Moving through the woods, Mason was reminded of a nighttime trip through the hollers of Kentucky long ago. Shaking off the memories, he cut through the trees until he could see the outline of the building. Large windows across the front probably let in ample lighting during the day, but now they were dimly lit from inside. The light was steady, not flickering, so it was sourced by something other than candles or firelight. LaPorte’s car was the only one in the lot, but Mason saw a separate building off to the side, which could be a garage or a storage facility. Place like this had to have staff, and they’d have to park somewhere.
Easing his way across the yard, Mason stopped near the largest window, hoping he would be able to hear voices from inside. Leaning against the outer wall, he waited, head back, eyes closed, listening to the rise and fall of quiet conversation, trying to make out the words. Like a bolt of electricity hit him, he jolted when a voice spoke from just inside the window, the cadence and timbre so familiar it was eerie.
“Don’t forget, Davy. John Morgan, you gotta remember that name, baby.”
Quiet and slow, he moved, twisting so he could look inside through the window. He froze, heart pounding in his chest as he stared into the face of someone he had long thought dead. Fingernails biting into his palms, he stood and felt an icy tendril of fear crawl up his spine. It can’t be, he thought. This was a woman he hadn’t seen since he was eight years old, back during a time when he walked through the shadows alongside someone who in the decades since had existed only as faded memories.
***
“Myron, I want a list of every goddamned, motherfucking resident of the place by the time I get back to the car.” Mason clipped the order into the phone, thumbed off the screen and shoved it deep into his pocket. He was crashing through the brush, skin crawling, frantic to get back to the car. Anything to get away from what he’d left behind him. Mason felt as if he’d seen a ghost, and that would have been a better answer than any of the thousand ideas rolling through his mind right now.
In the five minutes it took him to navigate the woods back to his rental, Mason somehow managed to pull his emotions back under control enough to phone Myron. Leaning on the fender of the car, he dialed with shaking fingers and barked, “Tell me,” and then waited. He knew Myron well enough to know that if there were an easy connection to be made, the man would have already made it before Mason dialed the phone. He was right.
“Fuck, Mason. Did you have any idea?” That question cemented everything for him, and he heard the plastic phone creak in his hand as he clamped down on it, fingers tightening painfully at the confirmation. “LaPorte’s mom’s there, shoulda found this before, man. As far as I dug into her background it never even pinged, but I think there’s a reason. Mason, there’s another name on the list.” Myron took in a breath. Mason did the same, preparing. “Getting the idea you already know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Yeah, saw her through the window.” Shocked he’d gotten that much out, given how unsettled he was by what he’d seen, Mason paused, swallowed hard, and then said, “Read the list to me. I wanna know for sure.”
“There are only five residents on the logs, and the last names don’t quite fit, but there’s enough here, man. Crystal Dawn Dixon, Lori LaPorte, Denise Montgomery, Julie Kellogg, and Dianne Warden.” Myron took a breath, then pushed on, “In the couple of minutes I had, I was able to determine all five women are officially missing. All five women also have various aliases they’ve gone by. Crystal Dixon is also known as Crystal Morgan, and Crystal Mason. Mason, I never looked into your family. No reason to, not the Kentucky branch, beyond what you had me dig up on your daddy.”
Mason interrupted, “No surprise. Shit would have been buried deep.”
“Well, seems to be more than just that. This is wackadoodle, man. I’ve got Lori LaPorte also showing up as Lori Kelton and Lori Morgan. Montgomery is Smith, Kellogg is Rushing, and Warden is another Morgan. Mason, if this is what it looks like, then these women may have all been abducted by Morgan. Lori is the only one who receives consistent visitors, mostly in the form of Justine, but I found about a years’ worth of video I’ve started churning through my software. You think this is…fuck, just the idea is messed up.”
“My mom’s name was Crystal.” Mason squeezed his eyes shut tightly at the wounded tone of his own voice. “Is Crystal. Myron, you got pictures of the residents? I know what I saw, but it’s dark, and it was through the glass. You got…pictures?”
“I’ll get ‘em, Mason.”
Mind racing, Mason’s muscles worked by rote as he folded into the car. Chin to his chest, he let his thoughts play out for a few moments, then made a decision. “Call Bones, get him patched in with you and me once you have some info. I want his take on this. Opie, too.” He paused, then asked, “How long you think you’ll take to get a photo?”
“Now that I know they’re here, I took a shot, figuring they were using normal Outrider security. They are. I’m already in their system. Finding a pic depends on if they have them attached to resident files or if they are stored elsewhere. I don’t have any pictures of your mom, but I put you into my system to run that vid against, and if there’s a resemblance, then it should ping on it.” In the background, Mason heard the sounds of Myron doing what he did best, pulling together all the assets and resources needed to give Mason what he’d asked for. Whatever it was, Myron always went the extra mile.
“You talk to Bones about Ester?” The idea of having a sister he’d never met had been eating at Mason, and was the main reason behind his trip to Florida because he had to settle his gut by knowing, one way or the other. “Can’t imagine how you held that shit close to the vest like you did. Knowing, and not acting on it.” Dead silence filled the phone line and Mason first thought the call had dropped, then he heard Myron clear his throat and realized he’d hit hard with those words. “Fuck, man. Sorry. I’m just…this was a shock. I’m not judging you, brother.”
“I know you aren’t, Mason. I know.” Myron’s voice was level and quiet when he responded, but the hurt vibrated through each tense word. “We don’t react to things the same way. You’re an action man, have to be reminded to think sometimes.” This was true, and Mason didn’t respond, no dispute to be made to the statement. “I’m different. Been different all my life. And me?” Myron took a breath, and Mason waited, willing to give him whatever time he needed to sort out his next words. “Sometimes I need to be pushed to action. Her getting sick, nearly dying, and me knowing what she is to me but never seeing her face-to-face, nearly losing that chance? Yes, I’ve talked to Bones. We’re working out the best way to bring this to Ester. I gathered she’s been accepting of so much, and he doesn’t want to spook her more than she’s going to be. Has he told you her story?”
“Some, not all.” Mason shook himself, settling deeper into the car seat. “I know she’s been in the system before, because he was scared right the fuck out of his head at the idea of taking her to the hospital. Afraid they’d take her away from him.”
“They would have. She’s been missing since she was ten years old. Been living on her own all that time, but before that she was in the system. Foster care. Her dad killed himself when she was six years old. She didn’t have any family they knew about, so she hit a group home, then a family.” Myron paused, and Mason didn’t hear any background noises, that silence telling him he had Myron’s full attention. “Some shit happened to her, shit that shouldn’t happen to anyone, but it happened to her when she was eight years old. Then some more shit happened, and she got pulled from that home. Put into another one, doesn’t sound like it was much better. There’s so much need, and so few people overseeing the execution of everything, it’s been easy for the wrong kind of people to settle into roles they shouldn’t ever have. Or take on those roles for the wrong kind of reasons. At ten she had enough and just walked away from school one day. There were reports of a kidnapping, but I can’t find anything to support that. From what I see, she jus
t got fed up with people and retreated to her own head. She’s smart, resilient, and fearless on some things. But because she’s gotten caught up more than once in a homeless sweep, she’s wary. Bones is afraid if she left and didn’t want to be found, she wouldn’t be. I tend to agree with him.”
Myron laughed, the sound so far from humor it made Mason wince to hear it. “You know how it is on the street, you stayed there for a while. I’ve been there. Been in the shelters when you wake up and there’s a hand under the covers, or everything you own is dumped on the floor, everything that mattered to you picked through and ruined. You had six months of it. I had a year and a half.” He took a breath, and Mason braced. “She lived like that for more than a decade, Mason. Nearly fourteen years. That’s a lifetime of responses and reactions that need to be reconditioned, and Bones is making headway. I hear it in every story he tells me. She’ll be ready to meet me soon, and I can’t wait. But I will wait, because sometimes the best things are worth it.”
Mason’s phone buzzed and he pulled it away to see a text from Willa. Miss you, my favorite honey bunches of hunk.
Myron kept talking, and Mason heard every word, listened to the conviction behind them, too. “When she’s ready, I’ll be ready, too. Until then, I’ll do what I have to do from here.”
“I know you will, brother. You’re good people, Myron. Ester’s lucky to have someone like you waiting to be in her life.” Mason responded to Willa. Better be your only hunk, woman. Miss you too, babe. “I’m gonna go back to the hotel. I think we know what Morgan had to hold over LaPorte, and knowing that means I need to adjust my plan. Let me know when you have something, brother. And if you need a picture of my mom, talk to Tater. He can pull one off the bedroom wall there in Chicago. I need to get in there and clear my shit out anyway, give him and Bella a chance to make their own mark on the house.”
“They stayin’ there indefinitely?” Myron had returned to his normal mode, and Mason again heard the keyboard strikes of his fingertips.
“Yeah. Right thing to do. I’m gonna need you do to the paperwork, so I can sell the house to Tater. Five bucks, the same thing we always do when it’s club. He deserves to not have to worry about that, and Bella will like knowing it’s theirs.” Understanding what he was leaving behind, it was killing him to drive away, but Mason started the car’s engine and rolled slowly down the gravel towards the highway in the dark, waiting until he was on the road to turn on the headlights. “But that’s not urgent. We need to see which Outriders knew about this place, figure it out. Let’s do that before we pull Fury in, but I’ll want him on the call with Bones and Opie, so lemme know, yeah?”
“You got it.”
Beauty and her Bones
Ester
At times he would come to me so worn down by the demands of the worlds in which he moved that the tiredness shouted in his silence. Bones would lie at my back, still tense and tight with everything he had seen and done that day, the things he had caused to be done. Muscles stretched taut between joints, pulling everything awry. I could see it in his gait early the next day, walking as if he’d worn penance boots full of stones to bruise the balls of his feet.
I had a plan the last time it happened, but failed to carry it out because he started touching and then kissing me, and then carrying it out was the last thing on my mind as I got carried away.
This time, when I woke to feel his fingers gripping my hip, tugging me across the bedsheets, I came to with the knowledge he needed something more than what I’d given him so far. A man like Bones, he liked to be in charge, and I knew it, and he was. But, he was sweet with me, always, taking care to be slow and gentle, even if I sometimes wanted something different. That sometimes wasn’t always the same, so for now if he’d let me soothe him, I’d be contented in my comfort. His comforter.
I tested him, carefully, rolling to face him, fingers folded into a church and steeple under my pillow. His eyes opened and he looked at me. In a voice sweeping with weariness, he said, “I woke you.”
I chewed my lip, saw his eyes dip, gaze going to the movement and I froze until they lifted to meet mine again. “Ester, sleep, adorada.” With that, I knew he was in a state past tired, because he seldom used anything but English except when around the ones he called his blood family. Blood as opposed to chosen, like the men who rode motorcycles with him.
“Can I…?” For once my mouth was traitorous with silence instead of blurted secrets. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and he gave me a slight smile, a tired smile, an exhausted smile that said he wanted to sleep but he wanted more for me to have what I needed, he just didn’t know what it was. “Would you let me…?”
“Ester, little one, tell me what is on your mind.” He lifted a hand and I eagerly pushed my cheek into his palm, relaxing as I felt his fingers slide into my hair, lifting and stroking, soothing me even in his exhaustion. I took from him all the time. I wanted to give back. My plan, if I could just speak it aloud. “Tell me.”
I reached up, cupping my hand around his arm, stroking up and down, fingers dancing across the tense muscles, working awkwardly to bring him at least that much ease. My mind reader, he knew what I wanted even without my words. “You want to touch me.” I nodded, feeling the tiny catch and pull as my hair yanked through his hold. “I should like to be touched by your hands, Ester.” Hooded eyes on me, he rolled his shoulders, turning so he was facedown in the bed, the trust implicit in his movements.
It only took me a moment to separate myself from his grip and rise to my knees at his hip. Then with the heels of my hands, and digging movements of my thumbs, I caressed every inch of his painted back. Ink I had seen and touched blindly, stroking in time with his movements inside me, but never seen on display like this. Remembering my long-ago thoughts, I closed my eyes, pretending to trace the lines with my fingertips like braille. “Very good.” He groaned a sound of satisfaction and surprise, voice muffled by the pillow. Those two words wrapping around me, caught me as I fell, holding me close as if they were his arms.
He moved, and my eyes flew open like shutters to see him yanking the pillow from beneath his head, settling flat to give me more access. Okay, then. I pulled the sheet down to his waist, folded it an inch farther, dared another, seeing no fabric underneath. Down to the lower curves of his bottom, and then I swung a leg as if I were him mounting his motorcycle, settling on the round globes of his ass. He grunted in surprise, shifting slightly and then stilling. Waiting.
With a calming breath out through my nose, courtesy of the co-op’s sweet yoga teacher, I gave myself leave to touch Bones as I had wanted all those months ago. Every month since. Every moment, this finally fulfilled. Fingers trailing down his spine, I counted each knob of vertebra, thumbs working the strong muscles on either side. Long, sweeping movements up, cupping my fingers over the bend of his shoulders and working hard, leaning forwards, levering my weight against the tight knots found in the bunching muscles there. Again, and again, and yet again, I followed the same path, feeling it when he began to relax into my touch, moving through the pain of those initial moments, finding comfort and, if his even breathing was to be believed, a sense of languor.
Up and over the points of his shoulder, fingers digging under the collarbone on the front side, then over one tricep, down his arm, kneading the bulges of his bicep, to his forearm, wrist, and hand, linking my fingers with his, stretching and massaging his palm with my thumbs, over and over. His other arm next, taking care to spend the same time, lest it be jealous, arranging it afterwards, parallel to his body.
Shifting backwards to reveal his low back, I returned to movements in tiny circles with stiffened arms, working the muscles of his lumbar area, and across the upper edges of his bottom. Each push and tug separated the cheeks of his ass slightly, the hair covering his buttocks springy, different in texture from the hair on his chest or arms. Without giving him pause, I moved up, reseating myself on him, changing to a slower, sweeter sweep of my hands across the skin of his back. O
nce more I indulged myself in tracing the stories told by the colors inlaid on him, seeing death and birth, love and loss, anger. So much of it, all that anger without a counterpart to balance it. Blazing.
Then I found it. Wrapped around the ribs on his left side, high, set under his arm and over his breast.
Not old, newer than anything else on him by months, maybe years, I found flowers; rose and lavender and peonies white as snow, the creeping vines twined around a skull and jawbone, ribs fashioned into wings, the softness of flowers covering and cradling the bones. A dark angel, and I remembered my fever dreams. This was me. He was my dark angel, watching over me.
Beauty and her Bones. I had found me, and he knew when I did, because he tensed up as I leaned close, then blew out a relieved breath when I began laying kiss after reverent kiss on the marks.
“You put me on your skin.” My angel.
“I did. A time when I didn’t think I could have you, and I wanted you with me always. So—” He shrugged, not lifting his head, but cutting his eyes over his shoulder so he could see my face. “—I made it so.”
I found myself astonished at the casual way he drew the image in my head. As if it was nothing, the application of a thousand needles into his skin so he could hold a memory of me near his heart. As if in submitting to the act of receiving the tattoo, he had gotten more. I knew, of course, the ink on his skin always had a story inside the story people saw. Like the dead rose with the ember of life in the center, bearing the weight of a rebirth he wanted very much. But people saw the dead rose and assumed a meaning and he allowed that. But in putting me on his skin, not only the chosen image tailored for me, for an us that didn’t exist at the time, but in the placement, in the colors, in the everything that was anything I could see, he told me secrets so far from casual I was breathless at the discovery. Seeing right through to the heart of everything. I hadn’t been the only one falling, hadn’t been alone since I met him days and weeks and months ago, years by now, with the multiples of hours coming at us without any desire on our part.
Bones (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 10) Page 26
