Bones (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 10)

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Best ever. No one’s ever gotten me happy as a gift before. Not before you. You give me happy all the time, even when you don’t know it, Bonesy.” Leaning forwards, she turned her head in first one direction, then the other, marveling at streetlights draped with color. Looking into his face, she whispered, “Best. Ever.” Her gaze fell to his chin, and she chewed on her lips, wrestling with what she wanted to say. Bones waited, hoping whatever caused her such visible turmoil would be worth it. “Every day can be Bones’ day again?” The question was barely audible, and the moment the last sound escaped her mouth, she was actively chewing on her lips again, agonizing over his answer.

  “Every day is Bones’ day,” he agreed, and she pulled in a deep breath, then coughed as the cold air bit at the back of her throat. “As many days as you will allow, beauty. Every day sounds excellent to me.”

  Bonesday

  Ester

  I wanted to kiss him. There, I said it, even if just to me. After he didn’t care I mauled him, I pushed and pushed, wanting more, holding on so tight I could feel every twitch of his fingers. When he held me, and I knew he didn’t like to be touched by people, but he’d liked his arms around me and that’s when I was certain I wasn’t just people to him, and that made me want more, too. Me mauling him like that, not biting him like a dog, and that was good of me even if mauling wasn’t but he didn’t care. Didn’t care about the hugging and the handholding and the sitting so close he had to put his arm around me. Or maybe he did care, but in the other direction of not liking. Maybe he wanted more, too. Maybe he wanted a kiss?

  He was so much of everything I’d thought he would be that I nearly didn’t care about anything else, until I remembered the grown-up pumpkin waiting at the curb. I didn’t know the horse, of course, not even by a different color, so I took the time to introduce myself like the church ladies did, hand out with a sweet, ready to pull my knuckles back at the first sign of madness. But he wasn’t mad, he was a she, actually, and the man with the hat told me her name was Madeline. I thought it was pretty, and told her so, and she agreed, soft lips plucking the treat from my palm.

  Then I mauled Bones again, and he didn’t care again, holding my hand the entire time we rode through the wonderland. Forgiven, it seemed, and I hoped, I hoped, I hoped it so. I’d never seen the buildings shine so brightly, never seen so much of everything be beautiful. I looked at it and then looked at him and he was staring at me like I’d done all of this for him, when he was the one handing me the prize. Not even mad about the wrongs I’d done him. He looked happy, and happier yet when I told him he’d given me happy.

  When we got out of the carriage, the man with the hat offered to take me where I needed to go, but I didn’t have anywhere to go, so I smiled and told him, “Pumpkins change back all the time, and you need to keep yours safe.” He didn’t understand, but that was okay. I did. I knew, pumpkins were dreams come true, but where I lived would kill his dream, and so I didn’t let him take me anywhere. Bones stood and listened, chin down, and I saw his hair had grown in, thick and dark and soft and beautiful. I was out of tries, having stopped myself—except for the two times when I mauled him—and I reached up, teasing a lock of it free of the rest, letting it drift through my fingers. It felt so good, I did it again. A third time I allowed myself, and he was looking at me from underneath that hair, eyes bright and breathing uneven, and that was when I recognized what I’d felt earlier.

  I reminded him of the new truth, that I’d not be avoiding him anymore. I’d taken my licks, and waited out the pain, not crying. Never crying, because big girls didn’t cry. “Every day is Bones’ day.” No more Sunday or Monday, just Bonesday.

  It wasn’t until I got to the culvert where I’d stashed my things that I realized I had the blanket in my hands. Mitten to blanket, the warmth had masked the knowledge I had stolen from him. Then I remembered him telling me it was a doing prize, but we’d agreed you couldn’t turn away gifts, either. Giving it back would be taking his joy from him in the giving. “No takesies,” I whispered as I snuggled into the blanket that smelled exactly like Bones. “No help for it. ‘S mine, now.” That was when I told myself the truth I’d learned tonight. I wanted to kiss him. Wanted with every fiber that was stuck inside my body. Every non-escaping fiber of my soul. Needs, not wants, that’s what we address first, the court lady had said more than once. That was when they gave me clothes too new, a bag too new, shoes too new, and the other fosters fell on me like ravening wolves. Mad, and no curled knuckle to turn aside those bites.

  Maybe I needed this thing. “Maybe I need Bones.” My heart agreed with my throat, and they should; they’d spent the entire night getting well acquainted, what with occupying the same place in my body for the whole time. “Maybe he needs me, too.” That was the best sleep in a long time, and my dreams were filled with pumpkins and pies.

  Gone

  Mason

  Bike skidding to a halt, Mason was off it and pelting through the mess Watcher had left behind him on his kamikaze run. Gun in a one-handed grip in front of him, he lifted and aimed in the same motion, clearing his path of Diamante who thought to engage. Aim to maim. Behind him, he heard Opie’s voice, yelling orders, commands only half the men would understand, Mason’s Rebels following a different hierarchy when it came to leadership. They would have followed Watcher, because he had been part of them for as long as most could remember, skirting the edges, but theirs in a way that Opie wasn’t. Yet.

  Another Diamante stood in his way, cleared by a round from behind Mason, the man’s own shot going wild, bullet ricocheting and impacting a bike. Then Mason was through the smoke from Watcher’s mangled bike, handlebars nearly torn from the forks, a single boot lying near the twisted front wheel. With laborious running steps digging through the sand, Mason got to where the dirt was roiled, cleared down to rock in some places, bloody swaths left behind. Two paces more and an explosion nearly lifted him off his feet. Glancing back, he saw what looked like a dozen men down, affiliation unknown. Fuck. Not certain if it was a tank on a damaged bike blowing, or something packaged in a saddlebag, and for now, he didn’t care.

  Still, he held to hope. Hope that miracles happened, that good men lived beyond what normal ones could survive. On his knees next to Watcher, Mason felt all of those hopes fall away, torn free with each battered injury identified on his friend’s body. A rattling cough and Mason’s heart leaped in his chest. Ignoring the story told by the dark sand surrounding Watcher’s lower half, he reached out and grasped his shoulders, seeing hands come into view to cradle and support the head and neck. He glanced up, and together he and Opie turned Watcher to his back, and Mason cringed at the damage. One leg nearly severed just above the knee, the other mangled beyond repair. His fingers went to the buckle of his belt, ready to fashion a makeshift tourniquet, but the blood pumping out had already slowed to a trickle.

  Lifting Watcher’s hand with his, a squeeze startled him, and he stared down into eyes bright with pain, knowing they didn’t see him when the word whispered was a woman’s name. “Juanita.”

  “Gonna take care of her, boss. Promise. She’ll never want for anything, brother.” Mason scarcely recognized Opie’s voice, ragged with pain. “Promise you, man. Not her, not the girls.”

  His chest seized painfully as Mason stared down into eyes now gone glassy and fixed. Eyes he’d seen laughing not an hour ago, poking fun at Mason’s repeated calls home to check on his pregnant wife. Eyes he’d seen smiling with pleasure as a story was recounted that told of the honor the Soldiers always brought to the table. Eyes he’d known his entire life, raised in side-by-side fashion on the shoulders of Kentucky mountains.

  Too much to think of, too much to process, Mason knelt and held his friend’s hand, grinding down, knowing he was clutching it too tight, but unable to stop. Wanting to provoke a response, any response, anything to let Watcher know he wasn’t alone. He held on, long after the blood stopped flowing altogether. Opie stepped away, making a call.


  Head tipped down, neck bent, taking in a series of hard, deep breaths, Mason tried to marshal his thoughts. Calls and decisions to make, if the sounds behind him were what he thought they were. A journey to finish with at least one empty spot in the line. At that, he realized he didn’t know if any others of his Rebels had been injured, and then grasped he was no longer considering them two clubs. Watcher might still wear a Southern Soldier patch, but that was only going to be until they got to Las Cruces, this much he and Mason had already decided. Stability demanded Watcher not drop his center until the rank and file did, and Mason would now have to see this through with the help of Opie and Devil, two of Watcher’s officers.

  Without lifting his head, hoping the man had stayed close, Mason called over his shoulder. “Opie.”

  An immediate, “Yeah, boss,” was gratifying, even as it tightened Mason’s throat. That was Opie’s standard response to Watcher, and hearing it while looking down at the shell of his friend was hard to take.

  “We got any other injured?” First order of business, seeing to members.

  “Not us, no.” A hesitation, then, his voice quiet to the point of a whisper, Opie said, “Not beyond Watcher.”

  Mason’s shoulders heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Diamante?” No screams, no sobs, no calling for God’s mercy, so what Opie said next was a surprise, and not a good one.

  “Fifteen out of fifty down, boss. Lalo’s número uno, most of the rest are all members.” Sand scrunched under a footfall, indicating Opie was moving closer. “Looks like they had some explosives on two of their bikes. Watcher, he wrecked through ‘em, and one of their bikes caught fire. They were all standing close, pitching sand on the fire, tryin’ to put it out.” A pause, then a soft, “Kablooey.”

  “Fuck.” Mason twisted, fists to one thigh. He was preparing to stand, just needing a minute before he tried. Looking down, he saw the knees of his jeans were sodden with blood. Head twisting to one side, he clenched his eyes, throat tight. My brother’s blood, an honor. In his head, he heard the words to an old Kentucky spiritual, “Wayfaring Stranger.” I’m just a going over home.

  Business, he thought, trying to push past the pain threatening to keep him on his knees. “They got an officer left upright?”

  “Chismoso.” Opie bit out the word, hatred clear in his tone. “You gonna treat with him?”

  “Gonna see what kind of story he wants to weave for the cops who are gonna show up any minute. I’ve heard a dozen cars speed past, and you know at least one of them was on the horn with nine-one-one. He wants to take the heat for explosives, that’s his deal. If I gotta, I’ll cop to a defense of life and property plea for the three holes I put in his men.” With a last look at Watcher, he leaned over, palm to his friend’s forehead, dragging lax lids closed over clouded eyes. “That’s the treat I’ll give him.”

  Wake the monster

  Bones

  “Do not test me,” Bones told the man seated across the space, separated by only air and honor, not even deigning to bring in a table on which elbows could be propped. It wasn’t Bones’ intention for this man to be comfortable in any fashion. “You would be most unhappy with the results; of that, I can assure you.”

  Chismoso glared at him. He lifted a hand, and Bones took a breath. Knowledge of this man was hard won, but intelligence had come his way long ago that told of a certain harness spotted in a skirmish. Chismoso’s fingers skimmed the side of his skull, threading through his shaggy mane to the back, and Bones decided to stall this midact. “Do not,” he said, putting on a long-suffering tone. He even went so far as to roll his eyes, coming back to see Chismoso frozen, fingers wrapped around the handle of the knife strapped to his back.

  Mason had continued on to Las Cruces, and was now organizing things there. Dealing with the loss of their brother and grief of the woman he’d loved, and the birth of a new Rebel chapter. Chismoso had come straight to Chicago it seemed, wanting something. It was Bones’ job to determine what that something was.

  “Do you not see?” Bones leaned forwards, clasping his hands, elbows on his knees. “All your secrets are known to me. All of them. From cradle to grave, you are seen and known. You—” Tilting his chin to one side, Bones indicated the men standing at Chismoso’s back. “—are not the man your cousin was. Your command differs in important ways.”

  “His death must be answered.” With slow, sure movements, Chismoso settled the knife back into the sheath.

  “It was answered on the edge of the same road. Blood spilled on both sides, but you cannot say Lalo’s death was not earned. He bought that with every action he performed for the last year.” Bones didn’t give him a moment to collect himself, pushing onwards, needing the man to give on every point. “And your boss now requires you earn your own death, sending you to treat with us as if Diamante were equals with the Rebel Wayfarers. Pull a clue from your president’s pussy and see. With every week Diamante are bleeding. They bleed money, patches, and rockers. You change cities so often it makes one dizzy. How many have you worn?”

  Bones paused to take a breath but didn’t give him time to speak. Chismoso needed to see, understand, and agree. “What do you wear now? Chicag—no, not that city.” Bones tapped his lips with the tip of one finger, feigning confusion. “Las Cruce—no, not there, either. Louisville, Lexington, Memphis, St. Louis, Fort Wayne—and that list of discards just spans the past months. These men care not for your life, nor the lives of any man with you. Surely they knew we would not meet on a level playing field. I have two men to each of yours, and a hundred waiting outside these doors.” With a tip of one hand, he gestured towards the double-doors that led to the bar proper. “If you doubt me, then rise, and verify for yourself.”

  Sitting back in his chair, Bones slung his elbow over the back, kicking one leg out in front, the heel of his boot to the floor. At ease in a way that was not pretend, not playacting, and screamed a discrediting of any threat Chismoso or his men could bring to the meet. “I can wait.”

  Chismoso didn’t respond, didn’t react, and offered Bones no insight into the workings of his mind. They sat like that, stalemated for a minute, then two, the men behind Chismoso growing antsy, boot soles scuffing the bare floor as they moved. Bare for easy cleanup, and surely every one of them knew that as fact. Leather creaking, shoulders shifting, hands shoved into and pulled quickly out of pockets, not wanting to give an appearance of threat.

  Finally, Chismoso leaned forwards, jutting his chin at Bones. “You are weak.”

  “You. Are. Wrong.” Bones infused certainty into each letter. Into each pause. Into each breath that it took to push out those words. “Because I am diplomatic now, do not mistake me for someone incapable of taking care of business. I do not want to fight. But if you force my hand, I will not fight fair.” The heel of his boot dragged across the cement as he sat forward, the sound loud in the stillness of the room. Scratching the side of his nose with a blunt thumbnail, he stared at Chismoso. Elbows again resting on his knees, Bones said, “I will not quit, and there is nothing sacred to me. Do not ever think that the reason I am treating with you peacefully is because I fear violence. I do not.”

  Bones sat back again, at ease. Lifting one hand, he pointed two casually curled fingers towards Chismoso’s chest. “You fight, not for someone or something you love more than breath, but because you are instructed to do so. Do not mistake my principles for yours. Do not mistake my motivation for what drives you forwards.” He thumped a clenched fist against his chest, once, twice. “I battle to protect the things and people I will die for. Such a vast difference and the true measure of a man. Fighters and warriors are not the same things.” He paused, and just as Chismoso opened his mouth to speak, put those thoughts to rest. “Do not wake the monster in me.”

  Aftermath

  Bones

  Bones stared down at the list of names scrawled on the paper. Blinking, he struggled to focus on the talk still swirling around the table. “Hold, please.” Silence spread through th
e room as, shaking his head, he repeated, slightly differently, “Please, hold.” Once all talk had died down, he took a deep breath and laid his palm flat on the paper. “These are the known Diamante dead, killed by the explosion of a faulty battery.” Rough laughter, because everyone knew it wasn’t a battery that had exploded. “There are eight names. Seven of those were already known to us. Brothers,”—he poked at the paper, shoving it across the battered table—“those names matter not.”

  He looked at the men standing in the room, Rebels from four chapters, drawn here for his briefing. “What I need to know are the names not on any report. Who was there, and left, who had rolled through in the smaller group just before.” He pushed to his feet, weariness making him weave for a moment before he steadied himself. “You know the stakes. You know the prize.” Bones swallowed, hearing Mason’s voice in his head again. “You know what I need. Now find it for me.”

  Turning, he motioned to Shades and Tater, taking them with him to the inner office behind the meeting room. Once the door closed behind them, he turned, and asked, “Truly, there is no word?” Both men shook their heads. “Fuck. Where are they?”

  In the initial confusion of Watcher’s death, little thought had been given to anything other than informing those who needed to know, and controlling official involvement in the event. It was hours later when Mason finally rolled up the long drive to Watcher’s home so he could deliver the news to Spider and Juanita. Then in the emotional turmoil that followed telling Juanita of her husband’s death, little notice was paid to what was now an apparent and glaring absence.

  In the hours before Watcher hammered out his deal with Mason, that deal being the closure of the Southern Soldiers club entirely, with all members desiring a patch being offered one as a Rebel Wayfarer, Watcher had met with his near-daughter, Carmela. Met with and chastised, if one believed the tales, and then sent on her way home to Las Cruces, her role to watch over her near-mother.