Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Slate had been stuck down in Memphis for a few weeks, and had gotten back in town just today. The Rebels were in the middle of chartering a new chapter there; it made a secondary mid-point between Chicago and Houston, taking some of the strain off the Little Rock members.

  While they did not yet have a charter in Texas, there was a big push from some of the smaller clubs they’d run into there. Those clubs all wanted affiliation with the Rebels, but it wasn’t good business to have too much room between club chapters, so they had some things they needed to get into play first. Memphis was a good fit, and he’d settled a lot of details, including locating a couple of good revenue streams they could snap up easily.

  He liked that part of the club life; he enjoyed finding puzzles that needed solutions, and then sourcing the right answer. That business side of things gave him a lot of satisfaction, because he knew he was helping support his brothers and their families. Everything came down to the brotherhood, this family he’d chosen, and the loyalties he felt for and with them. His face hardened. He might not relish—fuck that…he fucking hated the enforcement portion of his position within the club, but he knew it was important, too.

  Mason had seen how much the business in St. Louis had taken out of him. He’d been sympathetic when he heard the decision Slate made, the discipline enforced on Cut, but they both understood it was necessary. You couldn’t let anything slide; if someone fucked you or the club, you had to fuck them back in order to ensure no one else thought they could take advantage of the club. He mouthed, God forgives; Rebels don’t.

  The Rebels couldn’t let Cut run around with the club tattoo on his back either, so the actions served two needs, but God, it had been a hard task, and Slate still woke up in a cold sweat from nightmares of the man’s screams.

  Slate rolled his shoulders, consciously releasing the tension that came when he thought about St. Louis for too long. He hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans, leaning his shoulders back against the wall.

  Scanning the crowd, he started mentally marking a number of the people already here. There were four different patches on cuts, arrayed alongside Armani suits; rough hockey players bumped glass rims in toasts with lawyers and judges. Mica’s area of influence had spread wide in the years she’d spent in Chicago, and the attendees tonight reflected that.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out to read a text from Road Runner. Seemed he needed someone to set up some tables in the bar for food, because he was finally on his way. He raised a hand, pointing to and calling three prospects to his side. He gave them orders to pull tables from one of the private rooms and line them up along the front wall of the bar, and then to go outside and watch for the van with the food.

  Satisfied they’d get things ready, he strolled over to talk to Bingo. His next trip would be down to Fort Wayne, and the chapter president was a good source of information. They were deep in conversation when Slate felt the atmosphere in the bar change, the hair lifting on the back of his neck. He lifted his head, glanced around, and froze in place.

  Across the room, barely inside the door, was a beautiful woman with shiny, dark hair, and she was looking right at him. He felt a smile break slowly across his face, and he turned and walked away from Bingo without another word. “Little girl,” he breathed as he got closer to her, “I didn’t know you were in town. God, you look good, baby.” He reached out a hand, tucking a strand of her hair behind the curve of her ear, trailing his fingers down the side of her neck to her collarbone. His mouth tipped up on one side, and he grinned at the shiver she tried to hide.

  “Come here, baby; give us a hug,” he said, cupping one hand on her shoulder, his other going to her waist as he pulled her in close for a hug. Her hands slid up his back, and she turned her face into his neck, nuzzling into his chest. “Baby?” he questioned, “do you know how much I’ve missed you?” He felt the lifting of her cheeks into a smile, and heard her deep sigh, but she still hadn’t said anything.

  Slate felt a buzz of concern thrill through him, and pulled back to look into her face. She was smiling slightly, eyes opening slowly, and she tipped her chin up, looking in his eyes. “Hey, Slate,” she murmured, “I’ve missed you too.”

  He kissed her softly, gently covering her lips with his own. He stepped back, sliding a hand down her arm, winding his fingers in-between hers. Tugging, he pulled her with him, returning to where Bingo was standing, watching them with a curious gaze. After making introductions, he picked up the conversation with Bingo where he’d left off, keeping her close by his side. Throughout the rest of the party, he kept her beside him, openly advertising her position in his life with constant touches and strokes of her skin.

  Not a single club member in the room missed his silent declaration, and he saw Mason frown at him several times. Fortunately, he was busy behind the bar with the crowd. Slate knew they’d have to talk soon, but not right now, not when Essa had just walked back into his life. “Introduce me, my friend,” he heard from behind him, and turned with Essa tucked tight into his body.

  “Bones,” he said with a friendly smile, releasing her for a minute so he could thump the Skeptics president on the back. Wrapping his fingers around her hip, he pulled her close to his side and splayed his hand across her lower belly as he said, “Brother, this is Essa; she’s Mica’s cousin.”

  Bones held out a hand, and she placed her tiny one in his. He lifted it to his lips, softly kissing the backs of her fingers as Slate stiffened. “Essa,” Bones said smoothly, “a friend of Slate is a friend of mine. This is a powerful man you’ve aligned yourself with, and your presence at his side reinforces my belief in both his intelligence and good taste. It’s good to meet you. I’ve known your cousin for a long time, and am thrilled to see your beauty challenges her own.”

  Essa raised her eyes to Slate’s, blushing as she responded quietly, “Thank you, it’s good to meet you too.” The men talked for a few minutes about Mica and her success, and Bones asked Essa several direct questions, which she answered as briefly as possible.

  Her discomfort was clear to Slate, and he pulled her away as soon as he could, wanting to understand the problem. Taking her into the back room, he closed the door behind them. He smiled, thinking about when he had first come to Chicago, and Jackson’s, and steered her down the hallway and into the room that’d been his home for several months before he got his own place.

  Kicking the door closed behind them, he pulled her body flush against his front, reaching down to cup her ass through her jeans. Walking her backward to the bed, he stopped when the backs of her legs bumped against the mattress, only pausing as she stiffened. “Baby,” he murmured, his lips moving along her cheek. He turned, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled her down onto his lap. “I just want to hold you for a minute,” he whispered, lips pressed to the side of her head. Slate looked down into the deep, brown eyes of the woman in his arms, trailing kisses along her temple, down to the corner of her mouth.

  “Slate,” she said, pulling back and sliding herself off him to sit next to him, “can you slow down a minute? I’m not sure what’s happening here tonight.”

  Tipping his head sideways, he looked quizzically at her. “What do you mean, baby?”

  “Why did most of those men ignore me? And, what was up with that last guy, the one with the bizarre tattoos on his head? It was like he wanted to scare me, like he was trying to be frightening. I don’t understand what any of it means, and the conversation with that guy was just weird.” She laughed, asking, “Why did you tell them that I was with you? Is that like being your girlfriend?”

  Slate frowned. “I wanted to introduce you to my brothers, little girl. This is my family, even if not by blood. They’re important to me, and I wanted them to meet you. They were all respectful of you, weren’t they? That’s why I told them you were with me; it establishes that you aren’t open for invitation, that you are in a relationship.”

  “With you, you mean? In a relationship w
ith you?” she questioned. “But I haven’t seen you in months. Why would you tell them that? We’re friends; I wanted to hang out with you tonight, and I thought that’s what we were doing.”

  At that, Slate moved slightly away, separating from her and getting some space between them. He dropped his hands, letting them lie on the top of his thighs. He had a sick sensation in his chest; it felt like something was breaking apart. He carefully schooled his face to show nothing of the dismayed emotions he was feeling. She didn’t...she wasn’t interested anymore, maybe not ever. Fuck, she was just a little girl; she didn’t know what he’d wanted. At least he’d never fucked her. She’d only wanted to hang out, and he’d made a statement out of introducing her.

  He abruptly jackknifed to his feet, reaching down to pull her up. Striding swiftly, he tugged her into the hallway and leaned forward to kiss her temple gently. “I got shit I need to do, little girl,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “Good to see you.”

  “Slate,” she started, and he waved her words off with a quick hand motion. “Tell Mason I had to leave; he’ll watch out for you,” he said. Leaving her standing in the back hall of the bar, he went to the exit, letting himself out and closing the door softly.

  He got on his motorcycle, starting the engine with a kick. He sat for a second, listening to the pipes rumbling, eyes unfocused and hands loose on the handlebars. “Fuck me,” he muttered, opening the throttle and pulling out into the street.

  17 -

  Alone

  Working with the Rebel chapter in Fort Wayne had turned out to be a welcome reprieve from constantly thinking about Essa. Slate had come down to learn about the chapter and brothers, hoping to clear up some of the business issues he and Bingo had identified. There was a ton of work to do, and most nights, Slate fell into his bed in the clubhouse late, falling asleep before undressing sometimes. As long as he could keep busy, he could keep his mind away from her.

  One of the first things he’d changed was to implement regular sweeps of the blocks surrounding the chapter clubhouse. On their first run, he’d found drug dealers openly selling within two blocks of the chapter’s home base, and that shit needed severe discouragement.

  They’d rousted most of them, chasing them off with a message to not return. A few days in, Slate ordered one of the most persistent dealers to be picked up and brought to the backroom of the clubhouse. He’d sat on a chair in the middle of the room, slouching and insolent. Slate stepped into the room, standing just inside the door and gazing consideringly at the man. “You know where you are, man?” he asked casually, leaning back against the wall and pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

  “Man, you don’t know who you are messing with,” responded the slightly built man. “You let me go now, Tony’ll go easy on you.”

  “I asked you if you were aware of where you are—the location. Do you know where you are?” Slate asked again, slightly differently. “It’s okay to say no, man. I want to start this conversation with you knowing exactly how fucked you are.”

  “I done tol’ you, man…you don’t know who the fuck you messin’ with,” the man hissed, the acne on his cheeks standing out in sharp relief to the pale color of his skin.

  “Yeah, yeah, Tony’ll go easy on me,” Slate finished for him, sighing, “I heard you.” Taking two steps from the wall, Slate kicked the man hard in the chest, lofting the chair over backward and knocking him airborne for a couple feet before he slid headfirst into the wall with an abruptly ended scream.

  Slate strolled over to where the man lay on his back, coughing. He stood over him for a second, then squatted down beside him. Pulling his hands from his pockets, he rested them on his knees, lacing his fingers together. “Do you know where you are, piss-ant?” he asked again. “Last time I’ll ask.”

  “Some fucking bike gang compound,” the man ground out, raising one hand to the back of his neck, holding his chest with the other.

  Slate stood abruptly, kicking the man in the ribs several times to emphasize each word he called out, “You. Are. On. Rebel. Property.” He let that sink in to the little fucker’s brain before continuing steadily, “This is the Rebel Wayfarers Fort Wayne chapter clubhouse. Our mother charter is in Chicago, and with the twenty-five chapters across the Midwest, we have more than a thousand members. This is not a fucking bike gang compound, and you would do well to remember to hold respect in your mouth when speaking about Rebel property to a national officer.” He kicked him again, high under the arm, and winced when he heard the distinct sound of breaking ribs.

  “Fuck, man, that sounded like it hurt,” he said with some empathy, looking down at the asswipe keening on the floor. “I’d like to get a message to Tony.” He kicked the man again, catching him on the arm just below the elbow. “Hold on, I need to do something,” he said, placing his hands on the wall to balance himself as he kicked him several more times.

  “There, that’s better.” Taking a deep breath, he continued, “I’d like to get a message to Tony Manzino. Are you the man to do that for me?” He stooped down again, squatting next to the dealer, catching his gaze and holding it. “Are you? Do you think you can manage to remember the message long enough to tell Tony?”

  “Yes, yes,” came out on a high-pitched squeal, and Slate nodded at him. “Alrighty then. The message is, Fort Wayne is mine. Get the fuck out. You’ve got one day.” He tilted his head, looking at the man again. “Are you motivated to carry the message?”

  “He’ll kill me. He’ll kill me…” This was repeated frantically a few more times, the voice trailing off to silence.

  “Not motivated then? Because I can kill you now, save Tony the trouble, if that’s the case. Or are you gonna help me out?” Slate placed his hands on the wall again, looking down as the man tried to crawl away.

  “I’m motivated. I promise. I’ll tell him the message,” was the breathless response.

  Slate nodded. “Remember, the message is, Fort Wayne is mine. Get the fuck out. You’ve got one day. And don’t paraphrase anything, that shit pisses me off.” Raising his voice, he called, “Hoss, get your ass in here,” as he walked back over to the wall and leaned casually against it.

  The door opened, and one of the Fort Wayne members stuck his head in, glancing over at the shithead on the floor before focusing on Slate. “Yeah?” he grunted, grabbing the doorframe and slouching in the doorway.

  “Get a cage, take this man down off Anthony, and drop him near our auto repair place.” Slate rolled his shoulders. “Don’t overtax him. He’s a messenger now…got a message to deliver.” He watched Hoss grab the guy by the back of the shirt, picking him up and putting him on his feet effortlessly, then holding him there as the guy’s legs threatened to collapse.

  Wrinkling his forehead, Slate walked into the main room of the clubhouse, taking note of the groups of members who stopped talking as he entered the room. There were several guys from Chicago who’d joined with Bingo to start the chapter, and a few dozen who had come from other chapters across the country. Those men all waited for him to approach, showing respect for his position within the club.

  There was another handful who were skating the edge of disrespect, and he wasn’t yet sure why. He suspected it could be the feeling of being pressured from a national officer coming in and cleaning up their messes, and with a couple of them, the possibility their behaviors weren’t always in the club’s best interests might be found out.

  Today was gonna be all about straightening up the other businesses. Slate kept walking across the room, knocking when he came to the office door; he waited politely for Bingo’s response before he opened the door. Deke, Sergeant at Arms for the Fort Wayne chapter, was sitting in a chair facing Bingo across the big desk. Slate dropped into the remaining chair, and Deke slapped the door closed behind him. “How’d it go, brother,” he asked Slate.

  Shrugging, he responded, “About what you’d expect. ‘Oh, you are so fucked’ changed into ‘Whatever you want’ pretty quickly. He’s takin
g the message to Manzino, who will have a day to figure out if he wants to keep breathing or not.”

  He wiped his palms down the tops of his jeans, a gesture that didn’t go unnoticed by Bingo. Frowning at Slate, he said, “We could have handled this, you know. Didn’t need to come down to deal with the shit storm; we clocked those fuckers two weeks ago, and have been running them off the neutral since.”

  Without raising his head, Slate cut his eyes over and looked at Bingo. “Better if it’s coming from national, man, and you know that shit. Underscores the fucking backing that you have. Plus, it keeps your family out of the line of fire, and your nieces and nephews don’t need this kind of shit. It’s done; we’ll sort it out. I’d like to move on today to the other things we discussed.”

  Bingo’s eyes dropped, and he nodded, “I called Doc earlier; he’s headed over to the strip club. We’ll have blood work back on all the girls by tomorrow.”

  Slate narrowed his eyes. “Call him. I want to talk to him.” Deke reached out, punching a number into the phone, and put it on speaker. “Yeah?” came over the line. “Hey, Doc, Slate. You get started yet?” He slumped in the chair.

  “Not yet, getting the last of the late arrivals on board with the program,” Doc grumbled, and they could hear females yelling in the background.

  Grinning, Slate looked up at Bingo. “Get’em in line, Doc. Do you have resources to do drug screening in addition to STDs and pregnancy?”

  There was a pause. “Some…is there anything specific you looking for, Slate?”

  “Blow, horse, meth, the usual,” he said, rubbing his hand across his jaw.