Going Down Easy: A Rebel Wayfarers MC & Incoherent MC Crossover Novel

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Fuck.” Gunny’s single word carried all the misery Jock had in his chest.

  First one hand, then another landed in the center of his back, directly over his spine. Palms laid flat over the patch he wore, and he understood what it meant. His brothers would stand at his back through this, however it fell out. If Silly stayed, they’d be happy for him. Happy for her, too. If she left to follow the dream of being her own boss, running the show, pushing other artists to see how high they could fly? Well, they’d be at his back then, too.

  “Yeap.”

  ***

  Slate

  “Yo.”

  Slate greeted the man walking into the clubhouse, his oldest friend. “Mason, brother. Thanks for coming.” He stood, reached, and grabbed hold, pulling Mason into a one-armed clinch. His shoulders already felt lighter, just knowing at the end of the conversation there’d be another head working on the same problem. “I got something to lay on ya, see what kind of magic you can pull out of your hat.” He settled back into his chair.

  “I’m not a magician.” Mason chuckled as he took the seat opposite Slate, stretching out his legs with a sigh. “But I am a man with an opinion on everything.”

  “No fuckin’ shit, brother.” Slate laughed, but it died off fast. The look on Silly’s face had haunted his dreams last night, making him even more determined to find a solution for her and Jock’s dilemma. “Ernie’s hit the big time, you know?”

  That earned him a smile, broad and unfettered. “Yeah, man’s done all right for himself.”

  “You set him on that path. I wasn’t there, but I heard.” Slate looked down and laughed softly. Being on the receiving end of many a Mason Maneuver, as the club called his machinations, he knew how proud the man was when things went according to plan. “Miracle worker.”

  The weight of Mason’s gaze brought Slate’s eyes back up, and he let some of his pain shine through. Quietly Mason asked, “First a magician, now a miracle worker? What you need to run past me, brother?”

  In for a penny. “Say there was a brother found himself the one, a woman who’d do more than warm his bed, but would be his old lady in every sense of the word. You be happy for the man?” Slate stared at his friend, the man who’d brought him into this life, and waited, knowing there’d be wisdom at the end of their conversation.

  “I’d be happy for him.” Mason sat up, looking more alert as he propped elbows on his knees. Voice rough with suppressed emotion, he asked, “You got shit goin’ on I don’t know about, man?”

  Shocked, Slate blurted, “What?” It hit him then, what Mason was thinking, and he rushed to reassure his friend. “Me…no, man. No. Me and Ruby’s tight. We’re good. Golden.”

  Mason’s stare was intense. “Then what’s this about?”

  “Jock and Silly, man.” He shook his head, still not quite believing how something so clearly right and good could be at risk of dying. “Jock and Silly.” Slate laid it out for him, and at the end, Mason sat back in his chair and sighed. “Fuck.”

  “Yeap, about right.” He stared at Mason. “What’d’ya think we oughta do?”

  It took a moment, a long set of breaths where Slate came close to losing hope, but then it happened. Like it always did. Slate watched as Mason’s chin tipped up, lifting as his lips spread in a slow, satisfied smile.

  “Fuck yeah. What you got, boss?”

  Our History

  Jock

  “I cannot turn this down.”

  He’d known it was coming, had carried the weight in his chest all day, but hearing the words in her voice set the cement curing, dragging at him as it grew heavier and heavier.

  “You’re not a fool, Silly.” He reached for her hand, lifted her knuckles to his lips. She rolled her fingers to clasp his, and he felt them tremble. “Too smart to work for someone else all your life, and this? Baby, this is custom-made for you. It’s an opportunity of a lifetime.” He’d practiced the words in his head, pleased they sounded more sincere aloud. He meant everything he said. It was all true. It just fucking sucked. “You’re right. You can’t turn it down.”

  “What does this mean for us?” Her fingers spasmed in his as she posed an impossible question. Impossible for all the reasons he’d already sorted out in his head.

  If she took the offer, they’d be ending. He wouldn’t make her try to keep things together, not starting out in a new city on top of taking on a challenge like stepping into a store that was bound to have drama, just because the previous manager and star artist was more than high maintenance. No, she’d have her hands full, and trekking her ass up to be with him would wear on her quickly. His job was here, his brothers and club, so he wasn’t in any better position to haul himself to see her more than once a month, if that. Better to let her go gracefully, with no anger. He’d passed hour after hour coaching himself to accept the inevitable.

  It still sucked.

  “I hope I’ll be a sweet memory for you.” He lifted his gaze to her face just in time to see the devastation settle in, hope falling away and grief taking hold. Reaching deep inside himself, determined not to layer his pain on top of hers, he kept his voice steady. “And until you have to go, I’m with you. Anything you want, Silly. I’ll be here. I’ll be in Chicago, if you can make time for me.” Her eyes closed slowly, but not before he saw the wet swimming there. “Baby.” He settled her into his lap, holding her close. “We’ll take it a day at a time, yeah?”

  Wordlessly, she toyed along his arms, palms smoothing up and up until she reached his neck. Then, as she always did, Silly started her exploration of him, beginning with the scars that dimpled his neck and shoulders, souvenirs from the day he should have died. Twenty-two men had rolled out on patrol that day, and scarred as he was inside and out, he was the only one still breathing.

  “You got these in the war?” Silly reached out to him, then jolted and ducked her head, the movement redirected until her fingers tucked into the back pockets of her jeans, dermal implants flashing in the neon lights. Arms to the side, she swung her hips and poked him with an elbow. “I’m sorry.”

  “No sorries,” he told her, not knowing that would be the first of a hundred such demands and reassurances between them. They’d left the club’s party at Gunny’s place behind and continued their night at a mutually agreed-upon bar. He hadn’t done this in a long time, the flirting, and maybe never with someone like her. This woman was out of his league. Still, he wanted to reach for it. The problem was every movement, every word carried an awkwardness he knew she could read like a book. “They’re just scars.” He shrugged, not sure what else to say. The scars were a permanent part of him. “If they bother you—”

  “No.” She angled towards him, again caught herself and halted, then lowered her voice so he had to lean in to hear her. “No, your scars don’t bother me. Skin, it’s meant to hold our history.”

  “What do you mean?” From this close he could smell her scent, an intricate musky perfume. She was sweet and gorgeous. Silly was so beautiful he’d almost been afraid it was a joke when she’d approached him back at Gunny’s place. Now she was proving herself intelligent, too. A trifecta of everything he wanted. “A history how?”

  “I tattoo. I am an artist.” He nodded, having gotten that from their earlier introductions. “Not just the kind of flash framed on the shop walls. My favorite part is when I ink memories into people’s skin, write stories into the canvas behind which they will spend the rest of their lives. A mask for some, but for others, it can be a gift of thoughtful histories they want to share with the world, or keep secret in some cases. A whispered reminder instead of a defiant shout.” She shrugged, the movement graceful like a dancer. She was lean, petite. Tiny and vulnerable in a way that made him want to protect her. Even situated as he was, deliberately slouched low on a barstool in a corner, he towered over her. “Of course, some scarring can be intentional, but most is evidence of life’s interruptions. A history just the same, but one of surprise and pain instead of anticipation an
d pleasure.” She rolled her neck, arching the delicate column, and he saw a white line transecting her skin. “My cousin wanted to learn to sword fight. I learned a lesson that day that I think of every time I see the scar. That’s one of dozens.” She nodded towards him. “You gained your scars in a day, yes?” He didn’t respond, just held her gaze. “My lessons took decades. Our histories are different, but in some ways…the same.”

  “Huh.” Moved by her insight, Jock self-consciously ran a finger around the neck of his shirt. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I just always… I don’t know. Ugly is all that comes to mind when I take the time to look at them.” He forced a laugh that felt too loud and lasted just a beat too long, more awkwardness come home to roost. “I don’t often take a mind to look at them. I try to ignore them mostly.”

  “I do a lot of survivor tattooing. Cancer, injury. I tattooed a toenail complete with polish on a woman last week.” She smiled, still seeming as comfortable and easy with him as she’d been all night.

  “A toenail? With a manicure?” Taking a chance, Jock slipped his fingers around her wrist to tug one hand out of its hiding place. He pretended to examine her fingers but knew she saw through his ruse when she tapped his nose. He’d wanted to touch her and had read her movements earlier as a reflection of the same. It seemed he hadn’t been wrong.

  “Yes, complete with a pedicure.” She teasingly emphasized the word. “She’d had an accident as a child and lost the first joint off her index toe. When she called me for a consult, she said it always made her ill at ease. She’d paint her toenails, make her feet pretty, but then hide them away. The first day she wore sandals was walking away from my chair.” Silly pressed her palm to his as if measuring and smiled up at him when her fingers barely reached to the middle of his. “That felt good.”

  He spread his fingers and let her thread their hands together, working at it until he could hold her hand, clasped palm to palm. “I bet it did. That’s important, then, what you do.”

  “I’ve done intricate breast pieces and shields to disguise or augment mastectomy scars. Helping the women regain a sense of control is important. Those pieces aren’t about decoration so much as they are a statement of power. ‘This is my body. I will not cede it to cancer.’ That’s what I keep in my mind when I do those designs.” She leaned into him, her shoulder pressed tightly to his ribs. The pressure was exquisite, and he fought to keep from going hard. “Of course”—she smiled and tilted her head, crazy-colored hair falling all around, and Jock had a vision of her in bed, spread underneath him, giving him that smile—“I also do tattoos of butterflies and roses, often positioned at the small of a woman’s back. But whatever it is, it becomes part of their history.”

  Jock drew in a slow, steadying breath. “I want you to be part of my history.” Silly’s hand stilled, and she leaned back enough to see his face, signs of her upset still present in the shining tracks of tears. “Before you go. I want you to give me that tattoo you’ve been drawing in your head for more than a year.” She stared, eyes wide. “You think I don’t know you, Sylvia? Know what you’re thinking? You want to put you on me.” He cradled the curve of her skull, urging her to resume her previous position. Sometimes it’s easier if I can’t see. Cheek back against his chest, she settled her hands on top of his, those clever fingers walking across each tendon and vein, mapping out the dimensions. “I want that, too.”

  ***

  Silly

  Jock’s words had burned, scoring a wound through her chest and into her heart, molten pain in its path.

  “I hope I’ll be a sweet memory for you.”

  She hadn’t answered him, couldn’t and stay whole, or at least as whole as she’d be at the end of this. He’d come to the same conclusion she had, clearly, and she hated how sweet he was being. It wasn’t as if Jock wasn’t feeling the same pain, because she read it on his expression every time he looked at her. Bald need and anguish, and he’d fight it, shutting it down a little at a time until all that was left was the pride in her accomplishments, his pleasure at what this would mean for her career, for her.

  Selfless. When she was anything but, her brain working out scenarios where he uprooted himself and went with her, or refused to let her go with a demand she stay for him.

  I would, if he asked. And he knew it, too, which was why he never would ask.

  Selfless.

  So the one thing he had asked, she’d give him. Somehow, she’d manufacture time to draw the things she saw in her mind. On his chest, she’d paint him with a chopper, the kind he built in the club’s shop, giving it a David Mann feel without stealing any of that master’s thunder. She’d put him on the back of the bike, and up until now, she’d always imagined giving herself space behind him, legs cocked up at his hips, short shorts exposing all kinds of flesh in a risqué, shop-calendar way. For his back, with the scarring, she’d have to take care and do short sessions to limit the amount of additional scarring. But she imagined a landscape with all the things important to him. Semper Fi, the American flag, a dark horizon with silhouettes of soldiers, the Marine insignia and birthday, maybe a small patch reserved for her. One of them would be a challenge, but to plan both? I can do it.

  And even if she didn’t get it all on him before she left, it would be a reason for him to visit. Even if adding to the tattoo became the sole reason he came to see her, she’d take it without question. Take it and squeeze every second out of it, give him what he’d asked for and take what she needed.

  “Baby?” Jock’s voice startled her, drawn out of the air just over her head. She was nestled in front of him, small spoon style, and he’d wrapped as much of himself around her as he possibly could. With his even breaths, she hadn’t realized he was still awake, thinking him asleep hours ago, but his voice didn’t give away he’d been sleeping, and the pain just underneath the surface said he’d been lying awake, just like her.

  “Yeah?” Her voice was scarcely a whisper, but she knew he’d heard her because his arms tightened around her.

  Nothing more, just an assurance they were connecting even with this.

  She wanted to scream, rail at the fates who’d thrown this boulder in their path, destroying the beauty they’d been building together. She’d escaped an oppressive family, fleeing the village where she’d been born and coming to the US in the back of a covered truck. About ten years ago, Mason had found out about her status and set about making it so she never had to worry. That was after her family had followed her, when she’d found the depths of evil they were capable of. There’d been so many bodies that day, and one of them had looked just like her. A cousin who’d hooked her star to the wrong man and been driven into acts Sylvia still couldn’t believe had planned to kill and impersonate her to get close to Mason and his men. I survived.

  That was it, though. The sum total of these past years. Survival. Fear had ruled her for a long time, and it was only recently that she’d started moving past it and into something better. No longer just surviving, she was living, sucking life dry and asking for more. Silly brushed her cheek along Jock’s bicep, his arm bent double under her, hand clutched between hers as she held it to her chest.

  “Baby,” Jock murmured again. “You okay?”

  No, I’m not okay. How could I be okay, when I’m going to begin the process of tearing myself away from the only thing that’s made sense in forever? She swallowed those words, feeling the burn of tears at the back of her throat. “Yeah, Jock. I’m okay.”

  She made and dismissed a thousand plans over the next few hours.

  When sunrise came, teasing into the room with glowing streams of light, she still hadn’t found any good solutions.

  ***

  Mason

  “I understand you’re sending our girl down to the Big Easy.”

  Mason waited through the heavy sigh, then a humming false start, until Ernie finally got down to it.

  “It’s the right move for her. I need her. Best of both worlds, Mason my friend.” More
humming, then, “She’s hesitant, and I understand.”

  “Do you, motherfucker? Do you really?” He would much rather have done this in person, but his daughter had a virus and he wanted to be close with his baby girl feeling sick. Mason shook his head. “It’s the best thing for you, maybe. You get a good business salvaged by a gal you already know is loyal down to the bone. But did you think what it means for her, old man?”

  “She didn’t say no.”

  “Of course she didn’t say no. Goddammit, of course she didn’t. She dotes on your ass. If you asked her to go to Iowa to pick up some goddamned turkey or St. Louis for ribs, she’d be in the wind an instant later. Dotes on your ass, and you’re sending her a thousand goddamned miles away? Fuck, man.” He tipped his head back and stared at the wall of pictures Willa had put up in his office. The rest of the house was all about peace and harmony, at least whatever that looked like in her kooky, crazy head, but in here she’d given him biker goodness. Pictures of him and his brothers, him at rallies and parties, him rolling out in the lead on a memorial ride. She’d found pictures of his first bike and somehow managed to make it look so good that he’d kill to have that damned Indian back. That was why he didn’t make business calls from in here that often. He’d get so mellow looking at the images of his life mapped out to muse over, he couldn’t work up a decent rant. Tipping forwards, he planted an elbow on the desk, phone held to his bowed head. “You’re giving her everything at the same time you’re takin’ it all away.”

  “She’s young.”

  “You know when you met Sheila that she was the one?” Mason shot back without pausing, because he already knew the answer. “You see that woman in a crowd on the train platform and set out to make her yours?”