’t get what he was thinking. I’ll call Myron, get a wire transfer into your account tod—” He paused when she interrupted. “Yes. No...I know that’s not why you called, GeeMa,” he said softly with a smile in his voice, “but gotta keep some mad money in there; never know when you and GeePa will want to go off for a wild weekend.”

  Grinning at the response on the phone, Slate closed his eyes. “It’s good to hear your voice too, GeeMa. I love you guys, ya know. Let me know if you hear from Ben, and I’ll do the same. Don’t worry about him. He’s probably in the bus with the guys, headed to those gigs out on the west coast he was talking about a few weeks ago. I don’t have a thing to say about him leaving, but we’ll have words about the thievery. I’ll make sure he understands, GeeMa. There’s only so many times you should have to put up with his as—butt doing something like this. I got this.”

  There was a pause, and the grin on his face grew a little wider. “Yes, ma’am, I will. Love you, too. Bye.” He disconnected the call and stood still for a minute, leaning. The backward kick, which knocked a hole in the wall behind him, combined with a violent yell of, “FUCK,” caused pounding at his door in seconds. “Slate, you okay man?” he heard one of the prospects asking through the door. “Yeah, man, it’s all good,” he muttered. “Call Woody and tell him he’s got a wall job.” Hearing a message of assent, he turned and sat down on the edge of the bed, forearms propped on his thighs and hands dangling loosely between his knees.

  He didn’t know how long he sat there like that, his mind circling and teasing at Ben’s behavior, which had worsened dramatically over the past few years. His little brother started a band in his late teens, and they’d been playing in Cheyenne bars for the past few years. He’d been drinking before he was legal, but once he hit that magic age, it seemed that every picture he saw of Ben, there was booze in his hand.

  A few months ago, he’d sent money out for Ben to buy some recording time in a studio, so the band could make a demo CD. It was done with the understanding that his little brother would straighten up his act. If he was serious about music as a career, then it needed to become a job, not a fucking life-long party. Susan fucked that up; she found out about the money and weaseled about half of it out of Ben’s hands. She’d done what she did best, partied for days with her dealers and johns.

  Ben had been so pissed at himself about trusting their mother—again—that he’d punched a wall and broken two knuckles, negating the need for use of the studio for weeks. By then, the rest of the money was gone too. Slate snorted softly. His brother had a good voice, really good, and that little fucker could make his guitar weep when he wanted to, but he didn’t have any common sense in his head.

  A tapping at the door drew Slate’s attention. “Yeah?”

  “Prez is on the horn, man, wants to chat,” came through the door.

  Sighing heavily, Slate stood, opening the door and holding out his hand to the prospect for the phone. “This is Slate,” he said quietly, acknowledging the open line.

  “Brother, we had a break-in at Tupelo’s last night,” Mason started. “They bypassed security, nothing on the tapes. They passed up the till, ignoring the cash. What they got was the armory, or at least part of it.” Slate leaned his forearm against the doorway, listening intently. Mason said, “Skeptics were on a run, saw Cut’s bike parked around the side last night. They thought it was odd enough to note, and thought that note was enough to mention, when they heard about the trouble. Bones called me a half-hour ago.”

  “Fuck me. Bones was sure of the ID?” Slate asked quietly.

  “Yeah, the paint on that scoot is distinctive, hard to miss his tank,” Mason growled.

  Slate nodded silently, the fucker had replicated his ugly fucking shoulder tattoo in paint on his bike, and it would be hard to mistake. Running his tongue against the inside of his teeth, he sighed, “All right, yeah, I got this, Prez. Where do you want him delivered?”

  “Just get our shit back, Slate. Call a brother to help, if you need it.” There was a slight pause. “Hey,” Mason started in a more upbeat tone, “did I tell you about Mica’s ink?”

  Slate chuckled. “Naw, what did princess get?”

  Their conversation ended soon after, and the amusement slowly faded off Slate’s face. Picking up his cellphone, he punched in a number from memory. “Myron, hey, man, it’s Slate. I need you to wire five thousand into my grandmother’s account at her bank in Wyoming. Yeah, same account information. Make sure you pull this from my account, fucker; it’s me, not Rebel.”

  Striding through the clubhouse, he tossed the other phone across the room at the prospect standing near the bar. “Okay, Myron, can you text me when it’s done, and I’ll let my grandmother know?” He walked into the kitchen area, looking at the pan of scrambled something on the stove. “Sure, man, thanks.” He disconnected the call, shoved the phone into his front pocket, and grabbed a plate, serving himself.

  Carrying his plate back out to the bar, he pulled the phone out again, making several calls to arrange meetings in Chicago in a couple hours. They’d meet at Tupelo’s, where he could look over the damage for himself. It had the benefit of being a neutral location, which meant he was able to ask Skeptics and Dominos to show too.

  Two nights later, Slate was standing in the back room of a Skeptics’ clubhouse in St. Louis, looking down at the battered piece of meat that was once Tucker. “Franks, get me a bottle of water, would ya?” he called over his shoulder at the doorway.

  Holding out a hand behind him, he accepted the water slapped into his palm, and squatted next to Tucker’s head. “Cut,” he started in a conversational tone, opening the bottle, “man, you don’t have to go out like this. Just tell me where things are. You can still walk away.” He dribbled water into the open mouth below him. “Doesn’t that sound good? Doesn’t it sound better than this? Being able to walk away? It’s what you shoulda done to begin with, but you can still do it.” Tilting his head down, he listened intently as Tucker responded. “There now, that wasn’t so hard, was it? We’ll check it out, and I’ll be right back.”

  Standing, he turned and walked out, closing and locking the door behind him. Taking a deep drink from the bottle, he spoke, “It’s in a storage locker across the river in East St. Louis. You got someone we can call to check it out?”

  Franks nodded, pulling out a phone. Slate gave him the
information, and took another drink of water. While they waited for confirmation that the stolen merchandise had been recovered, Franks asked him, “Mason give you the nod to let this fucker go?”

  Slate tipped his head to one side, cutting a look at the man. “Yeah, my call, and my call is that we’re gonna brand the fucker’s colors off, but he gets to live. Consider it...a lesson to others who might think about fucking with Rebel property of any kind. My brothers expect no less.”

  Franks blanched, taking in a shallow breath. “I’ll call Doc. We’ll make sure he keeps breathing until you are ready to turn him loose.”

  Slate tilted his head again, seeing the look of fear and respect on Franks’ face. “That’d be good. You do that, man. Much obliged for use of the clubhouse. Sorry for the bother, but appreciative of the assistance.”

  Later, when the sounds of screaming and the smell of burning flesh had both faded from the air, Slate stood in the bathroom for a long time. Knuckles white against the edges of the countertop, he studied his own face in the mirror, not liking what he saw there.

  ***

  Hanging around at Mica’s office for so long while on babysitter duty had given Slate insight into some of her clients, and he’d found a juicy squeeze in Donnelly, the one who he’d taken Mica to see, when he’d been pawed at by Daniel’s ex. Part of a family long entrenched in the shady side of Chi-town, it hadn’t been hard to find details to use against him. Then, it hadn’t taken much use of that leverage to convince him to throw more work Mica’s way once she came home and got settled back into her business.

  Slate’d been so successful in his campaign that Mica had expanded her business, hiring additional full-time employees and taking on new clients. To celebrate, she’d had a grand re-opening tonight, and from reports, the party at her offices had been successful.

  Standing behind the bar in Jackson’s, Slate looked around at the crowd, pleased. This was where the real party was, after that fancy pants shindig in the offices earlier. For a private party, there were a lot of people here, Slate estimated over a hundred in the bar now, and not everyone had shown up yet. Of course, since it was a party for Mica, it shouldn’t be a surprise it was well attended. Everyone loved her, and there’d been quite a few here tonight who felt like they had a hand in her triumph.