Cassie

by deMora, MariaLisa

  Cassie

  Rebel Wayfarers MC

  Book #12

  MariaLisa deMora

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Cover image by Eric Battershell Photography

  Models: Kaitlin and Burton Hughes

  Cover design: Debera Kuntz

  Copyright © 2015-2018 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 Published 2018

  ISBN 13: 978-1-946738-17-2

  DEDICATION

  It isn’t the date on either end that counts, but how they used the dash. For that dash between the dates represents all the time they spent alive on earth. And now only those who loved them know what that little line is worth. – Unknown, tombstone epitaph

  For every reader who demanded a better ending for our own Isaiah Rogers, and for Hoss, who deserved more.

  Contents

  The artist

  The art lover

  Cassie’s walls

  Bring out his happy

  Ask for Tugboat

  Every day is easier

  Want that for you

  You with me?

  Check yes or no

  One breath at a time

  That’s who I am

  Tell me

  So fucking brave

  Show me

  About damn time

  Took her from me

  Rebels forever

  Start with hello

  Kids are kids

  We got time

  Extended family

  Someone has her

  I’m not waiting

  We need to believe

  Come home to me

  Something to watch

  Better than okay

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  How do you thank everyone involved in helping create a saga that has spanned four real-life years, more than two million words, and included nearly two dozen titles?

  With love. So much love.

  Thank you to my family and friends, who have been infinitely tolerant of me. Endless requests to “just read this one chapter,” an endless number of variations on “what do you think of this idea,” and of course, the pre-launch freakouts which inevitably included at least one “oh, God, my words are shit and I shouldn’t inflict them on the world anymore.” You’ve been there during those moments of excitement when the characters came through so strongly, and listened during the times when these assholes were pissing me right the fuck off.

  It’s no secret to me that as I channeled these men and women in the RWMC how often I took on bits from the least likable characteristics of their personalities, so I apologize for a few of them. Maybe even most of them …

  Thank you to Kay, Brenda, Jesse, and Hollie, and my co-workers and friends who dealt with the in-person pieces of my crazy obsession most often. Extra-special thanks to Kay, who has accompanied me on so many road trips to signing events, helping keep me sane when all I wanted to do was run far, far away.

  Thank you to the folks at Hot Tree Editing, for taking a chance on working with a new author and sticking with me. Becky Johnson, you are amazing. Kayla Robichaux, it all started with you, honey. The HTE beta readers and final editors have helped polish this book with the same intensity and enthusiasm as the first. Thank you so much. You’ve never, ever let me put forth less than 100% effort, and I appreciate how you push for excellence in all ways.

  Kristen, Jamey, Kori, Kelsi, Megan—I could never ask for better critique readers than you. You’ve been willing to take on the rawest form of the books and look past my grievous grammatical mistakes to the heart of the story. Oh, the questions I’ve asked, and you’ve gracefully answered. MirandaPanda, you of the steady voice, thank you for everything. Thank you all.

  My indie author friends, Lila Rose and Kathleen Kelly, you ladies have given me such a gift and I will forever treasure it. You’re always willing to talk plot and character, to dissect aspects of the business that frustrate, and I love you for sharing your wisdom so freely. You are my idols, and I adore you.

  When I talk about photographers, models, and cover artists, I like to say I’ve been blessed to work with some of the best in the business. Only because it’s true! Professional and gracious, creative and capable of producing stunning work every time you step into your role.

  To the bikers and riders, my brothers and wind sisters. The OGs who called it like they saw it, who gave me shit when I got things wrong, who bought me a shot when I needed lifting up. These deep connections span states and nations, and believe me when I say your support means everything to me. You’ve welcomed me into your clubhouses, and homes, added me to family dinners without hesitation, taken me to the range and the mountains, pushed me to be better—and in some cases worse (in the best of ways). You know how I feel, and so does the world. So much honor, loyalty, respect, and love. Always love. I believe in the brotherhood you share, because you’ve shared it with me.

  Readers, ah God, my readers are the best. Demanding and mouthy or quiet and loyal, it matters not, because you all count so very much. I write the stories for me, but you push me to plot more effectively, plan farther, scheme better, and publish often.

  You’ve driven books forwards with your words and connections, by texting and messaging me directly, by emailing and talking to me at events, by making me laugh with your suggestions, and weep with your reactions. By making me love each of you. By turning from readers into friends who I cherish.

  Readers like Dyana, who sent a message about wishing I was at a hockey game and sparked a flurry of writing. “I wish you was at my game tonight,” helped add more than 30,000 words to this story, all from ideas derived from that single line of text.

  Readers who joined in on my silly games, such as “Name a villain,” where the entry by Patricia Blair gave us Bedlam. And the entry by Sheri Secord gave us Drago, and you’ll learn more about those names between the covers of this book.

  This book. Oh, this book. There’s never been another story that I circled back to as often—out, around, then out and back again—as I have this one. This specific story was begun immediately upon finishing writing of Hoss, three years ago. I put down and picked back up the manuscript nearly a dozen times through that span, adding to the story as inspiration struck and characters demanded.

  The main character in this story is, of course, Cassie. But her love interest and leading man has already appeared as the main character in a titled book in the series.

  I desperately wanted to honor the previous book in all aspects of this one. I hope it’s the better for the time spent crafting it.

  I’ve cried and laughed, thrown things, leaned on the kitchen counter crying, and alternated wishing for tequila with regretting the decisions of the night before. I spent the better part of a road trip rolling storylines around in my head, talking to myself (and Mason), and have dreamed more dreams about this story than I care to count. I’ve infused much of my heart into this story, and at times the characters feel too close to true, because the difficulties they struggle with cut me to the bone. I’ve done my part, put in my time, and written from the heart.

  And now, it’s down to you. My faithful readers. I hope you enjoy Cassie, or as I titled it for a long time—Hoss 2.0.

  This book is an ending, that is true.

  But, here’s the advice I’m giving myself: Don’t be sad that the series is coming to a close.
Be glad that these characters, these men and women we’ve come to love so much, agreed to be part of our lives for so long, and with such a lasting impression. They’ve been central to my world for years now, it’s impossible to imagine things without my boys all around in my head. But, they’ve been telling me it’s the right time for a while now, and I trust the characters. They’ve given us every story, and never steered me wrong.

  Personally, I’m holding out hope they’ll come visit again somewhere down the road.

  Woofully yours,

  ~ML

  The artist

  Hoss

  He stood and watched the ebb and flow of the throng as they moved through the small gallery, drifting in predictable patterns around and through where the pieces were displayed on the walls. The worn black leather of his vest rode lightly on his shoulders as he leaned against the wall nearest the back entrance. It was crowded, but not to the point he felt uncomfortable. All these folks are here to see me, after all. Hoss scoffed, keeping the rude noise far back in his throat. Quiet, for his ears only. These law-abiding citizens didn’t need to know how he felt about them.

  Art-seeking crowds in Fort Wayne generally fit into distinct types, and he was mentally categorizing the folks he could see into one of three. The first was yuppyish but with a more forward-leaning Midwest attitude. Another was the “oh, look who I know” set, where the more popular the artist, the more likely it would be they’d want a selfie with them. The third group—and God, he loved ‘em for it—was here only for the art, suffering through shoulder bumps and those little huffs of annoyance directed their direction when they stayed too long in front of a piece, interrupting the movement of the crowd who sashayed around on the see-and-be-seen route through a showing.

  We have a definite art lover in the house tonight.

  The corners of his mouth curled up in a grin. The woman was his favorite kind of people. She’d stayed down here amidst the paintings all evening, which was unlike the rest of the patrons who had come in and done their prescribed circuit as quickly as was acceptable, then moved their asses up to the roof with ticket in hand for a comped glass of wine, staying for the cash bar and ongoing party. Not this chick.

  His only frustration was that even though he’d tried—and he had, putting significant effort into it in between pumping handshakes with the potential buyers his agent steered his direction—still, throughout the night he’d only been able to catch glimpses of her from behind as she faced the artwork. He’d watched as she hung out in front of each piece for long minutes, her study of the art intense. Ignoring everyone around her, she’d even politely turned down a drink offered by a well-attired man, a good-looking banker Hoss knew.

  Currently, she was parked in front of a commission he’d done for a local writer. It was a stark watercolor of a weathered barn isolated by a snowscape. Not one of his personal favorites, but he felt it captured the author’s grief after the death of his partner, and the woman seemed to appreciate it. It’s always cool to find someone who digs my shit like this.

  Other attendees came and went, the regulars approaching him for a few congratulatory words. There’d been several times he’d momentarily lost sight of her, like now, and the absence set up an uneasy reverberation in his chest, his heart speeding up in response. She wasn’t tall, so once the latest group of interruptions moved on after their photo op with him, it took a few moments of him scanning through the guests scattered around the space, but he found her finally. She’d moved on from the watercolor and was now planted in front of a more recently finished piece. Hoss watched with interest as her head tipped back and forth while she took in the detailed painting. Her body posture changed with the emotion evoked by the piece which made her every movement fascinating.

  Glancing around, he identified a better vantage point and casually changed position, moving down to a different section. From his new location, he could finally see more than the back of her head.

  She’s downright pretty.

  Her bright hair was carelessly pinned up in a messy bun, and having it pulled away from her face revealed the lines of a strong jaw. Her soft cheek was exposed to his gaze, and he saw it crease into an unselfconscious smile again and again as she discovered pleasing nuances within his artwork. Wonder if she knows who I am? His gut tightened at the thought of meeting her, but not in a bad way. She’s really fuckin’ pretty. He surprised himself with his next thought, because women in general weren’t on his radar and hadn’t been for a long time. Something about her drew him, though. I wouldn’t mind getting to know her. Hoss let his imagination run free, constructing a scenario where he approached and chatted with her, laughing.

  I could open with a lame line like, “Come here often?” She might respond with a smartass remark of, “Less often before now.” Maybe I’ll ask her opinion, “What do you think of this one?” Lifting an arm, pointing, letting my hand graze the back of hers by chance as mine fell while hers lifted in a gesture. Casual caress of skin on skin. I could fake nonchalance. Would there be a spark? A connection? If I set myself to dig into her response, I might ferret out the why behind the words. What if…I just might like what I find? What if I let myself follow this thread that’s pulling me towards her?

  Movement attracted his gaze and, spell broken, Hoss, also known by his government name of Isaiah Rogers, narrowed his eyes as he watched his agent stop and speak to her. The two women were familiar enough his agent could loosely embrace the short blonde and force a pair of uncomfortable looking air kisses. Tamera Lienstill wasn’t the nicest of people, but that’s exactly why he’d hired her. Once she had gotten in line with the program that came part and parcel with his demands of how he wanted his art treated, she more than got the job done when it came to protecting his paintings like he needed.

  Often he wouldn’t part with any pieces at shows, and she would still manage to get asses in the door even when there wasn’t anything to buy. When he did have a painting or drawing he was willing to give up, the prices listed in the brochure were always astronomical, and again, Tamera would manage to not only get asses in the door but could pack the joint like tonight. And, more often than not, by the end of the night, he’d find that every piece had sold. Quickly. The lookie-loo shows were the least attended of his events because people understood there was no reason to be there if you weren’t fascinated in seeing the progression of a series or to see the advancement of his skill and art.

  Digging through faint memories of past shows, Hoss felt confident he had seen this chick at some of those evenings, which meant he had her pegged pretty accurately as art lover. For this show, mostly due to Tamara’s persistent demands, Hoss had somewhat reluctantly selected three of his newest paintings, ones he hadn’t grown overly attached to, and placed them up for sale. Tonight, the light-haired woman had been parked longest in front of one of those pieces. She must be a buyer. Setting aside his desire to approach her, pushing those fantasies aside, he slipped his hands behind his back, leaning deeper into the wall, anchoring himself in place. A buyer. Not someone he could approach for other, more personal reasons. Just…a buyer. Obviously just here for the art. Why else would Tamara know her?

  Stretched and framed, the canvas on the wall was an oblique side view of a woman. Highlighted by the sun as that glowing ball hovered just over the distant horizon, the rays illuminated an expression of pure joy on the subject’s face, sharing with all observers a deep pleasure at the warmth of sunlight on her skin. She stood with chin lifted, the slightest of smiles stretching her lips. There was a mass of curly blonde hair captured in midfall down her back, individual locks appearing to bounce in place. The background was a scene of boundless fields of ripened wheat, stalks painted as multihued as her hair. The entire painting was golden-toned, from the vegetation to the woman, and the title he’d given it was Endless Golden Beauty.

  Hoss stared at the painting, all thoughts of the other woman fleeing when he felt the familiar painful clench in his chest as his heart acknowledg
ed what he’d held in his hands and lost.

  Hope Annabelle Collins-Rogers. Beloved wife and mother to his two children. Dead now these fifteen years.

  The art lover

  Cassie

  Cassandra Williamson sat on her couch and stared at the wall. Tomorrow, that empty, bare spot would be filled with beauty. Tomorrow.

  The artist’s gallery show ended yesterday, and from past experience, she knew it took the service two days to crate and move the sold pieces. The timing was predictable, happening like clockwork, something she deeply appreciated. Tomorrow she would have to open her door, allowing people she didn’t know entry into her house. Maybe they’ll send the same delivery men. Barry and his crew. I can hope. Scant solace in that thought. Even if she liked him, Barry would still be invading her sanctuary. She drew a shuddering breath through her nose and then slowly blew air back out her pursed lips. I can do this, she thought, fists clenched tightly, pressing hard against the tense muscles in her thighs. I can do this. Another hard-earned breath, pulling air through an ever-tightening constriction.

  She flicked her gaze towards the door, and her heart raced faster, picking up more as she looked back to the empty space. Then—and the conscious focus shift allowed her to relax slightly—to the covered walls that surrounded her. Over the past seven years, she had collected six paintings from the same local artist. Six pieces of art which, when she looked at them, drew her out of herself and back into memories of the world for at least an evening, remembering the first moment she saw them. Love at first sight. She released a humorous snort, the near brush with panic slowly ebbing away, fingers of tension easing from around her lungs. Paintings initially glimpsed across a crowded room, the colors and composition of the art calling out to her with such impact that she couldn’t walk away without knowing she would take some of that beauty with her. Each of the six provided her with a window into a world she hardly inhabited any longer.