Mason was in and out of the hospital over the next few hours, taking care of the business Mica had started. He’d called Jess, and rallied the Rebels to watch her house and work. Now, he was back sitting in the uncomfortable chairs, and was surprised that Rupert had hung around the hospital for so long. It didn’t really look like he’d left at all. Rupert seemed to be worried about Mica, and was pretty much interested in her personal life too, more than you’d expect for an accidental hero.
Of course, Mason knew who he was—hometown hero, famous hockey player, owned a team, made a fortune in the trucking industry up in Wisconsin—but what was his deal? What was he doing still sitting here at the hospital, when he had all of that to deal with?
Mason wondered what she’d think about this Rupert guy, with his rough edges and success. He remembered when Mica found out that he was a successful businessman, dealing with the many businesses that kept the motor club going, and snorted at her recalled reaction.
Getting to know the neighbors …
Mica Scott had pulled up from her run at the mouth of the alley holding her side and breathing hard. She started walking back towards her house with short strides as she eased into her cool-down routine. Mason knew that routine by heart, because like today, he had watched her out his kitchen window nearly every day for the past couple of months.
Today, however, it looked like she was varying things, and he thought he knew why. Her car hadn’t moved in the past few days, and he thought she might be considering asking for help. She was pacing, walking over and back, and over and back, between her porch and the alley, glancing at his house every time, but keeping a safe distance away. He didn’t know what he had done to earn her long-lived animosity, but it was amusing to watch her when she was trying to decide whether to engage him or not.
She’d lived next door for a while now, and he was still Mr. Mason when she stooped to speak to him, but speaking between them hadn’t come very often over the weeks and months, even before she found out he was her office landlord in addition to neighbor. She seemed to prefer to use a more masculine chin-lift greeting or a brief palm-up wave if she had to acknowledge his presence, rather than use her voice. He snorted; her wave always looked more like a stop sign.
A couple months after she moved in, he’d had a party for his club brothers and she’d clearly gotten miffed at all the noise. Even as ticked off as she seemed, she’d never complained out loud, just looked at him with a tightly pursed mouth and a brief shake of her head. He had hoped that seeing some of the old ladies and girlfriends hanging out might make her more comfortable around him, but she had simply shut her curtains and stayed behind closed doors that night, and then for all subsequent parties.
God, she was pretty, and he’d tried to make up reasons to talk to her as often as he could. He knew from her faint accent she wasn’t from Chicago originally, and from the Rebels, he knew home was Texas. Watching her lights stay on all night more than once, he wondered if she had trouble sleeping. He had watched several times as the lights bloomed on in the middle of the night, seeing her shadow moving through the house to turn her lamps on one-by-one.
Those actions screamed nightmares to him. He found himself looking hard at her face after those nights, searching for and finding a tightness in her features from exhaustion. That, along with a powerful dose of terror and fear he also saw, made him want to find out what had caused this reaction and fix it somehow.
He’d been daydreaming almost too long; she was walking over and he hadn’t noticed until she was nearly at the edge of his garage. Leaving the kitchen and stepping outside, Mason met her at the gate, slinging it open just as she raised her hand to knock…on the outside gate…like he’d have heard that if he wasn’t already outside. Breathing laughter out soundlessly, he nodded at her. “Mica Scott, how the hell are ya?”
She was chewing on the side of her thumb with a worried look on her face. Looking at him steadily, she finally seemed to make a decision, because she lowered her hand from her mouth and blurted, “Mr. Mason, do you work on cars? Do you fix them?”
Rubbing the smile off his face with a rough hand, he nodded his head. “Yeah, I do some work on cars, trucks, and bikes. Whatcha need?”
She looked up into his face. “Um. Well, see…um—my car won’t start, and I need it to start. Because I have a client meeting tomorrow that I can’t miss. Could you…um…would you mind—?” she stuttered to a stop, looking at him as he smiled widely.
“Lemme have a look, Mica Scott. Got the keys handy?”
She had run on ahead while he grabbed a rag, collecting the keys from inside her kitchen, and then met him at the car. He stood by the open driver’s door looking at her, waiting with his hand out casually at his waist. She walked up and stared at him, clearly puzzled that he wasn’t doing anything more than standing there, so he shook his open hand at her wordlessly. “Oh, keys,” she said and handed them over, then stepped back and away from him. Mason flexed his biceps in irritation, and wondered why the hell she seemed so intimidated all the time. Or was it intimidation?
Not trying to fit into the driver’s seat, Mason leaned in and jammed the keys into the ignition. He then turned them, listening with a tilted head to the rapid clicking noise. He popped the hood on the white Nissan Altima, and walked around to the front of the car to prop it up. “Hey, turn the key again for me, just for a second.” He was looking at the engine, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw her startle and jump. Climbing into the seat, she turned the key on, and he heard the clicking noise again. “Okay, thanks. That’s good; you can stop.”
“Starter solenoid went out,” he said, closing the hood by dropping it down and then pushing evenly on both sides with his hands to latch it tightly. He rubbed his fingerprints away with the rag in his hand and took out his phone, hitting a speed dial number.
“Well, crap,” she said, “I’ll call a tow service to take it to a—” and stopped as he responded curtly into the phone, “Yeah, it’s me. Need a starter solenoid, 2008 Nissan Altima; anytime starting right now is good.” He nodded with the phone to his ear. “Sounds good, man. Bring it to the house,” and he hung up. Turning to look at her face, he told her, “I’ll have you fixed by dinnertime, Mica Scott.”
She looked at him in surprise, her green eyes dark with some emotion he didn’t recognize. “I didn’t mean for you to work on my car, Mr. Mason. Just knowing what the problem is will be a big help. Thank you.”
He turned down the corners of his lips dismissively, shaking his head and turning back to walk to his garage. “Nah, won’t take me fifteen minutes to fix it up once Tug gets the part here. I’ll be back after a while with my tools. Can you leave the car keys in the seat?”
He left and she was standing awkwardly, halfway between the car and her house. She was still standing there about twenty minutes later when he returned, and she watched him walk back with a small box of his tools. Mason thought to himself that the emotion he hadn’t been able to recognize might be a near panic, much stronger than simple fear. She seemed frozen in place, so he slowed his steps and stopped several feet away, giving her plenty of space.
They both heard the rumble of a motorcycle and turned to see a Rebel Wayfarers full-patch member turn into her driveway, aiming his bike towards Mason. He raised his hand in a casual three-fingered wave at the rider, turning to Mica when the bike was turned off.
Jerking his head towards the white-haired biker, he told her reassuringly, “This is Tug; he’s all right. You’re safe with us. You’re okay.” He shook his head at Tug, saying tightly, “Tug, this is Mica Scott; she’s with me.” He watched Tug’s eyes widen slightly as he recognized that Mason was extending his protection as motor club president to her with those few words. She had started in with an argument, “Um, no, I’m—” and Mason turned to her with a fierce look, willing an understanding that she needed to shut the fuck up, because she was under his protection, and she stuttered to a stop again.
Tug swung his leg over
the bike, taking an object out of his pannier bag. The item was wrapped in a grimy paper bag, and he handed it to Mason. “Solenoid, Prez. Need help?”
Mason shook his head. “Naw, I got this. Hang a minute though to make sure it works,” he said as he opened the car hood again.
Mica pulled two chairs off the back porch and urged Tug to sit down while he waited. He was easy with her, and amazingly, she seemed comfortable with him. Mason remembered he’d had Tug over to parties since she moved in, but didn’t know if they had ever met. Looking down at the engine, he smiled, not really paying attention, simply glad to hear the light and happy laughter coming from behind him mixing with the deeper tones from Tug.
Then he heard her say sharply, “Wait, what?”
Tug responded, “Yeah, Jackson’s.”
“Mr. Mason owns Jackson’s?” she asked, and this was said with a note of panic in her voice Mason really didn’t understand.
“Oh, yeah, Jackson’s, plus other places, like a dozen or so,” Tug continued casually.
Mason turned, cutting him off with, “Crank it, Tug,” pulling the man away from Mica to try her new starter. He looked at her face; she had shut down again, and he realized something bad was going on in her head.
Mica kept her eyes on the back of Tug’s vest, studiously not looking at Mason. He nodded his head as the car started. “There you go, Mica Scott.” Watching her in that moment, he was treated to the sight of her wide, wide smile and those green eyes lighting up with pleasure.
She said, “Oh, wonderful! That’s great, Mr. Mason, thank you so much.” He was happy he’d gotten to see that smile, and continued to be glad for about another half-second until she continued, “What do I owe you?”
Mason’s face tightened as he said curtly, “Nothing. Friends don’t get charged for easy shit,” and Tug nodded his agreement.
She looked down at the ground for a minute, then at his shoulder, then back at the ground, and then finally back up into Mason’s face. “Thank you, Mr. Mason. That’s very kind, but we—”
Here he cut her off roughly, turning away and speaking to Tug with balled up fists and a clenched jaw. “Thanks for the help, man. See ya at the clubhouse later, brother.” Tug looked back and forth between them and nodded slowly, saying goodbye and halfheartedly punching Mason’s shoulder on his way past.
After Tug had pulled out and was on his way, Mason rounded on Mica and said harshly, “I don’t think you fully understand your situation, Mica Scott, so let me lay it out for you.” He took in a breath. “You live next door to me. I’m the president of a motor club. It’s a biker club; some people call it a gang, but I call them my brothers. Whatever, it is what it is, but these guys all belong to me, and I guarantee you that we are ALL good guys. Now, I am not moving; I am not going away, which means these good guys will be over here off and on. Even though they are good, they can be fucking intense, and I don’t want them to be a bother to you, ever. So when I tell them you are ‘with me’, or that you are ‘my friend’, or even if I tell them that you are our fucking ‘princess’, it fucking makes things easier and gives you a lot less shit to deal with in the long run.”
She looked at him, her eyes wide in a carefully still face, and he snarled a laugh, rolling his eyes at her. “All of that means you are off-limits to them. Fuck, Mica, you are like a babe in the woods around me, all wide-eyed and afraid of the Big Bad Wolf. Is that what I am to you, babe? Am I the Big Bad Wolf?” She didn’t deny it, and when he stopped talking, she scurried into her house quickly without speaking.
It had been weeks before he saw her again, not only because she avoided him around the house, but because she had stopped coming into Jackson’s. Over a few weeks, they had slowly returned to the tedious chin-lifts and boring little stop sign waves, but no fucking talking. He’d finally gotten tired of it, and was waiting for her one day, sitting on her steps when she came home from work. She stopped halfway between the car and the porch, watching him warily without speaking.
“Babe,” he asked, “what is the fucking deal?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me, Mr. Mason?”
Frustrated, he said, “You haven’t been to Jackson’s in weeks. You haven’t said squat to me in weeks. I repeat—what is the fucking deal?”
“Bless your heart. I find your life very…troubling, Mr. Mason,” she said, and then stopped abruptly. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry; that was rude.”
“No, it was true; my life probably is troubling to you, but what the fuck does that have to do with coming to Jackson’s? I get that you don’t want to see me here, but the guys miss seeing you at the bar.” This was true; Tug, Digger, and Slate asked about her nearly every night.
“I…um…I just stopped going.” She was twisting her fingers tightly into her belt loops, tightening and releasing, tightening and releasing.
Mason frowned at her. “Yeah, I know you stopped coming, but…babe, my question is ‘why’?”
“I don’t know. It’s like you’ve invaded in my life and I don’t even know you. I…I find it odd that my neighbor—you—own the bar at which I drink,” she admitted. “It feels like you are everywhere. You are my neighbor, the landlord for my business, my sometime-mechanic, the thrower of community parties, and to top it off, the owner of my favorite bar. That felt like just one thing too many. You are imprinted all over my life, everywhere I look, Mase.”
“Ugh, don’t do that. Don’t call me ‘Mase’; my goddamn name is Mason,” he grumbled good-naturedly at her. “I fucking hate it when people do that—call me cute shit. Don’t fucking do it.” He thought for a minute and stole a look at her face. “Mica, would you want me to sell it—the bar I mean?” he asked, only half-joking. He thought he might be willing to part with it if would make her more comfortable with him in the other areas of her life.
“Oh, no, Mr. Mason, it’s a nice bar—” she started.
He interrupted her with a heavy sigh, “We’re back to the mister now, huh?” He paused, and then laughed harshly. “If it’s a nice bar and you like it, then come back, babe, okay? I fucking miss you too; it’s not just the guys. If you are afraid of me, of who I am, then just don’t be. Just stop it, and don’t let yourself be afraid. Babe, I promise I will never hurt you. You will always be safe with me.”
He paused for a second. “Let me repeat myself—I. Will. Never. Hurt. You.” He smiled softly at her, looking into her face. “Mica, fear can’t hold you back from things you want to do or enjoy, not if you don’t let it. So come back to Jackson’s and see your friends, babe. We miss you.”
She nodded her head slowly, chewing on the side of her thumb for a minute. “Okay, Mason.” And she did.
10 -
J.J.
“J.J., when are the new tractors going to be delivered to our east coast yards? We have drivers sitting on their asses in Wilmington and Savannah who aren’t making any money—for themselves or for us. They have families; we have bills. You said the equipment would be there a week ago, but here we still sit, in the same position of—let me say it one more time—not making any money.”
Jon Junior, or J.J. to friends and family, waited on the phone without saying anything, knowing from experience that Daniel wasn’t done yet. Wait for it…wait for it…
“And why is Dickie stuck in Montana waiting for Canadian permits? He missed his appointment with the import agent this morning because of it. We need those permits, man, especially if we’re going to take over some of Cochrane’s charcoal runs. What the hell have you been doing with your time, J.J.?” And bingo, there it was, the ever-present dig at how long it took him to do anything anymore.
“I dunno, Danny; what do you think I’ve been doing? Sitting on my ass all day? Well, yeah, I am. Kinda comes with the fucking territory,” he said angrily. “Oh, yeah, don’t forget—I’m also staying away from the truck bays, trying to stay out of the fucking way of the people doing the real work around here,” J.J. shouted into the phone. Smacking the disconnect button several t
imes furiously, he growled, “Goddammit, it’s just not as satisfying as smashing a handset down.”
A hand came down hard on his shoulder, jarring him out of his anger. “J.J., you need anything, man?” His best friend Marty Larsen, their chief mechanic, crouched down beside him, putting them at eye level.
“A new fucking life wouldn’t hurt, Marty,” he took a deep breath and shook his head. “Naw, I’m good, man. It’s just Danny being Danny. He’s stuck at some hospital in Chicago, so he calls and tries to micromanage shit here.”
Marty frowned. “Why’s he at the hospital? He sick? You need to go down, or take your mom down, J.J.?”
“Naw, he’s there with a friend. He stopped a mugging or some shit, and he’s waiting for them to be released. It’s nothing to do with him, thank God. That’d be all Mom needed.”
J.J. pushed away from his desk, tucking his cellphone into the breast pocket of his jacket. Looking at Marty, he scowled. “Get outta my way, man.” He moved his chair towards where his friend was crouching, forcing him to stand and back away. “I gotta check the permit log, find out why Dickie is stuck in the U.S. of A and isn’t in Canada, and then find out why he called Danny and not me.”
Turning to go out the office door, Marty asked, “You still coming to Hansen’s tonight? That little waitress, Penny, has been asking about you.”
“Yeah, I’ll be there, but only if you get the ten trucks due for maintenance done and back on the line. You need to go and get your guys working, Chief.” J.J. waved in dismissal.
Grabbing the wheels of his chair, he rolled over to the file cabinet, frustrated when the files he needed were in the top drawer, but he jacked around until he had what he needed and spread them out over the desktop.
Picking up the phone, he called his brother, Richard, who answered with a gruff, “Yeah?”
Mica (Rebel Wayfarers MC) Page 5
