“But we’re friends.” Po’Boy leaned forwards and tapped the table with one finger. “We are friends. Is that confirmation? Because since I patched into the CoBos, you ain’t been actin’ friendly.”
“Fuck you, we’re friends.” Pony leaned in, too, and tapped the tabletop with two fingers. “Always been friends, always gonna be friends. That shit was settled solid, right fucking here, brother. It don’t matter what patch you wear, I’m with Twisted on that. You’re more than my friend, man. You’re my brother.”
Silence settled around the table, heavy and dark, and Jock glanced from face to face, reading sorrow and grief there. The waitress chose that moment to step in, and she must have known these men’s preferences, because without them having ordered, she settled mugs and cans of beer all around. Then, understanding the mood of the table, she beat a fast retreat.
Twisted moved first, leaning forwards to grip a can of pop, which he passed to Penny, then a can of beer, which shocked Jock when he passed it to Silly. Po’Boy held a mug out to Jock, and he accepted it wordlessly. When all the drinks had been claimed, Twisted lifted his high and, without turning around, shouted, “A toast.” The sound level in the room dropped immediately, and he filled it with another shout. “To Jimbo, Scot, Doobie, Astro, Hopper, Cajun, Chevy, and Wheels. Ride in paradise.” His words were followed by a rumbling echo of “ride in paradise” from every corner of the room.
Jock and Silly lifted their beers and, taking their cues from the people surrounding them, drank deeply.
“Had a war start here.” Twisted nodded towards the booth. “We lost eight men that day. Seven died right fuckin’ here, at this table, including my papaw, Jimbo.”
“Jesus, Twisted. I didn’t know.”
“Nor should you. This is IMC lore, not RWMC. Pony was here, saw it go down, assisted. He was Vicar’s Wrath at the time, SAA of their 9th Ward chapter. We fuckin’ gutted that club and took it down. Now the only VWMC patches you see are a poor replica, and the men worth knowin’ and having at a body’s back wear my patch or Wrench’s.” He lifted his beer again, and every man at the table matched the gesture, echoing his “To Papaw.”
“Jimbo was IMC president and founder. Him, Ace over there, who founded the CoBos, and two others who ain’t suckin’ air no more served overseas. They came back, started their clubs, and here we are.” Twisted gestured towards the table, then tipped his head backwards, indicating the rest of the men and women who’d come with him. “We represent those four clubs, and four more. Eight clubs, now consolidated into two cooperative and allied dominants. Shit happens, it gets real, and we fuckin’ deal.”
“RWMC lore is much the same.” Jock stuck to the facts anyone could know if they researched it. “Officers could give you deeper information, but we started in Chicago under an asshole as the Rebel Fiends. Mason took the gavel and birthed the club anew as the RWMC. Along the way, as I’ve heard it, since I’ve only been in the club a couple of years, he pulled in about a dozen clubs. The members who were worth a shit wear the skull and key. The ones who weren’t?” He shrugged. “Nobody fuckin’ cares.”
Silence, broken only by the laughter and clinking of tableware from other tables, then Twisted sighed. “We done got deep and dark.” Head bent to Penny, Twisted cut his eyes towards Jock. “Was not my intention, man.”
“Shit happens.” He made a so-what gesture.
“Still, not my intent. I wanted to meet the man Mason felt comfortable sending on my patch without a brother at his back. Then—” He flashed a smile at Silly. “I recognized you, pretty lady. You’re my new shop manager.”
She stilled on Jock’s lap but didn’t respond. He studied Twisted’s face and saw a flash of humor there, so Jock held his peace, waiting.
“Not my manager, per se.” Twisted stroked his beard. “But that shop’s been IMC’s since the day the door opened. Jasper, the old owner? He was the shit, man. We kept it safe and clean, because everyone knew if you fucked with Jasper, you fucked with us. Got my first tat in Jasper’s chair.” He shoved back in his chair, going from sprawling to leaning forwards in a second, Penny cradled to his chest. “I’d be honored to sit in your chair, Sylvia Perez.”
What the actual fuck?
***
Silly
Head tipped to rest on Jock’s shoulder, she felt his hand at her hip tighten, fingers digging in. This wasn’t a threat, wasn’t even the precursor to one, not as out in the open as this was, and while she’d be pissed at Ernie not sharing history, she also wasn’t surprised. He’d been existing on the fringes of a dominant club for so long, he’d probably forgotten how it was when territories rubbed up against each other. Or in this case, when people moved into a territory that could be construed as an initial foray. She let her lips curl slightly, watching as Twisted noted even that.
“You know who I am.” He nodded, lifted his beer to his mouth and took a long drink. “All my history?”
His gaze sharpened, and he rested the mug on Penny’s thigh, where she automatically wrapped her fingers around it, as if this was something they did all the time. “You got more history than the show and working for Ernesto?”
Jock choked and coughed, trying to cover his snort of laughter, but she knew he hadn’t done a good job when Twisted’s sharp gaze grew even sharper, more intense. There was an intelligence behind those eyes she could appreciate, and it spoke to his being here right now as more of a big move than she’d initially thought.
“You seem to know my name.” Not a question, but Twisted nodded anyway. “My full name?” She emphasized the second word, and let her tone climb on the last, then waited a beat while he stared at her before shaking his head. With a smile, she gave it to him, wondering if he’d catch the important part that would tell him it was more than the RWMC sitting in his backyard. “Sylvia Rene Anna Estavez Perez.”
Backing up that intelligence she’d recognized, he didn’t take even a second to bark out “What the fuck?”
Silly patted the air in a calming gesture she knew would have enraged Mason, so she wasn’t shocked when it bore the same fruit here. Better to keep him off balance for a moment longer. “Yes, yes. That branch of the family is unfortunately well known.” She shrugged, giving him a “what can you do” gesture.
“Estavez.” He scraped his top teeth against his tongue, as if he’d tasted something foul. “Which brother do you claim?”
“Raul has always been my favorite cousin.” The furrow between his brows didn’t lessen, so she gave him a little more. “Family is complicated, and you probably already know the deep history between Carlos and the Rebels, with Slate and Watcher first, then with Chicago entire?” He lifted his chin in acknowledgment. “His wife was sent to kill me. So tell me, friend, how do you think my relations with that side of the family went? She was my blood cousin, Raul is my near.”
“He keep tabs on you?” She shook her head and Twisted scoffed. “Bullshit. Man keeps his finger in everything he can.”
“He does not.” She paused, then smiled because he would also understand this. “Carmela, however, does.”
“Fucking hell.” That came from Po’Boy, seated to the side, and she turned to look at him. “You mean we’re liable to have her here to visit you, and you know that’ll bring her daddy’s soldiers with it.”
“Unlikely,” Jock interjected. “Public knowledge, so I’m not speakin’ out of school, but she’s spending time with her old man these days out in Cali. Not her daddy, but—”
“Hurley,” Twisted interrupted. “Yeah, we got the fuckin’ brief on that shit. Jesus, man, you claim you aren’t bringing heat to my patch, but from where I sit, it looks like the kitchen’s about to get fucking enflamed. You are fuckin’ in the wrong patch, man.”
Silly rested her hand on Jock’s arm, feeling the tension in his muscles everywhere they touched. “We aren’t fucking with you. And the interest you’re worried about that might turn this way, shouldn’t. And if it does, it isn’t intentional. I don’t
expect anything to come this way. It’s been a while since I even saw Mela, she’s so busy building a life.”
There was a weighty silence for a moment, then Twisted tipped his head back and sighed heavily. Chin down, he focused on them, then drawled, “Jock, my man.” Twisted took his beer back from Penny and lifted it towards where Silly sat in Jock’s lap. “You’re gonna make things interestin’, that’s a for sure truth.”
“Told you my man had it goin’ on.” She pushed to get just enough sassy into her words, and as the table erupted in laughter, she smiled brightly at them.
I’ll take it.
Have It All
Jock
“He was IMC until recently, right?” Jock’s question was directed to Busk. By invitation from Twisted, which Jock knew was more of a command they present themselves, he and Silly had shown at the IMC clubhouse, following the mass of bikes from Trudette’s. They were in the big backyard, and he was standing around one of several barrels filled with ice and beer. It was too hot to have fires going, but there were flickering tiki torches staked in the ground all around the outer boundaries of the space, the pungent scent of citronella thick in the air. He and Busk had been talking bikes and builds, something Jock could spend all day doing. Po’Boy had just walked by with a nod for them, and Jock had watched him go directly to where Wrench was standing next to Twisted. “That’s gotta be a tough path to walk. Old loyalties at war with new.”
“Couple of months now. Still new, but he’s makin’ it work.” Busk chuckled. “Probably easier than you’d think, because CoBos do not expect him to take sides. They made him non-voting for a year, which means he’s got no sway.”
“He’s sharing the bed of the nat prez.” Jock shrugged. “That’s sway.”
“Nah, Wrench was born and bred for this, man. He’s got his own way and is true to it. Good man.” Busk nodded. “Good brother, no matter the patch he wears.”
“I keep hearing that phrase and it boggles the mind.”
“Why? Brotherhood is why we seek a club. Shouldn’t be too much to expect that a change in circumstances would not change that need. We surround ourselves with brothers who love the wind, and draw family lines around that with our patch brothers. Would you sentence a man to do without family?” With a slow head shake, Busk asked him, “What is it you think gets in the way?”
“Fuck, man. Loyalty?” Even being here felt odd, as if he were walking on eggshells. Just knowing he represented the RWMC had him sweating every word that came out of his mouth. The idea of bestowing that loyalty on a different club didn’t make sense. Like changing teams in the middle of a game. “I don’t know. Every club’s different, from what I see. How can a body fit into one and then turn and fit into another? They’re gonna have different vibes, or…fuck, I don’t know. Styles. They’re distinct, so how does it work?”
“You think because she’s brown that’s gonna be a problem?” Jock’s head jerked back, because Silly’s race hadn’t crossed his mind. It wasn’t even on his radar around the Rebels, no matter the chapter. “Don’t. Because we got brothers of color, and we got brothers with ole ladies of color. And if that ain’t it, then is it you? You got a problem with a club that accepted a gay officer?”
Jock chuckled at that, a picture of Myron and Mouse slow dancing at the Fort Wayne chapter’s holiday party flashing in his head. “Pretty sure your man’s bi, and no, I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Gay, bi, whatever it is, you think the club should’ve had a problem with it?” Even if it was in a friendly way, it seemed Busk was baiting him. Jock relaxed because the man wouldn’t get far that way.
He let his lip wrinkle in annoyance. “Gay and bi are different.” No sense withholding what was common knowledge. “I know. We got a gay national treasurer, and I’m pretty sure he has never looked at pussy. Your man over there, Po’Boy, he’s all about Crissy just as much as he is Wrench.” Jock stifled a snort. “I’d think badly of a club that kicked a good brother to the curb over something like that. Good for you, IMC seems smart.”
Busk seemed to stifle a noise far back in his throat and then laughed loudly. When he sobered, he clapped Jock on the shoulder and muttered, “Well said, brother. Well said.” After a moment Busk nodded and tipped his chin to point across the lot. “Your woman’s makin’ friends.”
Jock looked the direction he indicated, seeing the man was right. Silly was occupying one half of an old-style metal glider, turned sideways to face Penny, who, he’d learned, regardless of the fact that she was only weeks away from giving birth, had nearly as wild a streak as Silly did. They were gabbing like hens, leaned in close. Penny’s bootheel dug deep in the dirt, keeping the glider moving back and forth, slow and steady. Silly threw back her head and laughed, much as he’d seen her do with Sharon, or Willa, two of the Rebel women with whom she was tight.
“That’s good.” Jock felt another band of tension unknot in his muscles. She needed friends, needed people to bond with, and it would make him feel a thousand times better knowing there’d be someone she could call while he was gone. “This whole day’s been good. I love her so fuckin’ much.” He gestured to the yard filled with pockets of men and women, children dashing around. “I didn’t realize how much I’d been missing this.”
“Company of good brothers, good liquor, and a good woman.” Twisted’s voice came from beside him, and Jock instinctively stuck out his hand as he turned, greeting the man the same way he would any of the Rebels. Twisted clasped Jock’s wrist and pulled him in, fist thudding his back. “The secret to a good life.”
“You know it.” Jock stepped back, making room for Twisted and another IMC member he’d met earlier, Wildman. The name was familiar, but he wasn’t sure why.
“I’m gonna be plain as I know how to be.” Twisted’s gaze pinned him to the spot, and Jock startled, the ferocity of the expression on the man’s face unexpected after the warm welcome he and Silly had enjoyed. “RWMC patch cannot move to my piece of ground. That will not stand.” Jock nodded and opened his mouth, but Twisted cut him off with a gesture. “That’s gonna leave you three options, as I see it. You wanna hear what I see?”
Staring down at the man, Twisted’s clear, intelligent eyes holding Jock’s gaze, he felt an unexpected anger building inside him. He knew this was just one way of how clubs worked, but the idea that this man thought he could keep him and Silly apart was ludicrous. He was a guest on their property, in their territory, and they’d been respectful, not asking him to pack his colors and not asking him if he was carrying, making it clear he was being given the same consideration they did allies and friends. He took a deep, deep breath, straightened his spine, and nodded, bracing for whatever would come.
Twisted didn’t waste any time. “First, you can go splitsville with that pretty lady, and be the loser for not having her in your life.”
“Not gonna happen.” Jock kept it from a shout, but only barely, his words coming out firm and strong.
“Figured as much.” Twisted glanced towards where his Penny and Jock’s Silly sat. “Next option is you can take her and go back home.”
Another response that took zero thought, because he’d already agonized over the decision for too long. “Also not happening. This is huge for her, and I’d be no partner if I didn’t back her in this.”
“Good answer,” Wildman put in. “If there’s a choice to be made, always, but always play to pussy.”
“Shut the fuck up, man.” Twisted turned and shot a glare at Wildman. “I’m workin’ here.”
From his grin, Jock knew Wildman’s words were a lie. “Sorry, boss. My bad. Won’t happen again.” Twisted opened his mouth, but Wildman beat him to it. “Promise, boss. Won’t happen.”
“Three, and if my brother will shut the fuck up and let me get to the meat of it.” Another glare for Wildman was met with a wider grin. “You patch over.”
Heart pounding in his chest, Jock found his voice failed him.
I’m a Rebel.
Over the heads of the other men, he saw Silly looking in their direction. She captured his gaze, wrinkled her nose, and pursed her lips in a kiss blown over the flattened palm of one hand.
He’d started his life over when he’d chosen to stay in Fort Wayne. Separated from the military, divorced, and homeless, he’d been rootless until he found Tank, and with his recovered dog came Gunny and his family, and with Gunny came his brothers. Jock remembered the days and nights of getting to know the men, and it had gone just about like today and tonight had. Different personalities and different faces, but the same sense of exploring the possibility of a brotherhood.
Eyes still fixed on him, Silly tipped her head, wild hair flowing over one shoulder, and she screwed up her face in a frown. He gave her a chin lift, and the concern eased from her expression. She wanted something good for him, just as much as he wanted the shop to be a blowout success.
I can have it all.
Choosing his words with care, he slowly voiced something that would tell Twisted where his head was, without overstepping his role here or as a member of the Rebel Wayfarers MC. “I’m thinkin’ the next questions I have, I should direct them to my president.” Jock tore his gaze from Silly and cut a glance at Twisted, taking in the serious look on the man’s face. One final burning question burst from him, his desire for brotherhood making his mouth rash. “But what you’re sayin’ is you’d have me?”
“Would take a vote.” Twisted shrugged as if he’d expected the question all along. Which he may have. “But if I’m backin’ you?” He angled a finger towards Jock on the “you” and back to himself for the next statement. “If I’m the one making the goddamned approach like I am right the fuck now? I heard you were smart, Jock. What the fuck do you think?”
“I’d sponsor.” Busk spoke from beside him, overlapping Pony’s growled, “He could be my recruit.”
“Man, we wouldn’t make him prospect.” Wildman drew in a snorting laugh. “Limited member, six months. And I think, given his history, and what I got goin’ on with all my shit? Oh yeah. He’d need to be mine.” He threw back his head and crowed, then bizarrely shouted, “Quack, quack.”
Going Down Easy: A Rebel Wayfarers MC & Incoherent MC Crossover Novel Page 9
