Going Down Easy
A Rebel Wayfarers MC & Incoherent MC Crossover Story
Original version previously published in the
TNTNYC Patched Over anthology
MariaLisa deMora
Edited by Hot Tree Editing
Proofreading by Whiskey Jack Editing
Photography: Wander Aguiar, Photography
Model: Jonny James
Copyright © 2019 MariaLisa deMora
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
First Published 2019
ISBN 13: 978-1-946738-30-1
DEDICATION
To Kori and Kelsi: Thank you for making me part of the family. This is for Kave and Khan. #HeWillLoveMe
Contents
I Have An Offer
Got My Back
Our History
One Day
I Want It
Shit Happens
Have It All
Only The Best
Rebels and IMC
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I initially set out to write about a different couple in this book. My man Gunny had family ties to Louisiana seeing as he’s originally from there, and it seemed a logical transition. Sharon being friends with Vanna over in the Florida panhandle and maybe wanting to be closer to Kitt—it all made sense in a very tidy way.
However, you’ll note from the synopsis that this story is not about Gunny and Sharon. Oh, sure, they factor in a large way, because that’s just how Gunny rolls once he starts talking, but it seems he’s firmly settled in the Fort. Immovable.
Thank goodness we’d already brought another member into the fold who was more comfortable with making a transition. Jock and Silly, once they started talking, were a joy to write. Except when they had their heads up their respective asses. Then, they were frustrating.
Still, I like where we wound up. It’s been hella fun to see the worlds of the RWMC, IMC, and CoBos slowly meshing together over the past few stories, and now these clubs are firmly aligned. I hope you like the idea, too.
Thanks are in order for a whole bunch of folks, as always, and I appreciate every one of them.
Andrey Behia and Wander Aguair tolerated my frantic, last minute search for a particular image of Jonny James (the gorgeous model on the cover) and came through with flying colors. You men are wonderful, and I love you.
Becky Johnson and the folks at Hot Tree Editing, you happily tackled the chore of running two different edits simultaneously, one for the original version in the anthology and one for this longer, expanded cut. The result is perfection. Thank you.
Mel from Whiskey Jack Editing: I learn more from you each time we work together. Thank you for your patience, your mentorship, and above all the level-headed alliance you’ve offered.
To the readers: The publishing bit of this gig is all you. If you read and tell me what you think, I write. It’s a weird but true factoid that my creativity is tightly tied to each message, email, and most especially the reviews you leave to spread the word about these characters we all love so much. Thank you, from the bottom of.
To Keegan: You need to go to Sturgis, my man.
Woofully yours,
~ML
Going Down Easy
Former Marine Jacob Tinney found a new life within the Rebel Wayfarers MC in Fort Wayne. The club’s members took in Jacob, known as Jock, watched over him as their own, and sustained him with reasons to hold his PTSD at bay for another day.
Into this good life sashayed Silly, Sylvia Perez, a quirky tattoo artist, friend of the club, and woman who hid so much of herself behind a façade. Jock was first intrigued, then enamored, and finally, consumed with lust—and love.
But when Silly is offered the chance of a lifetime to run her own tattoo shop down near the Big Easy, there’s little he can do except tell her goodbye. Until an unexpected suggestion comes his way.
What if he could keep the brotherhood of a club, the camaraderie he needed, and transfer that to another patch?
Could he leave the RWMC and patch over?
I Have An Offer
Jock
The mattress shifting woke him. Not an abrupt jostle, more a slow slide of movement followed by a period of stillness. Of waiting.
Jock blinked into the darkness and turned to see a slim silhouette standing next to the bed. This petite wisp of a form was lean, curved in all the right places, and topped by a head of hair he knew was unruly, virtually untamable, just like its owner.
“Sil?” Voice heavy and slow, he drawled out her name as he reached out, fingers stretching until he encountered bare flesh. He stroked down across her knuckles, then up, and finally curved his grip to hold tight to her wrist. “Silly, woman, it’s early. Where the fuck you going?”
Jock tugged gently, and she gave gracefully, as she did everything, easing closer until she sat next to his hip, legs curled underneath her naked ass. The glimmer from her phone’s screen lit her face from underneath, but even that eerie angle couldn’t hide the sheer beauty of her features. She leaned in, and reflections sparkled from the piercings in her eyebrow, her ears. Even her chest and hands held sparks of fire in the night.
“Jock.” Her accented croon of his name was worthy of attention, and he gave her that, staring into the shadows of her face until he found the glint of her eyes, fixed on him. With just that, only his name from her lips, his cock was well on its way back to half-mast. Heat settled on his chest, her hand flattened over his heart, and he lifted his head to capture her mouth.
Hot and wet, her tongue teased at the edges of his lips until he sucked it in with a growl. Feeding on her whimpers, he kept the kiss going, renewing it every time it threatened to flag, hand tangled in that crazy hair holding them together until they both were panting for breath.
Jacob “Jock” Tinney, former Marine, current member of the Rebel Wayfarers MC, and bike mechanic at a shop the club owned, was deeply in love with the woman who’d tried to slip from his bed in the middle of the night.
He’d met Sylvia Perez, also known as Silly, at a club party back before he’d been a prospect. She’d approached him, which was the only way it would have happened, given how tangled he’d been in his head at the time. PTSD had been an everyday enemy, and he’d barely been finding his feet in a new town, with new friends. Silly had been confident, quirky, and gorgeous as fuck. He’d been astonished when she’d propped herself at his side with a quick joke, then intrigued when she forced conversation until it wasn’t stilted or forced anymore. He’d followed her to a bar where she’d talked about herself, her job, her friends, asking his input on minor things, laughing with him at his more absurd suggestions.
The transition had been so seamless he hadn’t realized when they’d gone from talking about her to talking about him. Once he’d been comfortable with that, she’d turned her chocolate brown eyes on him and with a slow blink opined that he could visit her hotel room that night. He’d stood, stunned, until she rolled her plush bottom lip between her teeth and shared that such a visit would not be unwelcome. Liquid courage had bolstered him, and he’d agreed.
That first weekend, she’d put in time exploring his mind, turning him inside
out with her puzzles and questions. He’d started out by exploring her body, taking her at her word when she’d claimed all she’d wanted was a good time. After two nights, she’d gone back to Chicago where home and work was, and he’d remained in Fort Wayne, still stumbling through figuring himself out.
What was intended to be wetting his dick in a one-night stand with a friend of the club he was interested in had instead turned into a fifteen-month journey together. Tonight they were in the Fort, in the single room he rented from Domino, one of his brothers, and when she’d arrived without warning, the one fact he’d gotten from her was her work was covered all weekend, which meant he had been promised another three nights with her. Arriving on Friday, she stayed through to Tuesday morning, without fail. So her slipping out of bed, phone in hand, wasn’t in line with any of that, and he wanted to know why.
When he finally released her mouth, she collapsed dramatically onto his chest, forcing out an “oof” from him that made her giggle. Cheek to his chest, she drew patterns along his skin with her fingernails, ghost touches interspersed with tiny, burning scratches. Each line drawn by her nails would connect to form a greater whole. Even at rest, her creative soul was always busy, always ready for the next idea, the next tattoo or piercing, the next drawing or canvas, because her art wasn’t restricted to flesh.
“Now, tell me where you were going, Silly.” He ran a hand slowly up her back, pausing at every dip between her vertebrae, circling the wings of her scapula, and continuing until he could cup her neck in his palm. She settled against him a little more with every moment that passed, arching into the touch like a cat even as she snuggled her cheek into the curve of his shoulder. “Because it’s fuckin’ early, and you said I had you for the weekend.”
She lay quietly until the bare silence rang in his ears. Finally, he heard the sound of her lips parting, and then she softly said, “I have an offer.”
“For me?” He blinked into the darkness, frowning. What the fuck does she mean?
“No, Jock. I, as in me, have an offer I’m considering. It was…” She trailed off for a breath. “It’s been weighing on my mind. I was restless, so thought I’d do my thinking quietly on the couch instead of waking you. But here we are.” Rolling her head, she planted a kiss against his chest. “With you awake.”
“Baby, you can’t sleep, you wake me up.” He shrugged and chuckled. “I’ll put you back to sleep the fun way.” She didn’t respond to the amusement he’d tried to convey, so he tried a different tactic. “What’s the offer? Something good?” Still aiming for humor, he put on a bad New Jersey accent. “Is it an offer you can’t refuse?”
Jock didn’t have to see her face to know the eye roll she returned. Her giggle, though brief, told him he was breaking through whatever funk had her in its grip. “Something like that, yes.”
“What is it? Now you got me goin’, Sil. I wanna know.” He wrapped his other arm around her, draped his hand just above her round ass, then stroked his palm down a few inches and back up. “Tell me about this mysterious offer.”
“Nothing’s certain, yet.” She sounded hesitant, which was out of character for Silly, and he struggled to keep his breathing steady, waiting.
A sense of impending doom curled in close, and he tried to push it back with mental effort, shoving down the thoughts of “not me” and “no good” and “why bother” that hovered along the edges of his thoughts, always.
His PTSD was the best it had ever been, flashbacks and episodes further and further apart until he didn’t have to hold his breath waiting for the next one to strike and fuck him up. But the mood swings and anger, those were harder to harness, even with the meds he was willing to take. I just need to give her time to tell whatever it is her own way.
“Okay.” He prompted her gently. “So you got things up in the air?”
“Yes, exactly that, Jock. Up in the air.” Her fingertip drawing had flowed over to his arm and down his bicep. She soothed them both with the action, and knew it, knew he’d never negate the chance to have her hands on him in any way. “The offer, it would be a big change. So I told them…him, I needed time.”
“Him?”
Jock didn’t have a chance to hide the edge in his voice. For fifteen months, they’d been exclusive, but if she was going to play him, he’d dump himself from her life fast.
Faster than my old lady did.
He’d cycled stateside from a mission on a lightning-fast round of leave, spending scarcely a weekend at home before having to jump back into the sandbox for nearly a year. Two months in, she’d told him she was pregnant, and Jock had been over the moon. They’d video chatted during every doctor’s visit he could arrange, and she’d thrilled him with images of their child, his child, still protected in her womb, waiting to take his first breath. He’d beaten his chest and crowed, because it was a boy, a son, someone to carry on his legacy. That excited high had lasted seven months.
Out of the blue, he’d gotten papers. She was divorcing him. She’d gone into labor and birthed the boy. His wife, now his ex, had cheated on him while he was deployed. The child hadn’t been his but her lover’s, and Jock had been left to twist in the wind, losing everything he loved in the space of a typewritten letter.
So Silly saying “him” wasn’t ever going to sit very well with Jock.
“Who’s ‘him’?” He shoved up the mattress, Silly rearing up and away from him in shock at his reaction. He knew it was out of proportion to her soft words, but he didn’t give that first fuck. Back flat against the painted surface of the wall, he levered into a sitting position, pushing away from her. “What ‘him’ would this be, Sylvia?” The darkness pressed in against him, and the smell of spilled fuel was overwhelming in the heat of the desert. He blinked, closing his eyes tightly as he shook his head. No, not now.
“Jock.”
Airy and light, her exclamation didn’t register. Jock was three steps ahead in his mind, imagination drawing pictures of her underneath some man. Someone not scarred, torn by war, someone who hadn’t gotten his entire unit killed because he’d been fixated on the idea of his wife fucking another man and stealing the chance of his son away.
“Jock, it’s nothing like that.”
Silly, smiling at someone not him. There were sounds from far away, urgent words strung together that didn’t make sense.
“I’d never do that to you.”
Silly, gorgeous and glowing, determination on her shining face as she worked to bring a child to air. Her hand clutched a man’s, ring glinting against her dark skin.
“Jock, come back to me.”
A man who wasn’t him, could never be him, because why would she settle? Woman like her, she didn’t have to. He’d known that all along, since he’d watched the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen cross a room to stand beside him. “I’m silly,” she’d said, and he’d laughed.
“Jock, you’re with me, here. We’re here.”
Squirming weight wiggled into his lap until he could feel the warmth plastered all along his chest, her unique comfort blanketing him, that gorgeous, painted skin touching his, smooth as silk, fingers cradling his head. Her. Silly.
“Jake, baby. Come back to me.”
Urgent and afraid, the tone finally dug through, raising an alarm. Covered with clammy, sticky sweat, he blinked, eyes scratchy and dry. Sylvia stared at him, face close enough to share breath. “Jake.” Her mouth moved, and he nodded. Relief flooded her features, and he watched her lids sweep closed, long dark lashes brushing the curve of her cheek before she opened her eyes again, and all he could see was the warm, chocolatey brown beauty shining up at him. “Jock, baby. You scared me.”
Mouth clamped shut, he pulled in a hard, deep breath that seemed to go on and on. When his lungs were full, near to bursting, he hitched his chest and forced in a bit more, then held it until it burned hot at the back of his throat. Until the muscles of his back were jumping and jerking, trying to expel the air, useless and all used up, nothing left to
sustain life. Like me, he thought as he let it rush out of him, poison flowing over his lips.
“I’m sorry.” God, he hated those words. Meaningless when overused, they stained the air around him constantly. Sorry for failing. Sorry for being the man he’d turned into. Sorry for panicking. Sorry for breaking. Sorry for breathing, some days. The only ones he didn’t feel that way with were Silly and his brothers in the RWMC. And now he’d broken that streak, here in bed with her, by flipping out over something he knew he’d concocted inside his own head. “I’m sorry.”
“No sorries, baby.” She covered his mouth with her hand, head shaking back and forth firmly as she reminded him of her rule. “No sorries. Not with me.”
His PTSD might be better, but it would never be gone. And she knew, of course she knew. He’d told her as much not a month ago when she’d come in unexpectedly to find him curled into the corner of the room, shaking, caught inside the memories of the night his unit had died. She could do so much better.
Silly pushed past his silence. “This is on me. My timing was shit, but I’m tired and anxious, and you were so beautiful waking up like that. If you’re with me, I’ll tell you everything. This wasn’t me trying to keep secrets. Not from you. Never from you. And never that. I’d sooner cut off my own hand than do something to hurt you. But if you’re with me, I’ll talk. Are you with me? Jock? Are you?”
“Yeah, Silly. I’m with you.” He shrugged, feeling the skin of his back catch on the chilly bedroom wall. The surface of the burns he’d suffered wasn’t smooth there but pitted. Rough. Damaged. Like me. “I wasn’t, but I am now.”
“The man I work for, you know him, no?” His trembling smile at her convoluted language failed before it hit his lips, so he just nodded. “He runs the shop, and owns it. You know he owns a bunch more, too. He got noticed a few years back, because of who and what he does. When he first opened the shop, he had to have a friend file the paperwork.”
Going Down Easy: A Rebel Wayfarers MC & Incoherent MC Crossover Novel Page 1
