She frowned, looking down, her hands touching the flesh on either side of the stitches gently. Keeping only her fingertips in contact, she began inventorying his injuries, her eyes leading her fingers from scrape, to bruise, to knot.
Her feather-light touches were unintentionally arousing. Daniel watched her face, and he saw the change when she realized the game she had watched from the safety and protection of the suite had been physical, and hard, and dangerous…and that dampened his desire. He saw the light dimming in her eyes, and watched her pull her bottom lip into her mouth and bite down hard as she considered his injuries. If only she knew these were mild to what he’d come home with from other games.
“Mica, it’s what I do. It’s a game I love,” he said. “It’s as safe as the rules can make it, but we are highly-skilled, competitive players, and the younger guys on the teams are trying to move up the rungs to the NHL. They are scrutinized, and their plays are analyzed with each game. They have to play as hard and aggressively as possible every game, in order to catch a place at the national level when, or if, one opens up. I do not regret a single bruise, bump, or knock from tonight,” he smiled softly, “or even a stitch. So don’t look at me like that, beautiful. I’m okay.”
Looking into his face intently, Mica still looked unsettled. “Does it hurt much?” she asked.
“Not right now—I’ll be sore tomorrow, but right now, I feel fine.” Shifting her hands to his legs, he released them and started putting his shirt back on. He held out an arm to her in silent supplication, and she smiled and buttoned his cuffs, smoothing the fabric down his arms. “Want to know where we’re headed?” Daniel grinned. “I hope you aren’t expecting a gourmet meal. We’re getting my favorite food, from my favorite place in the world, but it’s definitely not gourmet.”
She looked at him quizzically. “Well, I wasn’t, but I’m wondering now. Where are we going?”
He looked out the window, peering around until he saw a landmark. “Looks like we have about fourty-five minutes until we get there. It’s a secret until then.” He turned and eyed her. “Why don’t we talk? Mica, how much do you know about me, like where I came from, or what I do?”
She turned sideways on the seat, folding one knee underneath her and facing him. “Well, I only know what you’ve told me. You own the Chicago Mallets, you play hockey, and you’ve played all your life. You are from Wisconsin, and you have a brother…or two, maybe. You like beer and cupcakes, especially the ones Brandy makes. You make a great hero,” she said with a smile. “Jason, Gary, and Steve are your friends.” Her smile faded. “You don’t trust easily, but you are loyal. Honestly, that’s about all I know.”
He leaned back into the door, relaxing. “I grew up just outside Milwaukee; this area is home to me. My mom still lives in the house where I grew up. In high school, I started working as a trailer spotter at a local food processing plant. That’s the guy who drives a hotrod mini-truck to move trailers into and out of dock doors, going as fast as possible…but without damage. I liked the challenge and need for precision. I found out I liked trucks, and admired the regular truck drivers too. Gary and I played junior league, OHL. We played in Canada for two years, and then I got a hockey scholarship to college, while Gary went to Russia to play. I was at University of Illinois in Urbana-Champaign. That’s where I met Steve; we were teammates through college.”
She leaned forward, asking, “Tell me about your family?”
He grinned affectionately. “Oh, they are a motley crew, but I need to set this up right.” His smile faded. “Dad died when I was sixteen; it was sudden. He was coaching my little brother’s team one evening, and by two a.m., he was just gone. J.J.—that’s Jon Junior, my oldest brother—had joined the Army, so he was not home much. It was just me, Mom, and Dickie; he’s the baby, nine years younger than me. My Mom was only thirty-nine when Dad died. She remarried a couple years later, Garrett Maddock, a local guy. He was a jerk; they’ve been divorced for years now, good riddance. She even changed her last name back to Rupert, instead of her maiden name, saying she never should have tried to replace Dad in the first place. He was her soul mate.
“Anyway, I got picked up by an EU team after college and played overseas for nearly ten years. I made good money, but it was hard. It’s a high level of skill those players have, mostly because they are hungry to come to the US and play, but it was good to really push myself. It was good money coming in with every game I played, which I turned around and invested. When I came home, I took my money and bought a business that had intrigued me—a trucking company.” He laughed. “I didn’t want to drive, but I liked the business. I liked knowing the drivers had a little bit of freedom in their jobs. So, now I’m the owner of DRTC, Daniel Rupert Trucking Company, and I make good money with this too.”
“DRTC—I’ve seen that on trailers around Chicago a lot,” Mica mused. “Is it a big company?”
He nodded. “I’ve got more than two-hundred drivers in the OTR division—that’s over-the-road. Plus, I have a couple of smaller, local divisions too. I like knowing I’m keeping jobs here in Wisconsin, in the Midwest. I know that sounds corny, but it really does matter to me.”
“Do you live here in Milwaukee when it’s off-season for hockey, when you aren’t playing in Chicago?” She propped her chin on her hand, looking interested.
He grinned at her. “Nope, I live in Glencoe full-time.” He watched her eyes widen.
“Nice,” she teased, “pricy, but nice. I think I knew that.”
“Yeah, it’s costly, but it’s private and located nearly halfway between the places I need to be, so it’s convenient.” He gave her a big grin. “Plus, I love living along the lake, even with the mess in the winter. I love the expanse, and the sound, and the location. After the Army, J.J. came to work for me as a mechanic. He runs all my truck yards now; we have four in this area, and another half-dozen on the east coast, so he’s a busy guy. Dickie drives; it’s what he enjoys. I’m glad to have someone I can trust as a driver-trainer, and someone to pickup trucks and loads as needed.
“Mom won’t admit it, but she’s the one that really runs the business. Between her and my cousin, April, they keep all the bills paid and invoices going out to bring checks in. I’m lucky to have a family who supports me like they do.” Daniel grinned at Mica. “Mom’s looking forward to meeting you.” She cut her eyes at him, surprised by that last.
He continued, “I bought the Mallets several years ago. I’d been playing for the team for a couple years and became friends with the owner. He wanted to retire, and it was a great opportunity for me to stay involved in the sport I love. It’s a good thing I have the trucking business to support me, because hockey doesn’t make a lot of money.” He laughed. “Of course, I’m told that’s because I pay too much, coddle the guys, and don’t charge enough for tickets, but as long as it pays for itself, I’m pretty much okay with breakeven.”
Mica leaned her head back against the seat. “Your brothers don’t play anymore? Just you?”
He nodded, rubbing his fingers through his dark hair, saying shortly, “Yeah, just me from the Ruperts. But, I’m lucky to have picked Jason up several years ago as a player, and now a friend. He’s a rock for the team, and I was really glad when Gary came back and they gelled as team leaders.”
“Okay, so where are we headed, Mr. Rupert? This is quite a drive for dinner,” she joked with him, tilting her head so her hair draped across her shoulder and down to her breast. Daniel’s breath caught, and he felt a twitch from his groin she was so beautiful.
Looking outside again as the car slowed and turned, he replied, “We’re here; give me a minute to run in and pick up the food.”
Mica peered out the window, seeing a tall statue of a round-cheeked boy in a checkered apron in front of what looked like a diner. “Is this a Big Boy? We’re eating at a Big Boy?” she asked skeptically.
He nodded seriously. “Best burgers in the world. Don’t diss.” He grinned. “I’ll be right back!�
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After a few minutes, he returned to the car with an armful of bags. Settling them into the seat and floorboard, he sniffed appreciatively as the car filled with the aroma of fresh-made burgers and seasoned French fries. “Onward, Samuel,” he shouted, laughing, and the car pulled out of the parking lot.
“Okay, Daniel, now where are we going?” She pulled a bag over and looked inside, laughing as he jealously pulled it back, crinkling the top closed. “Nuh-uh, Mica, no snacking. We’ll be there soon.”
“But where is ‘there’?”
Holding a finger up to his lips, he made a shushing sound. “Secret,” he whispered, and turned to look out the window with a big grin on his face.
Sitting quietly, smelling the food, Mica grinned at him, mocking his action with her own, “Shhh.” Within a few minutes, the car turned onto a narrow drive that had several cars already parked along the sides. They pulled to a stop in front of a house that was well lit from within, even at this late hour. Daniel turned to her with a huge, open, and relaxed smile and said, “We’re here.” He was opening the door to get out when he heard her mutter, “Yeah, but where is ‘here’?” and grinned even wider.
Samuel collected the food bags, and Daniel rushed Mica up the walkway and onto the front porch just as the door opened. A pretty woman stood in the doorway, dressed in a pullover shirt and slacks with bare feet. She had a wide smile on her face, and said, “Danny, I’m so glad you made it.” She stepped out to wrap him into a tight hug, laying her head against his shoulder and patting the back of his head with her hand. “Oh, you feel so good; Danny,” she stepped back and held her hand out, “and you must be Mica.”
Mystified, Mica shook her hand. “Yes, Mica Scott.” She looked at Daniel for help, because she had no idea who this woman was, and she wasn’t sure what to do next. Putting an arm around each of the women on the porch, looking very pleased with himself, Daniel said, “Mica, this is my mom, Darlene Rupert.”
Daniel’s mom pulled her into the house, yelling, “Boys, come say hello to your brother’s girlfriend.” Daniel groaned behind her, “Mom,” but didn’t get any further before there was loud scuffling coming from a room opening off the hallway. Grunts and low curses carried to them as they stood near the outside door.
“Boys, knock it off now,” his mother ordered, as a wiry, but muscular man in a t-shirt with tattoos on his right arm barreled through the doorway, seconds ahead of an older version of Daniel in a wheelchair. “Ha! Beat you, J.J. Eat my dust, big brother,” teased the younger man, as the wheelchair-bound J.J. slid sideways to a stop just in front of Darlene.
J.J. grinned at his baby brother. “Picking on a crip now, Dickie? Nice choice of impression techniques there, bro.” As he smiled up at Mica, she noted the pain around his eyes, but his joy was genuine as he teased Dickie. He had what looked like a two-day scruff on his wide jaw, and wore a tightly knit skullcap over his short hair.
J.J. held out his hand. “Jon Junior, but everybody calls me J.J.. Pleased to meet you, Mica. I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her suggestively. Mica laughed nervously; she pulled her hand from Darlene’s grasp to reach out and shake his hand, noting the callouses across his palms and fingers from the wheelchair.
“J.J., it’s good to meet you. I learned about you tonight,” she responded, and she waggled her eyebrows back at him.
Hooting with laughter, J.J. smacked Daniel on the thigh. “Danny, she’s a keeper; that was awesome.”
Mica turned to the other man, seeing a close semblance with his brothers. They all had that dark reddish-brown hair and deep blue eyes, but Dickie was much thinner than the other two. His was more of a swimmer’s build, and he was the only one with visible ink. His shirt wasn’t new; it was well worn, but looked comfortable. He seemed quicker to frown than Daniel, but for now, he held his hand out with a grin. “Richard, but no one here calls me anything but Dick or Dickie, so whichever of those you pick will be fine.”
Mica shook his hand too, but noticed when Daniel snaked an arm around her waist. He pulled her back into him, and she let Dickie’s hand go a little more quickly than she had J.J.’s. “Which would you prefer, Mr. Rupert?” she asked in a smart-aleck tone.
“I’m not Mr. Rupert; he’s the one standing behind you. Dickie is fine, sweetness. Glad you guys made it.” Turning to Daniel, he staggered playfully across the hallway clutching his stomach. “My brotha…food…foooood…foooood! I’m starving,” he joked.
Samuel had passed through a few minutes ago with the food, turning into a doorway opposite where the two men had raced out of. Darlene shoved her boys that way, telling them, “Kitchen, wash up first. Welcome, Mica, come on in.”
41 -
Told you I’d find you
Mica decided their return home to Chicago from Milwaukee was anticlimactic, because nothing happened. They uprooted their lives for days, and nothing happened. Daniel and Mica had made it back to the hotel on Sunday in time for Daniel to catch the bus with the team.
Mica rode home with Jess and Brandy. She had decided it was too cold to ride that far on Mason’s bike; he was disappointed, and she was sorry, but she had stayed nice and warm in the car. Steve reported that Ray had returned home to Texas late Saturday night, so at least he was gone from the area.
Monday morning came, and everyone went to work, and nothing happened. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and then Friday had all been much the same, followed by another two weeks of absolutely nothing. Full days filled with nothing happening...but Mason didn’t care.
That’s how Mica came to be sitting on her window seat at home on a Friday night. She was hugging her legs tightly, looking across her living room at the three bikers seated at her kitchen table, wondering to herself why they were still here, because—again—nothing had happened. It was all a big mistake, clearly. Chewing her thumb, she wondered how she’d be able to convince Mason that everything was okay. It was a couple weeks before Christmas, and she wanted her life back.
The Rebel guys seemed to be playing a guy game of ‘stupid-stuff-I-survived' one-upmanship, as they talked through situations in which they had found themselves in the past.
Tug was there; he was one of her favorites. She liked his casual confidence and how he wasn’t afraid to show the wisdom of his fifty-eight years. He kept his white hair long, and it contrasted with his still-brown mustache. He was the only one of the three without a lot of ink, but he had a cool saying tattooed on the inside of his forearm. It was a quote from Oscar Wilde, Know how to be alone and not be defined by another person.
She’d also seen a tattoo on his back one day last summer; it was of a soldier carrying one of his comrades in a fireman’s hold, and the block-lettered words Some gave all underneath it. She was sure there was a story there, and hoped one day Tug would feel comfortable enough with her to tell her.
Tug had volunteered for what they called ‘Mica Duty’ a lot since they started this. He was a huge fan of her cooking, especially her homemade tomato soup. Once, when he wasn’t feeling well, she’d taken him some to Jackson’s, and he always asked for it now.
He sat way back in a chair, relaxed and loose, his feet stretched out in front of him and his forearms crossed behind his head. There was no denying he was powerfully built, but he wore his strength with more style and self-assurance than the rest of the other Rebels. He had even offered to teach her how to drive a motorcycle when spring rolled around, and she was tickled that he’d do that for her.
Red-headed Tucker was a lot less settled, but he was just a prospect. Mica knew that meant he was on probation, and had to watch himself all the time around club members. Like a college frat house on rush week, he could be directed by any full member at any time, and couldn’t argue with them no matter what they ordered. He seemed much younger than most of the guys; she’d place him somewhere south of twenty-three. He was arrogant around her, and he pretentiously wore wraparound sunglasses in the house, even at night.
Tucke
r had visible ink in the form of a brilliantly-colored skull with flames, and a tarantula between its jaws on his left shoulder, seemingly intended to intimidate. He always wore sleeveless shirts under his vest with the prospect patches—she suspected to show off the tattoo. He had a nice leather jacket, but only wore it to ride, so every time she looked at him, she saw that yawning, flaming skull.
Slate was here too, and Mica shook her head, extraordinarily anxious about him being in her house. He gave off a perilous vibe. She didn’t know exactly what it was, but he always carried himself so rigidly he nearly vibrated, like an over-tightened piano string just struck by a mallet. She thought he had to be mid-thirties, and he was fit, well-built, and his muscles were very defined.
Slate was also Mason’s lieutenant, and tolerated zero insubordination from any member at any level. Once, at Jackson’s, she’d seen him explode from a barstool and barrel a much larger member back into a wall. He had lifted the huge man off his feet, and held him for a few seconds against the wall with a forearm choke. His Harley Fat Boy was his pride and joy, but of all the Rebels she knew well, he was the only one who had never offered her a ride.
He was around a lot, both here and at Jackson’s. He was shirtless in her kitchen tonight, and kept looking at her sitting on her window seat in a way that made her face heat. He’d been running his fingers through his hair, and it stuck up every which way, the short brown hair as unruly as he was. His pants and leather chaps were hanging off his hips, exposing a great deal of his cut lower belly and the tip of his dragon tattoo’s tail.
She’d wondered often about his tattoos, which covered his back, chest, both shoulders and arms, down to his hands and fingers, because they were all individually beautiful, but some of them were very faded, as if they’d been there for a long time. She’d seen a new tattoo on his ribs earlier, when she went in for a bottle of water. His new ink read, Three can keep a secret, if two are dead, and seemed such a cryptic saying that she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what it stood for. She’d had a scary thought it probably meant exactly what it said.
Mica (Rebel Wayfarers MC) Page 24
