Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Slate laughed. “Naw, man, Diablo won the toss for the range job. PBJ wants on Princess duty for now, so I told him okay. Ruby likes him well enough, and he’s good with the prospects. Babysitting duty is good for them, and he’s always pulling in two or three when Ruby wants to go somewhere. She’s not shy about bossing them around either, which is good for ‘em.”

  Hoss cut his eyes over at Slate. “Saw the cut, Prez. She looks good in it. I thought she was too quiet, it’s good to hear she’s cutting up a little; are you sure she understands being Rebel property? She’s okay with the escort and interference?”

  “Yeah, she gets it. I’m glad the brothers were good with it; she’s making a difference around here already. It gives the members something specific to be proud of and protect.” Slate stretched. “I had a couple of the boys go on a run to give notice to the Highwaymen and other local clubs, letting them know her status and what it means. We need her safe, man; she’s precious to us all.”

  Hearing something behind him, he turned and saw a mane of red curls escaping around the corner. He grinned to himself. She’d been skirting close to him since she made her choice, he was always seeing her out of the corner of his eye or like today, darting around a corner. He wasn’t sure why, and thought she might be worried about her ‘job’, but maybe she was keeping tabs on him. He liked that. He liked her…a lot. He still fucking wanted her, but she’d made the wrong choice for that. He’d given her an ultimatum, and she’d picked the wrong answer.

  19 -

  Brothers

  A month later

  Walking in the hallway from the supply room at Marie’s, Slate was carrying a case of beer for the cooler. They had a special event tonight; a band named Occupy Yourself was coming in. He grinned, because when he finally got to talk to Ben a couple of weeks ago, he’d mentioned this band, and Ben got all excited. He needed to see if he could get something signed tonight, mail it to GeeMa to keep for when Ben finally went home. He was still pissed at his brother, but he loved him, and would always do small things that could bring a little joy to his life.

  He pushed the door open, turning sideways to move through it. Before the door closed, he thought he heard a voice call his name, so he pushed the door open again and looked back up the hallway. There was a young man standing there in dark shades, his sandy blond hair covered with a black fedora hat. Carrying an acoustic guitar over his shoulder on a strap, he looked oddly familiar.

  “Hey, man,” Slate asked, “are you with the band?” Nodding, the man clapped him on the shoulder as he walked past. The dude stank of whisky; evidently, he’d already been drinking hard tonight. Walking with him, Slate decided to ask for that autograph. “My little brother is a big fan. Is there any way I could get you to sign something for him?” Feeling smooth, he snagged a napkin from a table and pulled a pen from his pants pocket. Nodding, the guy reached for the napkin, and then slid the sunglasses down his nose halfway, his icy blue eyes looking into Slate’s face, the corners of his mouth tipping up into a grin.

  Slate’s heart rose to his throat. “Fuck me,” he breathed, reaching out and grabbing the guy into a tight embrace, pounding his back. “Baby brother, what the hell are you doing in Fort Wayne? Ben...Benny, oh man, it’s good to see you, shrimp. God, it’s good to see you. How long have you been here?”

  Ben was laughing, hugging him tightly. “Andy, I’ve missed you. You’re a fucking president, man? That’s hardcore,” he said, looking at his patch.

  Setting him apart with a little shake, Slate asked seriously, “Does GeeMa know where you are?”

  Ben nodded, pushing his sunglasses onto the top of his head. “She’s the one who told me about you being in Fort Wayne, where to find you. I started looking for gigs out this way, and then heard about this place.” Slate pulled him into another hard hug, closing his eyes for a moment as they embraced. Ben pulled back first, looking at him and smiling. “I gotta get to the stage, man. You gonna come watch us?”

  Slate frowned. “What the fuck you mean, ‘get to the stage’?”

  Cocking his head sideways, Ben asked, “You really didn’t know, bro? Even after I talked to you on the phone, you never, like, Googled the band to listen to some of the music?”

  “Know what? What don’t I know? What’s going on, Benny?” he asked slowly.

  “Andy, Occupy Yourself is my band; we’re playing here at Marie’s for the next week. Enough talking for now—I need to get to the stage,” he paused to listen, cocking his head to one side, “because the crowd is getting restless, and believe me when I say drunk, pissed off people can get really ugly.” Ben laid his hand on Slate’s arm. “We’ll talk after the show, Andy. Okay?”

  He nodded, dumbfounded, saying, “Slate…that’s what everyone calls me now—Slate, not Andy.”

  “What the fuck ever, bro, just come listen.” Ben laughed.

  He stood in the back of the bar for the next hour-and-a-half, watching as Ben and the guys in the band first captured the crowd, and then held them enthralled with their music. They were good, and for the music they played, Ben’s voice was perfect, full of gravel, angst, and whisky-soaked tones.

  Ben had started the set out by roaring questions at the crowd, and they’d responded in kind as the energy in the room ramped up. The band seemed to have local fans, and Slate realized the crowd was often singing along with at least the chorus, and frequently the entire song.

  All the guys in the band had booze or beer near them, and they’d been drinking liberally as they played, but none of them seemed overly drunk, except Ben. He’d started stumbling about halfway through the set, so the bass player had hemmed him into a small section at the front of the stage. That, at least, kept Ben from striding side-to-side and running into equipment.

  Slate heard Ben call out, slurring his words slightly, and mixing some up, “We are Occupy Yourself, and this is our last song of the evening, folks. You have an awesome crowd been, we want to rock you for thanking out with us tonight. We’ll be here all week, so come back and party with Occupy Yourself again tomorrow!” He turned and made a hand motion to the drummer, who counted them off into the next song.

  “Fucker is hammered,” came a voice from behind Slate. He turned to see a woman standing behind him, staring at the band with a frown on her face. She was dressed for business, in slacks and a jacket, but it was her face that caught his attention. “Benita Owens?” he asked as quietly as he could, given the volume at which the music was being played.

  She looked him up and down dismissively. “Yes?” her voice lilted up questioningly.

  He stuck his hand out. “Andy Jones, I knew your father, Darren Owens, back in Enoch.”

  Her face stilled as they shook, and she said flatly, “You’re Ben’s brother.”

  Slate stood waiting for her to continue, but that was evidently all she intended to say. “Yes, I haven’t seen him for a while, so watching them tonight has been fun. The band sounds good too. Do you travel with them often?” he asked her, trying to be polite.

  “Yes, but I don’t just travel with them; I’m the band manager,” she said with a sigh. “Not that it’s an easy job, at least not anymore, with all the partying they do.”

  They turned to watch the band again, seeing Ben stumble around the small part of the stage the bass player allowed him. Slate frowned. “How much does he drink during shows?”

  Benita shook her head slowly. “It’s not just during shows, Andy; he’s plastered nearly all the time. We had a terrible time getting good tracks laid down in our last studio sessions; we ran out of money, and had to stop recording for a while. Thank goodness, Ben found an investor, and we were able to finish the tracks and pay for production. Before that, the band was considering dropping Ben. After he showed up with cash in-hand, they stopped talking about it. There was even enough money left over to start this tour, and we’ve made pretty good book at our stops so far.”

  “Where are you staying while you’re in town?” Slate asked.

&n
bsp; “We’ve got a couple of suites booked at a hotel. We’ll check-in after the show tonight,” she said, pushing her hair away from her face tiredly. “I’ve got to get the merch table set up. Good talking to you, Andy.”

  “Let me know if you need anything, Benita. It’s good to see you again.” Slate reached out and touched her shoulder before she moved away.

  It worried him that Benny was drinking as much as Benita had indicated. Knowing how far his mother had fallen, and how quickly, he wondered if Benny might be in more trouble than he could recognize on his own. It had been eleven years since Slate left Enoch in his dust, and after all this time, he didn’t feel like he Ben would listen to any advice he’d give him. If the roles were switched, he sure as hell wouldn’t pay attention to anything his brother said, after he’d been gone from his life for so long.

  The crowd’s applause brought his attention back to the stage, where the band had finally finished their last song. He heard gasps from the audience as Ben tipped slowly forward, falling off the stage. Before his body hit the floor, Slate was running forward, shoving patrons out of the way. He saw the bass player throw his head back and caught his screamed, “FUCK,” as he stood on the stage with fists clenched.

  Crouching next to Ben on the floor, Slate saw the blood pooling underneath his brother’s head. Resisting the urge to roll him over, he made sure Ben was breathing as he heard footsteps approaching from behind. He pulled his phone from his jeans’ pocket and dialed 911, speaking briefly. He gave the operator the address and situation, and then disconnected the call.

  Looking over his shoulder, he saw Hurley, one of the club prospects. Motioning him over, Slate said quietly, “Pros, lock shit down; tell the brothers a bus is coming. Get these fuckers out of here to give them room to get a gurney in.” Turning back to Ben’s still form, he heard a sound of assent from Hurley. Reaching out a hand, he gently brushed Ben’s hair back from his face, whispering, “I got you, shrimp. I got you.”

  Things got hectic once the EMTs were there, but Slate was glad to see Goose was one of the responders. He’d been a Rebel for years, and was solid. It made him feel better right away when Goose looked at Ben and then at Slate, asking, “This a relative, Prez?” If he could still see the likeness the brothers shared under all the swelling and blood, then he was paying attention.

  “This is Ben Jones, my baby brother, Goose. He’s hammered, been drinking all night while they performed. Passed out on his feet, and he fell face first into the floor. I didn’t move him, just made sure he was breathing,” Slate reported evenly.

  “Good fucking deal, Prez. We’ll take it from here. St. Joe’s is closest, but I think we probably need to do Lutheran, in case he needs some aftercare,” he said. “You want to ride in the bus, or follow us?”

  “I’ll follow, and I’ll get out of your way now,” Slate said, standing and walking away. What the fuck was Ben thinking? How often had this kind of shit happened in the past? The band had started breaking down the equipment, not even coming over to see if his brother was okay. He jumped onto the stage, walking over to the bass player.

  Tucking his thumbs in his front pockets, he said, “You know you can leave the set-up as-is if you want. You’re here the rest of the week. Let me know if you guys need help with anything. They’re taking him to a local hospital. Who should I call with updates?”

  “Not me, man. That fucker just drank himself out of the band, as far as I’m concerned. He has family in town; that’s the only reason we came this far east. Maybe Nita knows the contact info for them. She’s our manager.” This was all said as he continued unscrewing equipment and tucking it into padded boxes arranged on the stage. “Breaking down is a habit; we take our gear with us when we go, but thanks.”

  “He been like this long?” Slate asked.

  “Fuck yeah, he’s been messed up for a long time. He’s an excellent musician and talented vocalist when he’s straight and on his game, but when he’s drinking and using, he’s useless.” The guy looked up finally, and then did a double-take and sighed. “You’re the brother, aren’t you?” he asked resignedly.

  “Yeah, I’m his brother,” Slate said wryly.

  Standing, the guy thrust out his hand. “I’m Danny Schraff. I play bass.” He pointed over his shoulder at the drummer. “That’s Blake Downey; he’s the drummer, and the guy over there who plays keyboard and guitar, that’s Dmitri Glass.” He looked ashamed. “Sorry about Ben getting hurt. We all appreciated you investing in the band. We really needed that infusion of cash a few weeks ago.”

  That was the second mention of an investment, and he assumed that’s what Benny told everybody about the money, instead of saying he’d stolen it from his grandmother. Investor sounded much better than ‘I’m a thief’, for sure. Slate shook Danny’s hand, and waved at the other band members. “Do you have Benita’s number? I can call her and let her know how Ben is doing. Will you guys finish out the week here, or have to cancel?” he asked.

  Danny shook his head. “We won’t cancel on you, man. Dmitri and I can handle the vocals, no problem. Ben’s been so fucked up we’ve not been allowing him to play much, so we all cover his instrument portion, even if he’s onstage. Plus, Ben’s been in trouble in nearly every town we go through, so lately, if he’s not hammered off his ass, he’s been too beat-up to play. We’re tired of it, man. I’m really sorry; I know he’s your brother, but he’s screwed up.” He dug a card out of his pocket. “The number on there is Nita’s cell.”

  “Thanks, Danny. I’ll see you here tomorrow night, okay? Have Benita see Gypsy at the bar for your portion of the take from tonight, and I’ll make sure he knows who to look for.” Slate turned, heading over to the bar.

  He talked to Gypsy, explained who Ben was, and pointed out Benita, who was manning sales at the merchandise table she’d set up in the back of the bar. “I’m headed to Lutheran. Call me if you need me, Brother.” He grasped Gypsy’s forearm in a shake.

  “Prez, let me know if you need anything. I’ll let Ruby know where you are,” Gypsy called after him as Slate walked away. He winced a little at that last part; he and Ruby had become good friends over the past few weeks, but they were only friends, as he’d promised.

  Arriving at the hospital, he saw Ben was still out, but restrained to the gurney, and he looked at Goose with eyebrows raised. “Sorry, Prez, he woke up in the bus and tore out his IV twice. Had a helluva time getting him secured so he couldn’t hurt himself.” Goose seemed abashed.

  “He always was a stubborn fucker,” Slate muttered. “Any update on how he’s doin’?”

  “Doc’s been in; they are gonna do a CT scan of his head to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion, but likely, he’s just got a broken nose from face-planting on the floor.” Here, Goose paused, looking at Slate. “His blood alcohol level was off the charts, Prez. Even if he doesn’t have a concussion, they are going to want to keep him for that alone.”

  There was a groaning sound from the gurney, and they turned to see Ben moving his head helplessly, trying to not vomit on himself. Goose grabbed a basin and held it in place, letting Ben purge himself of as much alcohol as his stomach would allow. Ben rolled his eyes up at Slate, his hair sticking to his sweat-dampened face. “Andy, I don’t feel—” he started, and then his body stiffened, shaking.

  “Is he having a seizure?” Slate asked, trying to stay calm as his forehead wrinkled in worry.

  Goose called up the hallway to the nurse’s station, “Little help down here?” as he unstrapped Benny, rolling him over onto his side. Hurrying feet slapped the linoleum, and Slate stepped back as several medical personnel surrounded the gurney. Goose called out, “Alcohol poisoning—he’s vomiting, seizing, clammy, and sweating. Did someone call Doc?”

  Hours later, Slate felt like his ass had molded to the uncomfortable seat. He hadn’t wanted to stay in the waiting room, so he’d pulled a chair into the hallway outside Benny’s room, leaning it against the wall. He heard a short noise from the room, and
walked in to find Ben awake, looking at the straps that held his wrists to the frame of the bed.

  “Hey,” Slate said quietly. “How ya feelin’, shrimp?” Ben had a stricken look on his face, his blond hair hanging down, stringy and greasy-looking; his face was covered with stubble, giving him a further unkempt look. Dressed in a hospital gown, Ben pulled his shoulders up to his ears, sinking down into the bed. “How the fuck do you think I feel? I feel like shit,” he growled, his voice hoarse. He rolled his arm, looking at the IV that was attached at his elbow. “I hate needles,” he scrunched up his face and winced with pain, “and my face hurts,” he shifted in the bed, “and I think I peed the bed.”

  “You remember anything from last night, shrimp?” Slate questioned. “You were wasted, man, totally hammered.”

  “I remember seeing you at the bar,” Ben said, “but that’s pretty much it.”

  Slate was surprised; Ben had sung for over an hour, and had finished the complete set before passing out. “You got drunk, passed out on your feet, and fell off the stage onto your face.” Slate pulled up a chair and turned it around, resting his ass on the back of it. “From what I hear, this is pretty normal for you,” he continued, watching Ben’s eyes.

  “I drink to loosen up for the show, An—” he started, and Slate interrupted him. “Guess what your blood alcohol level was, Ben. Go ahead, guess.”

  Ben tipped up one corner of his mouth. “Point-oh-eight?”

  “Nope,” Slate said, popping on the ‘P,’ “Benny, you tested at point-three-eight. You listening? People die at point-three-oh, and you were at point-three-eight. That was not drinking to loosen up for the show. That’s drunk because you don’t have the common sense God gave a goose. What the fuck were you thinking?”

  “Holy shit, I’ve never gone above point-two-seven before. That’s like a record or something.” Ben laughed, and Slate was so fucking angry it washed over him in waves.