Born Into Trouble (Occupy Yourself Book 1)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Born Into

  Trouble

  Occupy Yourself

  Book #1

  MariaLisa deMora

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Cover image by Sara Eirew Photographer

  Cover design by Debera Kuntz

  Copyright © 2016 MariaLisa deMora

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  First Release 2016

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9967486-3-6

  DEDICATION

  Blood makes you related. Loyalty makes you family.

  For a man I saw brought low, who fought his way back. Tooth and nail, but he made it back. A, you taught me that when you find something worth fighting for, you hold on with everything inside you and fight. Your strength amazes me. I’m proud to be your friend.

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thank You

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Before I even finished working on Slate’s book in the Rebel Wayfarers MC series, I knew Benny had a story to tell. I began jotting down copious notes about his life and everything that happened to bring him to the brink of desolation, and where his life went from there.

  Then I worked on Bear, and Benny’s story evolved in my head. Then Jase, and so on.

  However, when it came time to put pen to paper for Benny’s story, what I found was I had it entirely wrong. So there I ran, back around to the starting line, gathering up all the things I thought I knew along the way, and trying every piece to find where it fit into the new puzzle, discarding many of my preconceived notions.

  Benny’s path is important. It’s important to me, and I suspect will be to many of you. I felt I had to get it right, because it matters. I have friends who died due to their addictions, and this story hits hard at times. In my own way, I wanted to honor not only their struggles, but also the lives of the people who loved them. I have information at the end of the book for anyone dealing with alcoholism or addictions. Please reach out, because there is help available. And until you find the help you need, please…hold on.

  Thank you to Sara Eirew for the absolutely perfect image you see on the front cover. Gratitude also goes out to the glorious Debera Kuntz, who took that beautiful picture and did the impossible, making it even more gorgeous with her cover design. Thanks also go to Jay Aheer for designing both the logo for the series, Occupy Yourself, and the logo on the back cover for Iron Indian Records, Mason’s record label. Exquisite work, Jay. Thanks to all of you for the beautiful wrapping for Benny’s story.

  Big thanks to Becky and the betas at Hot Tree Editing. I loved reading your comments, and can’t wait to work with you on the next book. Muuwah! <3

  A special thank you to my brilliant alpha readers and friends who helped me bring Benny’s story to life: LeeAnn, Jamey, Kristen, and MirandaPanda. The lengths to which you will go in order to assist me are remarkable, and I don’t know what I’d do without you. L&R, ladies.

  Shout out to my favorite fellas. Those men who scoff when I call them gentle, my folks who are happier when in the wind, those people who roll two wheels and live the life. Love alla y’all. Straight up. Real words, me to you.

  Finally, a thank you to my ever-growing family. Stephie, Petie, David, TobyToes, and West – love you and your kiddos more than you know.

  Woofully yours,

  ~ML

  Prologue

  Current day

  Benny scrubbed at his face with his palm, fingernails scratching through his short beard. Frustrated at what felt like a substandard performance, he muttered, "I hate being the one who's always fucking up." He sighed and looked across the studio where Chase sat next to Lucia. He ignored the other people in the booth; they didn’t factor for this gig.

  With his electric guitar slung low across his midriff, he held it comfortably, almost as if it were a flesh-and-bone extension of himself. Fingers returning to their continuous, steady movements, the music resumed, swelling to fill the air around him. Muscle memory by now, he was always most comfortable when hiding behind a wall of music and his guitar.

  "Let's take that section from the top again," he said and waited for Chase to indicate he heard him and was ready before swinging back into the complicated melody. The transition was rough, choppy where he needed smooth. Without comment, he circled the melody again, easing into it better this time.

  He glanced up and caught Lucia frowning at him. That expression told him that she had a question, and he knew it because she always had questions. Poking and prodding at things, even things he would so much rather leave dead and buried. Lifting his chin, he wordlessly prompted her to ask and after a moment, just out of sync with her mouth, he heard her voice through his earpiece. "Dios. If it's this hard to get right in the studio, how in the heck are you going to play this live?"

  Benjamin Jones, guitarist and lead singer for Occupy Yourself, grinned at her through the thick panes of glass separating the control room and the live room. It was what his brother used to call his rock star smile; fake but glorious, plastic happiness hiding all the wrong underneath. She knew what it meant, so when she made a face, he let the smile fall away, knowing the expression he then wore was pained, but truthful. He shrugged, and then closed his eyes, letting the music loose within him. That was how it had always felt, as if the music was this caged and leashed beast inside him, ravening to be released. To be set free.

  Three minutes and twenty-three seconds later, the last notes of the song began to die away, and Benny heard the enthusiastic voice of his friend. "Dude, way better. Way. Like so much better. That was dead on, man." That was Chase Mason, his friend and a seventeen-year-old budding musician.

  He had met Chase through a series of events so dire that to call them unfortunate would be an extreme understatement. Benny wound up here…well, because he was always the one fucking up. Chase, on the other hand, was the golden boy. The much-loved only son of a wealthy and powerful man, a man who just happened to be a badass biker. Davis Mason was the national president of the Rebel Wayfarers, a motorcycle club with a presence in a dozen major cities. The man was also a Chicago city councilman, best friends with Benny's brother, Andy, and one of the best dads Benny had ever seen.

  Lucia was a different kind of friend. Her adoptive dad, Rob Crew, was also connected with the Rebels, and at that moment, watched Benny through narrowed, cautious eyes as he stood at the back of the control room. Not unwarranted, because again, Benny was always the one fucking up.

  Luce nodded at him, and he found himself grinning broadly back. God, I could eat her up, he thought,
imagining the look on her face if he acted on that thought. Little guttural Spanish phrases falling from her lips as he licked and lapped at her while her sweet juices ran down his chin. Instead, he took a breath and shook his cramping hands out at his sides, and, pushing a cocky tone into his voice, asked, "Like that?"

  One

  14 years old

  “Benny.” He woke slowly, groggily fighting his way up from a deep sleep. The voice came again. “Benny.” Female—one he knew he should recognize. “Ben, you have to get up.” Burying his head into the pillow, he slowly rocked his forehead back and forth, feeling an unfamiliar ache behind his eyes. Perfume, thick and cloying, clogged his nostrils, and he lifted his head a fraction of an inch, trying to get away from the thick scent making his stomach roll with nausea. “Benny.”

  Crap. His lips were stuck together. With some effort, he was able to peel them apart, tasting old blood mixed with new. Running his tongue along the inside of his mouth, he found two tender places where there were splits, blood oozing from the freshly reopened injuries. “Wha?” That was the extent of his ability to think at that moment, a single, slurred syllable which sounded so much like his mother, the sound jerked him entirely from the smothering cocoon of sleep.

  “You have to get up. You’re going to be late for school.” Her voice set him on edge, skittering up his spine with a shiver like nails on a chalkboard, as the woman in the bed with him spoke again and he finally put a name to it. Benita Owens.

  He moved, rolling onto his side to face Benita as he cracked open one eye. Her makeup was perfect, of course; it wouldn’t do for the beautiful Benita to be seen any other way. She’d been up a while if her look told the truth, and he expected it did. You didn’t achieve those results without work. Lifting one arm, he was surprised at how sore his muscles were. Arm, back, ass. He moved his legs in the bed. Thighs, calves. Crap. Everything hurt. The fuck did I do? His stomach rolled again. “Mmhmm. Hey.” He got out nearly a whole word this time. “Time’s it?” He let his eye sink closed again. The light was too bright; a blade of sunshine pierced through to the top of his brain and set up a fierce pounding there.

  “The school bus runs in twenty minutes, Benny. You’ll need to leave in time to walk to the stop.” That got his eye open again, and he stared at her, then swung his head to look around the room—not his bedroom at GeeMa’s place. This was huge in comparison, with posters of actors and movies on the walls and framed cutesy quotes scattered amongst them. He’d been in here before, studying. He snorted because studying was Benita’s code word for sucking him off. That was as far as they’d gone: his hand down her pants twice, feeling the glorious mystery that was a woman’s private parts, and her hand and lips on his dick. The first time had blown his mind, then he’d blown his load in her mouth, watched in awe as she swallowed, then licked him clean, curling her tongue around the head of his dick like it was a lollipop.

  As he lay there looking at her, memories from the night before began to trickle slowly back to him. He remembered her picking him up from school, a wicked grin on her face as she told him her parents were unexpectedly out of town on a Thursday night. Time to party, she’d said, reaching over to put her hand on his crotch and squeezing as she sped away from the campus. Her house, a crowd of her friends, and him with an arm around her shoulder so she could put hers around his waist, fitting tightly against him. He remembered booze. So much booze. Faceless hands grabbing his empty glass and replacing it with a fresh, full one. Dancing, Benita pressed up against him, swaying to the music. Everyone listening while he crooned a sappy love song to her, Benita’s face soft and affectionate.

  He’d watched as couples drifted to private rooms or took up residence in quiet corners, glancing around as Benita led him by the hand up the stairs. That was where it got really fuzzy, and he wasn’t sure of the exact sequence of events past taking the first tread upwards. He closed his eyes, thinking hard, trying to remember but he only found confusing feelings and colors, smeared scenes that were so bizarre he wasn’t sure if they were real or curious dreams. Chaos in his head, in this bed. Benita naked, chin angled down so she could look at his face as she crawled up the bed on her knees. Feeling suffocated, tearing his mouth away from whatever was covering it. Hard slaps across his face, one which busted his bottom lip, one of the splits still seeping. He sucked that lip into his mouth, tasting more new blood than old. Opening his eyes, he watched as a guilty expression played across Benita’s face. Remembering.

  She wouldn’t slow down, didn’t slow down even when he pulled at her hips with his hands. Kept grinding her crotch against his face, covering his mouth and nose, the scent and taste of her filling everything. Nothing he’d wanted, not tonight, and he felt the vodka she’d kept pouring him earlier begin to roll up the back of his throat. Trying desperately to take in a breath to shove the vomit back down, he couldn’t get away from her long enough to get more than small sips of air. Choking, he swallowed hard, time and again, twisting his head back and forth. “Be still, Benny.” Eyes open, looking down her body at him. Breasts swaying as she undulated over him, hands propped against the headboard. Her voice vibrating with some emotion. “Almost there.”

  Her hand reached down, brushing past his cheeks, then her fingers worked at her flesh, frantic and fast. Her eyes closed and he felt her legs tense on either side of his head. Dying, he thought, then, heels to the mattress, he shoved hard, gaining two inches when he pushed out from under her. There was a loud cry of anger and pain exploded in his head, his neck whipping sideways and then she had him buried again. A few moments later it was over, and she climbed off him, snuggling into his side and resting her head on his shoulder, cooing senseless words to him as he swallowed hard again, still fighting off his nausea.

  That was last night. Thursday night. Which meant this was Friday, and he couldn’t be late to school, or he’d be riding the pine this evening at the football game. Without a word, he turned away from her to sit on the other edge of the bed. He’d never felt this ashamed before. Not even when the kids started pegging on his ma back in grade school, repeating their parents’ overheard conversations. Your mom’s a whore, the most frequently shouted insult. That was back before Danny Schraff unexpectedly became a friend and supporter, willing to wade into the shouting kids right alongside Benny.

  Sitting on the edge of the mattress in the weak light of a Wyoming morning, he looked down, taking stock. Bare knees, scrawny legs, feet too big for his body. Briefs still on, thank God, which meant she hadn’t touched him last night. In his head, he heard his brother, No, just used your face to get off. He pushed that voice aside, because even thinking about Andy seeing him here, like this, was mortifying. He couldn’t let his brother down. Andy, who worked so hard to try and give Benny everything he needed, could never know what Benny had done.

  “I can’t drive you today.” The mattress moved and footsteps rounded the end of the bed, heralding her approach. Tilting his chin so he didn’t have to look at her, he held his breath against a renewed surge of nausea when she crouched beside his leg, hand on his thigh. “I’ve got to be in Cheyenne.” He knew that. Knew about the trip. Benita was a senior; she had a college visit today that she didn’t want. She’d been complaining about it for weeks, and more than once had shared a deep disappointment her parents weren’t willing to spring for an east coast university. Benita had scoffed at their arguments, laughing with her friends that behind her mom’s back, even her daddy said grades weren’t everything. “I can drop you at the bus stop.” He nodded, and still without looking at her, he jackknifed off the bed, swaying as he rose to his feet.

  Eyes squeezed shut against the pounding pain, he jerked when her hand touched his chest, fingertips trailing across his collarbone, down to his gut, then sideways across his belly, tracing along the edge of his underwear. “I had a good time last night, Benny,” she cooed at him; this was her pleased voice. Something he’d worked to pull from her in the past, but today, the syrupy-sweet turned his stomach. “
Next time we party, we’ll do it alone, so we can spend more time together.” Her hand moved, palm gripping his arm and he felt the soft press of her boobs as she leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Next time,” she whispered into his ear, “we’ll go all the way.”

  ***

  “You look like shit.” That was Danny’s voice, and Benny twisted to watch him pull up a chair at the end of the picnic-style lunch table, squinting at the pain slamming through his head from the metallic racket. Danny Schraff had been Benny’s best friend since grade school, the two of them bonding over the knowledge that you didn’t get to pick who your parents were, you just had to learn how to put up with them.

  That was about five years after Benny’s dad died, and his mom had spiraled out of control, becoming the laughing stock of the town, known far and wide by her reputation of being a drunk…and worse. His father’s parents had custody, so Benny had basically grown up with his grandparents. While a stable home, it felt like his mom and the situations she created were always drifting around him, threatening to bury him under an avalanche of hometown contempt.

  Andy, Benny’s big brother, was his rock, always there to push him and make him better. They’d always been more friends than brothers, even with the ten-year age difference, and afternoons spent with Andy were little slices of heaven; something he looked forward to in a big way. As such, Benny’s life was decent, not like Danny’s, whose father regularly took his fists to him. Danny deflected a lot of the schoolyard bullshit from Benny, and in return, Benny gave Danny a safe place to stay, an escape from a home often filled with turmoil.

  The school lunch room buzzed, voices loud and echoing, the noises overlapping in a way that let you be certain no one would overhear anything if you didn’t want them to. “Heard about the par-taay. Heard Benita was showing off her hot stud, stud.” Danny leaned forwards, tipping his head to stare into Benny’s face. “Holy shit, your eyes are bloodshot. Any teachers ask if you’re sick?”