Cassie

by deMora, MariaLisa

  “Do you know who it was?” Hoss wouldn’t call whoever the man was Randi’s father, because it was clear to anyone who could see that Blackie filled that role completely.

  Blackie shook his head slowly. “No, just some guy who was down here for a job. Rubber had a blowout, and I got Randi out of the deal. He’s back up in fuckin’ Ohio somewhere.”

  “What does Randi want? She lookin’ to meet this guy? She wantin’ medical history or something? Or is it just curiosity?” Ohio was a big state, but the Rebels had chapters in every nook and corner of the place, so if there were a name they might have a shot at finding him. “You want help finding him to vet him before she meets him?”

  “Fuck if I know. I overheard her quizzin’ Peaches the other night, asking a thousand questions about him. How tall was he, what color eyes, how did he speak, was he nice, did she think I’d like him.” Blackie growled far back in his throat and spit to the side, lifting a hand to rub across his jaw. “It’s tearin’ my old lady up, and that tears me up. The other kids know something’s up, but as far as I know, they don’t have the story.”

  “Yet.” Hoss offered him a grim smile. “Kids are kids, and they figure shit out fast. How old is Randi now?”

  Blackie’s jaw moved back and forth. “Twenty-five.”

  “Late to be finding out something like that.” Blackie nodded. “Sammy knew his sperm donor. Knew all the bad about the man, even before he tried to take my boy away.”

  “Fuck, I’d forgotten about that. You had to race down to ’Bama.” Hoss took a breath and nodded sharply, once. “So he had memories, but not a good one in the mix.”

  “Yeah. All he ever wanted was someone to take care of his momma like she deserved, and I was lucky enough she picked me.” Hoss swallowed hard, pushing past the familiar pain, surprised when he found it lessened than in the past. “Once I won her, he came fast. When the man was killed in prison, Sammy didn’t flinch, didn’t question. Just said ‘Good’ like it was something he’d been waiting on.”

  “You gave him your name?”

  Hoss nodded again. “His ask, when he knew I was gonna beg his mom to marry me. He wanted to be mine, too. That’s where my situation is so different from yours. I was blessed with him, like you were Randi, but he picked me and never looked back.”

  “She never questioned why her last name was Peaches, and not mine.” Blackie’s head hung, chin dipping towards his chest. “That’d be a big fuckin’ clue right there. She’s mine, but I never put that legal piece to it. Peaches didn’t want to dig up anything on the guy, and she would have had to for me to adopt our girl.”

  “It’s not too late.” Hoss shrugged. “You wanna tie a knot in it and keep things from unraveling, you could get the papers together and have her sign ’em.”

  “You don’t think twenty-five is too old to be doin’ that?” Blackie looked over at him, head cocked sideways and one brow lifted to his hairline.

  “Nope. Not if it settles her soul.” Hoss shook his head. “Never too late to make sure someone knows how much you love ’em.”

  Blackie’s gaze swept back to the stage where Chase and Benny had teamed up to sing on a single mic, the music rolling from them as naturally as breathing. “You are 100 percent right.” He sighed. “Dude’s a biker, but not in the RWMC. He’s in Celina or Columbus, I’ve heard both.” He cut his eyes back to Hoss with a grimace. “He ain’t a cool dude.”

  “What’s that mean, exactly?” Celina was close to three RWMC chapters, Fort Wayne included, and they had a chapter in Columbus. Given the proximity, it wasn’t unreasonable for any of their men to know him, including Hoss. “You got a name then?”

  “Yeah. Bedlam. Heard of him?” Hoss froze in place. Blackie eyed his reaction and cursed softly, then said, his voice low and pained, “You know him.”

  “Fuck yes. Sayin’ he ain’t a cool dude is like sayin’ the sun is kinda hot. Understatement of the year.” He shook his head. “Jesus. Bedlam’s crazy. Certifiable, you know?” Blackie huffed out a sigh and nodded. Hoss took in the defeated expression settling into place on his face and decided. He pulled out his phone and hit a number. Myron answered. “Need you by the camp, brother. Got a job for ya.” He disconnected and lifted a hand to Blackie, who gripped his wrist tightly. “We’ll pull up papers and, if we need to, if it will settle your woman or girl’s mind, I’ll even have someone pay a personal visit, get those fuckers signed. We’ll get you your girl, Blackie. She doesn’t need to have anything to do with that crazy fucker.”

  “Thank you.” The words were heartfelt and Blackie followed them up by pulling Hoss close to pound his back hard with one closed fist. “Thank you.”

  “We got you, brother.” Hoss shook his head, brain swimming with the memories of making this same decision for Sammy, and knowing it was the right one. “We got you.”

  We got time

  Graeme

  Standing near the stage, Graeme Nass scanned the crowd, studying all comers with a close eye for troublemakers. This was his role, and he was good at what he did, working the fringes of every event the Freed Riders put on to ensure things went off like his president wanted: smooth and easy. Graeme—also known as Horse—owed Blackie a blood debt he could never repay, but he kept after what was due from him, chipping away at the feelings of obligation little by little.

  Tonight, even with the volatile addition of two very dominant and dangerous clubs, things were going surprisingly smoothly. Mason, the Rebel president was in the center on the rail, his old lady propped in front of him. Her arms were up and waving while he anchored her to his body, holding on and keeping her safe from the crush of the people surrounding her. In concentric circles around them, the crowd was studded through with other RWMC stakeholders, officers and leverage members from a dozen chapters. They’d all converged here to this tiny town in Northeast Texas for a benefit rally. Ostensibly, it was because one of the band members was Mason’s son, but Horse knew differently.

  He’d finally gotten Blackie to give him the real lowdown this afternoon, just in time to prep for the evening’s festivities. That’s when he’d gotten the full list of who was in town, and why.

  Horse stared at Blackie in disbelief. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” Blackie’s head swung back and forth, eyes dancing with the laughter that was never far from his president’s face. “You aren’t kidding.”

  “Nope.” Popping the p, Blackie laughed, holding his side as he rocked in place. “Your goddamned face kills me, Horse. Every fuckin’ time. Kills.”

  “I wouldn’t get this expression if you weren’t an asshole about shit like this.” Horse sat back on the lightly cushioned bench seat around the table in the RV in which Blackie and Peaches were camping. “Seriously. We’re talking major negotiations happening here, right under everyone’s noses, and you held that shit close to the vest?”

  “Fuck yeah, I did.” Blackie’s lip curled and he leaned forwards. “One, we don’t want a fuckin’ war on our hands because of these clubs. We danced through the edges of one years ago, and I do not like looking over my shoulder like that. We do what’s needed for our own shit, sure, but cleaning up like we did? I did not want that in our territory again.”

  He studied Blackie’s expression and then sighed deeply, pushing air out with a groaned, “Fuck.” Blackie nodded. “They’re all here, too, aren’t they? Every one of them from that time.”

  “Nearly. They’ve had losses, which is another reason I do not want to stir that particular pot.” Blackie reached across and gripped his wrist. Horse turned his arm in the hold, reaching to clasp Blackie’s wrist, too. “We had our own dead to deal with, Horse. We don’t need to take on anyone else’s.”

  Still attentive to the shadowed figures along the edges of the crowd, Horse flicked his gaze through the faces and names he knew. Mason and Willa, but back in the day it had been a different woman who occupied that man’s mind. She was here, too, and Mica stood far from the grinding pit of sweaty dancing bodies, leaning
her head on the shoulder of a man who looked physically fit, but so well put together Horse wouldn’t expect the man to do anything other than gym routines.

  I’d be wrong. He snorted at himself. Daniel Rupert had flown his wife, their two sons, his brother and sister-in-law down in his private jet for the event. Private jet. Rolling his eyes, he studied the couple for another moment. Retired hockey player who still engaged in highly competitive league play, and coached rising star athletes. They weren’t staying on the grounds, thank God. Mica’s family had land only thirty miles away, and Horse had verified that’s where they’d be during down time. Last thing we need is a fight involving citizens.

  The RWMC’s international and national president, Fury, rocked and rolled in the pit with his old lady, who happened to be Mason’s little sister. She’d no doubt had a wicked time of it latching herself to a man like him, because Horse assumed Mason hadn’t wanted this for her. Family, they’ll do what they want, every time. Pain from the thought shafted through his chest and he reached up, rubbing his fingertips across the scar just under his collarbone. Fuck family.

  Continuing his visual sweep, he marked Duck and his old lady, come in from a western chapter of the RWMC. Horse’s gaze stayed on the man for a long time, marking the scant similarities between this man, a good one by all accounts, and the man Horse had killed all those years ago.

  The bull rider stared up at him from the floor of the van, his eyes peaceful as their gazes locked. At least the man was accepting of his fate, not fighting the bonds any longer. They’d picked him up at the Houston fairgrounds, with explicit instructions of how to handle this disposal. It was a coup for the Freed Riders, to be asked for such a marker, and Graeme hadn’t balked at the orders. Not after he’d heard what this piece of filth had done through the years. Serial killers weren’t always who you expected them to be, and a compact, fit, handsome athlete didn’t match the typical stereotype of backwoods loner. Fuck, this guy is scary, he thought, not for the first time.

  Turk yelled something from the front of the van and Graeme looked up. By the time he looked back down, the man was writhing on the floor again, mouth chomping on the gag as if he were trying to cut it into two with his teeth.

  That had been a watershed moment in his life, a point in time where his morality and beliefs swung freefall over a chasm of doubt, but he’d come out the other side of the crucible stronger than before. Duck’s brother, Ray Nelms, had died in the desert at Horse’s hand, and knowing now what he did, far beyond what had been suspected at the time, Horse still slept easy at night. Does that make me a killer? He sighed. I was a killer. Took his life, but his death was an earned execution.

  Cycling his attention back to the stage, he watched the band for another few minutes, then began his visual sweep once more. Marking every known face, and isolating the few he didn’t know for later identification. These were learned skills that he put to use for the club every day. It was what let him sleep at night, and ensured those under his care were safe and protected.

  Something moved in the shadows and his gaze paused, settling onto the inky darkness. The outline of a body, an elbow held akimbo from the torso, the glint off something metallic—he was moving within an instant, racing through the edges of the crowd. Crouching carefully, he slipped past members of a dozen clubs, their wives and children, lovers and families intertwined in the pit. It was a killing ground, too crowded to escape easily, and if there were chaos…

  Horse came up against the side of a tent, ruthlessly controlling his breathing to listen intently for the slightest sounds. He heard a click, sounding like coins rubbing together in someone’s pocket, then a muffled curse, then, farther away, a footstep.

  By the time he rounded the corner, the dark nook was empty, nothing more than the heavy scent of a man’s cologne to indicate anyone had been present. He swept the ground with his gaze and bent over, picking up a glinting talisman. Horse stared at what he held for a moment, then turned to stare out over the undulating crowd with wide eyes. Blackie caught his attention with a questioning shrug and he jerked his head, calling his president over. A moment later he reached out and placed it in Blackie’s palm.

  “What the fuck?” Blackie echoed what had been running through Horse’s mind as they stared at the bright brass cartridge of an unfired bullet.

  ***

  Hoss

  Hoss looked around the group gathered on the other side of the fire in the RWMC camp, frowning as he watched the Freed Riders members mingling comfortably with the Rebels. Peaches balanced on one knee, Blackie sat near Truck and Mason, who held their own old ladies close. Hoss leaned forwards and swiped another beer from the nearby cooler. Dammit.

  Mason turned his head and gave him a look, then with a pat on Willa’s ass, moved her so he could stand. Stalking around the firepit until he was close enough to grab his own beer, he stood with an arm crossed over his chest, bottle to his lips for a long drink.

  “What the fuck’s up your ass?” Low, pitched for Hoss’ ears only, Mason’s growled words yanked Hoss’ spine straight. “You been scowling all goddamned night, and I’m not quite sure what’s eatin’ at you, but you needa fix it now. Willa’s worried about you.”

  “I haven’t been able to get ahold of Cassie.” He admitted this easily, because he knew she was okay. What he wouldn’t admit was in addition to talking to Sammy, he’d also sent more than one prospect to roll past her house and peer into her garage and windows like fucking stalkers. They’d reported back via Myron that there was activity in the house, and all vehicles were accounted for in the garage. “Bothers the hell outta me that the last words we exchanged were angry ones.” He shrugged. “Fucked up, and I know it.”

  “How you gonna unfuck that?” Mason tipped the bottle up again, his neck working as he swallowed. “You’re the plannin’ man. What you got tucked up your sleeve?”

  “You saw the sketch I did of her?” Mason nodded. Not long after Hoss had relegated it to the studio, his friend had visited and without being told had unerringly found it, and called him out on the emotions evoked by the art, just as Faith had. “I think I’ll give it to her. Gonna wrap it up and hand it over, and tell her just how I feel.”

  “How you feel?” Mason snorted. “This is gettin’ too soft, brother. But I want an answer and then we’ll talk about bikes or something else. Fucking asshole, making me into a goddamned chick. How do you feel?”

  Hoss laughed softly and finished his beer before answering. “She’s it for me, Mason. It’s different from Hope, you know?” Mason nodded. Hoss knew he understood because the man had borne love for two women in his life, the first not made for him and he’d known it early, which at least gave him the grace of space to hand her into another man’s arms. The second had been crafted specifically for him, molded by the Maker to fit his life and needs in a way no other woman could. He glanced over and caught sight of Willa staring across the flames at her man with a crooked smile, unafraid to show the world her emotions. I want that from Cassie. “Different, but not less. In some ways, it’s more, because I know how fast things can be ripped away. I don’t know how to explain it, but she fills me up in ways I need.”

  Mason’s mouth worked for a moment, and then he said, “Cherish that, man. Best thing in the world, having the love of a good woman. Holding that in your arms, it’s a good thing.”

  “Fury told me once I needed to hold on with both hands, and I got it. I knew what he meant. With Cassie, it’s not work to do it, brother. Loving her is as simple as breathing.”

  “Gonna unfuck it then, that’s good.” One corner of Mason’s lips lifted in a small smile. “When?”

  “Soon as we get home. We’re rolling out tomorrow morning, and I’m gonna pick up the sketch and go straight to her house. Beg my way back into her heart, and then stay there.” He sighed, a feeling of contentment rolling over him. “Stay there the rest of my life.”

  ***

  Mason

  “Mmhmm.” Willa rolled her ne
ck to shove her face into the pillow and hummed as Mason stroked up her back. He laughed softly and angled his thumbs deeper into her muscles. “Dear God.” Never get tired of her kooky. “That. There.” Her sigh sounded more like a mew and he shook his head. “More. Now. Gargh.”

  “Jesus, babe.” He rolled towards her, shifting the covers out of the way to massage her back more effectively. “How are you so stiff? I thought the whole point of the bus was to keep you from gettin’ achy like this?”

  “First, that’s what she said.” He chuckled at the pleased tone in her voice. “And second, that’s a good question,” she mumbled, not picking her head up. “For which I do not have a good answer.” Arching up, she wedged her elbows under her chest, fluffing the pillows before she flung them back out on the bed. Mason rocked up on an arm, looming over her and watching every sinuous movement of her body as she relaxed into the position, hips gliding side to side. A glance over her shoulder carried humor and he grinned, waiting. “In case you failed to notice, we’re in a bed. Together.” She rocked to one side, bumping him with a hip. “Huh? Huh? Did I plan this, or what?”

  “Quite the planner,” he murmured, sidling close enough to rest his head on her low back. His hand continued to sweep the skin bared before him. And watching himself touch her was as enthralling as ever. “You have a good trip, Willa? Enough of a re-honeymoon for what you wanted?”

  Every night he’d spent in the bus with her, except the two nights she declared off-limits for the men, holing up in hotels with the woman and abandoning the busses while they took advantage of unlimited hot water and paid TV. He tipped his neck, dragging his chin across her hip, mouthing along the edge of the covers where they curved over her ass. He bit gently, then traced the faint indentions with the tip of his tongue.

  “Yeah,” her response was sweetly slow, each sound drawing out in an echo of her pleasure. “This has been a great trip, chunk a hunk. Everything—” She twisted away from him, rolling to her back before jockeying for position under his head again. “I could have ever—” With a lunge she arched up and planted her lips over his. “—asked for. You? Has it been a good trip for you?”