Bones (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 10)

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Where at?” Feet to the ground, feeling suddenly vulnerable, he sat up straight, glancing around. “I am about thirty minutes out from the clubhouse, Mason. Where do you need me?”

  Static, then the echoing intensified, and he could hear overlapping words. Nonsense sounds. Struggling to pick out the directive, he finally understood one word, “Jackson’s.”

  “I am having difficulty understanding. You want me at Jackson’s?” He strained to listen, but there was only silence on the line. Looking down, he realized his signal had dropped completely.

  “Fuck.” Gritting out the one word, he shoved the phone deep into a pocket, starting the bike and jamming it into gear, preparing to ride to his president’s need. Looking up the road in front of him, he stared at a grouping of silhouettes against the horizon. Unmistakable in outline, he could see there were three bikes positioned on top of the hill that stood between him and the main highway. Between him and his club. Between him and Ester.

  Shit. If they are friendly, why would they stop just there, blocking my exit? Riding towards them would be suicide if they were the enemy. They must be enemies.

  Bones watched as one bike separated from the other two, gliding steadily downhill towards where he sat waiting, boxed in and blocked from any movement. Readying for a fight, he sucked in a deep breath as adrenaline flooded his system, and with long practice held tight reins on every reaction. He knew it wouldn’t be smart to go for his gun, because that movement alone would telegraph fear, and while he was drowning in the emotion right now, he could bide a few moments.

  Closer and closer the bike came, until the rider’s face swam into focus.

  Chismoso.

  His first reaction was disbelief, because the bastard was supposed to be in the Carolinas, somewhere. Or Florida. Or anywhere except Chicago. The bike braked smoothly to a halt about ten feet in front of him, and he stared as Chismoso grinned, fleshy lips pulling back from large, square teeth. No weapon in sight, and Bones quickly scanned the area again looking for more than the three men, not seeing any additional threats. None visible, anyway.

  “You are not the man I expected to see here today.” Bones made his observation dryly, raising his voice to be heard over the two rumbling engines. “In fact, truth be known, you are not a man I expected to see in Chicago again. Do you care to share why you are here, where you are…most distinctly unwanted?”

  Chismoso’s neck dipped, head shaking back and forth. “You wound me, Bones. You gave me an assignment. Don’t you wanna hear how well I did?”

  “You are now my student? All right, I will play along. Tell me what you have learned. I hope you have knowledge of the girl we seek. That would go a long way to convincing me to listen.” With a flip of his thumb, Bones pressed the kill switch on his bike, cutting the rattling noises by half. His motion was followed a moment later by Chismoso, and the two men sat on silent bikes, staring at each other. “Please, by all means, tell me what you learned.”

  Chismoso lifted his chin. “Nothing about the girl. If she’s in Diamante hands, I couldn’t turn over the rock that’s holding her back. But, still, I learned a lot. I took what you said to heart, my friend.” The address was interesting because it was a greeting of equals, not at all close to what their last interaction would have led Bones to believe. “I returned to the fold to see.”

  Tipping his head to one side, Bones asked, “See? What did you see?”

  “No, Bones.” Chismoso shook his head. “I returned so I could see.” The hissed emphasis meant something to Chismoso, so Bones let him keep speaking, not interrupting again. “What I saw was proof of your words. I was part of an engine driven, but not by anything that mattered to me. Not anymore.” Bones stared at Chismoso, taking in the faint bruising on one side of his face, the still-swollen cheekbone and nose. “Others didn’t see it the same way, got pissed when I told them I was done.”

  “You dropped your center?” Bones was certain the disbelief he felt was in his voice, could hear it himself, and watched through the shadows as a flare of red climbed Chismoso’s neck and face. Shocked, Bones asked, “After everything you have worked for with Diamante, you dropped your center?”

  “Handed ‘em the full goddamned set. Didn’t want any piece of it anymore. Fucking lies and distrust don’t make for a good meal. Decided I wanted to lay a better table for myself.” Chismoso’s face had set in hard lines, skin stretching over his cheeks as his teeth clenched together. “Leaves me lookin’ for a place, man. I’m a beggar now. Bones, I’ve been inside too long. I don’t think I can run lone.” He tipped his head backwards to the two men still positioned at the top of the hill. “I got twenty guys. I didn’t ask ‘em, fuck no. Scared the shit out of me when they did it, but they left with me. We all see the lay of the land…and when I say that, I mean we all see, Bones.”

  “You see something you want? Something you need?” Bones leaned forwards, elbows to his fuel tank, assuming a resting pose even as his nerves flared and sparked, fear curling up into his throat. “Something worth working towards?” He shifted, unsure what the answer would be, but asked his final question regardless. “Something you want to take?”

  “Something I want to belong to.” Chismoso corrected him immediately, and, even still on high alert, Bones knew the answer was the right one, giving him room to relax the slightest amount.

  “Tell me a thing.” Bones paused, waiting for Chismoso’s chin lift. “Why did you remain so long in the Diamante?”

  “Lalo needed me.” A quick answer, sounding pat, practiced, and untrue. His disbelief must have been palpable because Chismoso tried convincing him. “My cousin, mi famila. My mama wanted better for her sister’s boy. I spent the last three years trying to keep him alive. He had a knack for pissing off the wrong people. All the wrong people. All the time.” Bones stared at him. “I know what he did, everything he had me help with. Fuck, I know where so many bodies are buried. But the whole time it felt as if we were just barely ahead of the curve, man. Like any minute the roof would come crashing down. Faster and faster, just tryin’ to keep up. Just fuckin’ tryin’ to keep up. You don’t know, Bones.

  Chismoso leaned forwards, chin up, face distorted in the reflected lights from the bikes. “You’ve never been part of a club like that. Never seen such evil shit and feared being the target, man. It don’t excuse, but it sure as fuck explains.” Straightening, Chismoso indicated the men behind him again. “They know. Fuck, man, we all know. We watched Fury. Watched him figure things out, sort himself and then get himself and the men to a place where they could thrive. Not just live, not just eke out an existence, but fuckin’ thrive. Move from bad to good, but more than that he found a seat at a table worth the work. Earned himself a meal he can savor for a change. We all want that. I need it. You got it to give, Bones. You know you got it to give.”

  “I cannot make that decision alone.” Bones told him, not caring he gave away which direction he would lean if things came to a vote. Chismoso’s impassioned plea had struck a chord deep inside him, and he knew exactly the kind of things that ate at the man’s soul. “I can talk to Mason. I have no promises to offer you. I have no idea which direction he will swing. You have long been associated with our enemy.”

  “I know this,” Chismoso said. “I know how it looks, too, me showing like this with my hand out and nothing on offer in exchange. Appreciate you listening to me.”

  “Not as if you gave me a choice.” Bones sat up, indicating the men on the hill and his and Chismoso’s positions at the bottom of it, his gestures communicating his lack of options to avoid them. “I need to go.” No more was said, the two men starting their engines, then Bones waited as Chismoso turned his bike around. Afterwards, as they rode out of the area, Bones leading the pack, he was shocked when he topped the hill and saw the remainder of the twenty men Chismoso had promised. They parted to the sides of the road, and he rode through, slowing the advance of the main column until he saw all the men had turned and caught up to the tail
. Twenty-one virtually unknown men at his back and his spine didn’t itch, didn’t tingle. Betrayal wasn’t in the air tonight, a feeling he enjoyed having for a change.

  Once out on the highway, they had trailed him for several miles until Chismoso surged up so their front wheels were even. He motioned to an upcoming exit and Bones lifted his chin, then offered a quick two-fingered wave, watching as Chismoso and his men peeled off and left him. Five minutes later Bones pulled into Jackson’s riding solo, noting the full parking lot and catching sight of Mason’s bike near the back door.

  He parked, and dismounted, then stood stretching for a moment. Bones glanced at the men on the perimeter of the lot, noting their alertness. Trouble has come to Chicago, he thought, turning to walk into the bar. Once inside, he saw there were groups of men standing around, and a few had beers in hand, but that number was far less than he would expect for a gathering of this size. He estimated there were about sixty men inside the bar, and another fifteen outside.

  “Bones, get your ass in here,” Mason called, and Bones turned to look at the opening behind the bar. Mason was in the doorway, holding the door ajar, and Bones could see a handful of men in the background. Greeting Mason with an outstretched hand, he allowed himself to be pulled into a one-armed clinch, then stepped back and surveyed the room’s occupants. Shades, Fury, Slate, and Tater. The elite of the Rebels’ leadership.

  Stepping to one side, he waited for Mason to close and lock the door, then watched as Tater set a device on the table, turning it on. “Suppression?” If this were one of Myron’s toys, it would jam any listening devices, keeping the meeting entirely secret. Tater nodded, and Bones gritted his teeth. He might as well be the one to break the thick silence, and he had news, after all. “I had no luck with the source Myron found. They were a no-show.”

  “Fuck me,” Slate muttered, and Bones glanced at him, then back to Mason.

  “I did, however, have a set of fascinating visitors.” From the twist of Mason’s lips, Bones thought the man might already know. “Chismoso claims to have left Diamante, and took twenty men with him.” Gesturing to Fury, Bones continued, “He is seeking for himself what you found, my friend. He had no word of Carmela, Mason. I believed him on that, at least. I find myself somewhat skeptical of the rest.”

  Settled

  Ester

  I lay beside him, awake in the early morning, as was my norm, watching him sleep. As often as I could, I performed this morning ritual, which set the tone for my day. On his side facing me, arm draped over his waist, his other arm bent double, hand shoved under his cheek. That hand pitched his head upwards, and I was convinced it was so he could listen behind him. Bones had learned at a young age that danger had no problems striking from behind. Cowardice only factored in posturing. In execution, his position was effective, which, in the end, was all that mattered. The scars on his back attested to this, and he’d told me of how he’d died when he was young, brought back to life in an ambulance as they rushed to the hospital. Stories from his mother of how the sirens were a muted warble from inside the speeding vehicle, and how the just-graduated EMT fainted during transport.

  There’d been two additional vehicles transporting that day, less rushed, less noisy, less of a thankful outcome. His younger sister and a beloved neighbor. When he spoke of it, the sadness in his voice was palpable, covering me, cloaking the lights in the room with a watery glaze. I had become comfortable with him by then, so when he gathered me in his arms and brushed away my tears with kisses, I didn’t argue the kindness.

  His neighbor, he said, was a good lady. Taught him you could tell the basest nature of a person by how they treated dogs and children. I pointed out I was afraid of both, and for the same reason, showing him the bite scars on my hand and ankle. Laughing, carrying that rich sound of humor into his words, he told me I still fed both, as he’d seen the activity more than once. I allowed as how that was true, but these days I’d feed them only warily. He squeezed me, and that remained one of my favorite things about him, how he communicated his joy in our friendship in such physical ways. So with his squeeze, I knew warily was okay for him, and he still thought I was a good person.

  Watching him sleep was good, but watching him wake was so much better. I held my breath in anticipation as he sighed deeply, his eyes moving in quick jerks behind the shrouding curtain of his eyelids, then his bottom lip pursed in a sweetly innocent pout. I watched as his tongue swept across his top lip, right to left, then lapping at that boundary of his mouth, a mouth which was everything except innocent. Drawing back into his mouth, his tongue curled, and I wanted to follow it, tangle my own with it, chase it inside, make a place for myself there.

  Another sigh that I matched in depth and pace, and then he said, nearly the same words spoken every morning in this bed since the fourth time I woke in it, “Is that you watching me sleep again?”

  How he knew this with his eyes closed, I never knew. But he was right, and I admitted it straightaway. “Yes.”

  “Have you gotten your fill of looking yet?”

  This question was new and frightening, because if I had, did it mean he would turn me out, finally? Taking away the everything he’d gifted me? Maybe he thought me well enough to leave now, the racking coughing nearly gone unless I ran up the stairs. He’d believed me recovered enough to leave at times to tend to business, which was a compliment of the highest order, telling me I was worth coming home to. Maybe he was tired of how hard he had to work with me. I’d never tire of looking at him, watching him, studying him. A master’s program in the study of Sal Ramos, Bones, my friend. I must have hesitated too long composing my response because his eyes slitted open, the barely there glint of his gaze upon me ratcheting up my anxiety.

  Then he proved he could read minds, something I’d long been considering a truth, but waffling on the deciding as a finality. “Ester, peace, beauty. You are not ever going to be unwelcome in my home, in my bed. Ever welcome. Peace.” The hand which had been curled under his cheek pushed out, fingers stretching towards me in an invitation I quickly accepted, threading my pale digits through and between his dusky ones, the contrast spellbinding.

  “I wish you could understand what you mean to me. What pleasure you bring to my heart when you do such a small thing as take my hand without my demand. Without fear. Trust in a gesture that means all. Ester.” His fingers squeezed mine, and as ever, even in isolation like that, it felt like he’d reached through and squeezed my heart so it fluttered in my chest, a wild thing looking for escape. “You bring me peace, without even knowing how or why and that”—he squeezed again, and this time I dared return the gesture, rewarded by the lifting of his cheeks under his eyes, pleasure suffusing his features for only me to see—“is exactly why my love for you is reckoned as deep, and limitless, and why you shall always be mine.”

  His other hand appeared, fingers spread, framing a question and I answered quickly, pushing my face into his grip, his hot palm cupping my cheek. I didn’t know what he saw when he did this, his gaze roaming over every place he touched me, the feathering glide of a fingertip across my brow, the rough caress of a scarred knuckle along my chin. But the joy reflected on his face made it something I longed for, and cherished as often as it happened.

  “You are settled now?”

  I sighed and inclined towards him, knowing the pleasure it gave him when I initiated in this fashion. He allowed a brush of my lips against his, then also allowed my retreat as I answered his question with my actions, shifting so I rested on the pillow, facing him, our eyes level. We remained like that for a long time, at least a hundred breaths, his hand on my face, his other hand holding mine.

  That might have been my most favorite of the favorite times. That half hour spent lazing in his bed. Settled.

  Forged in fire

  Bones

  “It has been too long, Mason. We must force their hand.” Bones knew his friend agreed in principle, but Bones wanted to hear the words spoken aloud. “She’s missin
g, and this cannot go on. Juanita needs to know, one way or another.” Every member feared the worst, because since Carmela and her escort had vanished, there had been no word, not even the barest whisper of a rumor that they’d been sighted. Nothing. “Weeks, brother. Three weeks.”

  Mason looked across the desk at him for a long minute before he responded. They were in the clubhouse office, the big window behind Mason letting in sunlight and the flashing glare of the sun on ice-crusted snow. With a sigh, Mason leaned forwards, elbows on the table as he lifted his clasped hands to rest against his mouth. Another moment, and another sigh, then those scarred knuckles shifted an inch to the side as Mason responded with a heated, “I’ve not been idle.”

  “I did not say you had been.” Bones shook his head. “I know you have balanced this against a thousand things, and still kept the pressure on as you could. Without any threats or information, we might as well be whistling past the graveyard, and Diamante knows it.”

  “Don’t think it’s Diamante.” Mason licked his lips as he dropped this bombshell, and Bones braced, seeing the sour look on Mason’s face. “I’m looking into Morgan and Deacon. That’s where I think things lead.”

  Bones allowed his chin to tip down, folding his arms across his chest as he considered Mason’s words.

  So many different pieces to puzzle over. Things had come to light in recent months, and they now strongly suspected Justice Morgan and Deacon had been teamed up for years, wreaking havoc wherever they turned their attention. Morgan was as sadistic as his son, Shooter, and the two had been plotting against Mason for nearly two decades. Morgan, through Shooter, had forced Carrie Sosa to Mason’s bed. Chase, Mason’s oldest son, was the fruit of that plan, but just because it sorted out in Mason’s favor didn’t mean anyone was okay with the original play. Morgan had also been the mastermind for his grandson Judge’s abduction of the women in Mason’s life, nearly two years ago. Judge, Shooter’s boy. Deacon the overthrown former king of the club Mason had taken to unexpected heights. Both men carried a hate for Mason that had damaged many.