Fury (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 11)

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Missed you, baby.” He pulled back and stared down into her face, smiling.

  “Aww.” She pursed her lips and made a clucking noise. “Kiss me already, then take these bags. There are more in the car.”

  He leaned in, kissing her deeply as he ran his hands down her arms, unburdening her at the same time. “Go sit with your brother. I’ll get the rest.” He walked her in and pushed her towards his empty seat, knowing from the tilt of her head she was mentally counting the number of empties and that he’d be answering questions later. “Be right back, boss.” Fury walked out, hearing her laugh and already arguing with Mason over who the “boss” was in that scenario.

  End of an era

  Fury

  Fury stood, staring down at the man lying on the ground. With the toe of one boot, he stirred the gravel alongside the body, shocked when his nudge gained a response. A groan, then a cough followed by another groan. “Motherfucker,” Fury muttered. “Nine evil lives.”

  Pike coughed again and his arm lifted to curve across his belly, fingers grasping and holding onto his ribs. Fury waited, expecting that grip to loosen and fall away, but it didn’t, and a few moments later, Pike’s eyes squeezed tightly shut, then opened in a slit. Not sure if the man saw him, Fury stepped back a half pace, seeing Pike’s eyes slide his way, the whites stained with red, burst blood vessels making themselves known.

  Bending at the waist, Fury leaned down, putting his face close to Pike’s. “You in there, old man?” Age wouldn’t save him, not this time.

  “What you want, boy?” Filled with gravel and pain, Pike’s voice rose, coming through clenched teeth. He coughed again, covering his full-body flinch at the end with a growled, “Fuck.”

  “Want you dead.” Fury told him, seeing the glint in the man’s eyes as he stared up. “You’re looking at death, right now, old man. Ain’t got no reason to leave you livin’. No one here to plead your case. Gonna take care of business what shoulda been dealt with ages ago. Put you out of your miserable existence, filled with hate. Hate that you seem to spread everywhere you go.”

  “Lotta talkin’ for a man who’s pridin’ himself on doin’.” Pike rasped out, and Fury saw his fingers clutching tightly at his shirt, holding on, that action giving away fear that must be boiling inside Pike far more than pain.

  “Welp, I ain’t talkin’ for you.” Fury gestured to the crowd gathering on all sides. Rebels and a dozen other clubs, coming together for this. “Got things folks need to know. Got a fuckin’ list, old man. Listen up.”

  Straightening, Fury let his gaze skip across every face turned his direction. Patient, horrified, resigned, eager—those last bothered him, but he marked the faces for now, resolving to return to them when he could—determined, and pained. He focused on those, members of Pike’s own club, turned to doing his bidding without realizing the cost. “Not without blame,” he laid it out there, justified as Chief flinched. “Not without cause, either.” Without giving anyone a chance to rebuke him, he pushed forwards. “Man you trust comes to you with an ask, you’re a brother, you do what you can to assist. What you did, every bit of it, no more or less than any one of us would do.”

  Fury turned, looking around the group again. “Pike’s not the sole source of our pain. Not by a longshot, but he’s the crux that kept things going bad. If he’d left things alone, we’d a been working together rather than against each other. He’d’ve left things alone, brothers would be home with their old ladies, instead of rotting in the ground. He didn’t leave it, and we’ve all paid a price. Time we stop payin’ this piper, brothers. Past time.”

  Looking down, he saw Pike had pushed to one elbow, neck twisted to keep Fury in view. “Ain’t a lie to say he deserves to die. Ain’t a lie to say I’m proud to be the shot caller for this one. The list of pain in your past is so fuckin’ long, old man, it stretched back decades. Even those alive, you’ve marked in your quest for vengeance in an imagined feud.”

  Pike spat, then said, “Ain’t imagined.”

  “Fuck yeah, it is,” Fury clipped, staring into Pike’s eyes. “You didn’t pull your bullshit, officers coulda talked to you, figured out how to keep things from going as far sideways as they did, all those years ago. You picked a side.” Fury swung his hands out to the side, palms up. “You lost. You have been losing for years. You lost, old man. Give it the fuck up.”

  Reaching for the holster at his back, Fury pulled the gun and leveled it at the man. “Got anything to say? Any pithy words of wisdom?”

  Pike’s teeth bared in a feral snarl as he growled, “Fuck y—”

  The shot rang out and everyone watched as the body jolted ten inches, jarring down to the dirt, lifting a puff of dust. The round hole in Pike’s temple oozed a tiny rivulet of red. And that was it, the end of an era of pain and fear, silenced by a single bullet.

  Settling down

  Fury

  He leaned back in the rickety lawn chair Gunny had set out for him, watching the big man laugh as he lifted both hands out to the side, three kids of varying ages and sizes hanging off each arm. The swing set in the corner of the yard had become overrun with the older children, and now Gunny was acting as a makeshift monkey bars. The grin and big, booming laugh falsified his claim to being annoyed at the activity, and Fury smiled to hear the kids’ voices clamoring for more.

  Tipping his head up, he stared through the sunlit fabric of the awning Gunny had setup over the table. Brilliant, dazzling even through the layer of material, the sun shone down on what he knew was a regular occurrence. One of the greatest things about the Rebels was how the club effortlessly folded families into the mix of celebrations. Not to say they didn’t have brothers-only parties, but since most of the men were building families, it made sense to include them as often as possible. Happy wife, happy life. He grinned, because the adage was still true.

  In the weeks since he’d made the trip out to Utah, things had settled down. Even knowing how hard Pike had been working to make life hell for the Rebels, it was still surprising to find how much actual effort he’d been putting into the disruptions that had seemed to come from all sides. Had seemed to, because they fuckin’ were. Myron had spent days putting together a timeline and map of the old man’s work, and then trapped Mason and Fury in a room for hours explaining. It was good to know, because the information allowed them to drop the issues that would be dying on their own now that the shit-stirrer was dead, focusing instead on the real threats.

  There were threats, of course. Given the paths they’d chosen to follow, the lives they led, there would always be threats. Always. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with stiffened fingers. Last night had been an example of that always, because there’d been a series of attacks on several clubhouses on the easternmost edges of Rebel territory. Pressure from an east coast club who were responding to the encroaching tide of Rebels. The men on the edges of things knew where they stood, they expected more action than the members in long-established cities like Chicago and Fort Wayne, but it didn’t make hearing the litany of injuries easier on anyone back here.

  He’d told Mason they would need to push harder, expand a bit more before making a controlled contraction to consolidate clubhouses. Unblinking, his stare still unnerving even after so many months of being joined at the hip, Mason had listened and agreed. They couldn’t be seen to backdown from a few hits like last night, but they still needed to protect their men. For now, they’d try patching mostly single members on the fringe cities, redirecting others with interest back to a more centralized city like Columbus, Toledo, Lexington, or Knoxville.

  A gliding touch on his shoulder was all the warning he needed and Fury lifted his arms, holding his beer out of the way as Bethy tumbled over the arm of the chair and into his lap, laughing and clutching at his neck as the chair threatened to collapse. “Hey there,” she said softly, palm coming to rest on the hinge of his jaw, fingers scratching and threading through his beard. “Food’s nearly ready. Want me to make you a plate?”<
br />
  Luckiest man alive. He stared down into her grey eyes, corners of her lids crinkling up as she smiled. I’d do anything for you. He would, too. He’d tackle any task, level any mountain, and clear all obstacles out of the way of her happiness. Anything. “Sounds good.”

  “Mmhmm.” She lifted her chin, brushing her lips across his. “I’m kinda stuck here right now.” He tightened his arms around her, chuckling as she gave him a pretty pout. “Help me out, Gabe.”

  “Pay the toll, woman.” She rolled her eyes, lifting her chin again. He slipped a hand between her shoulder blades, lifting her up as his mouth descended, pressing a kiss on the tip of her nose. She made a frustrated noise and he smiled, laying the next kiss on one cheek, trailing soft caresses along towards her ear. “What do you want, Bethy? Tell me.”

  Her hands twined around his neck, pulling him down as she arched up. “Kiss me.”

  “You got it,” he murmured, mouth hovering over hers. “Whatever you want, baby.”

  Gunny lifted his arms again, a new batch of kids dangling, bare toes in the breeze, giggling laughter filling the air around the big man.

  For today, life was good.

  Sammy’s ready

  Hoss, three years later

  “Jesus, brother. Take a fuckin’ breath.”

  Jase’s voice startled him, as did the sudden appearance of a heavy hand on his shoulder. Fingers squeezing, holding on to balance himself, Jase stepped over the bleachers from behind where Hoss sat, claiming a place next to him.

  “He’s good. Kid’s not gonna get hurt, man.”

  Hoss turned his attention back to the arena, tensing up again as he watched the bodies flying across the ice. His focus was on a specific young body, because his son Sammy was one of the skaters.

  “Dude, I wouldn’t have recommended this workshop for him if he wasn’t ready.”

  Hoss knew that. Knew it to his bones. Jase was one of the most compassionate and caring men he’d ever seen when it came to kids. And he’d helped kids through tough times before, seen them come out the other end and move on to be healthy, young adults. Sammy needed this challenge. Needed so much. Still, seeing his fourteen-year-old son taking on hulking high schooler kids like this, kids who were listed on the hockey prospects websites, was terrifying.

  “I’m scared as fuck. All the time.” He didn’t look at Jase, could have been talking to himself, but he knew Jase was listening. “My boy’s lost so much. I can’t imagine if he got hurt and lost hockey, too. Jesus, brother, some days I think it’s one of the only things that keeps him going.” Sammy’s skills were undeniable, but so too was a fragility that hadn’t been in the boy’s eyes before. He’d learned far too young how vulnerable they all were. Loss does that to people, he thought. Breaks us in ways others can’t see, but we feel. Scarred and scared, Sammy’s only solace were his dreams, both nighttime and this one, the pursuit of a life on ice. It was working, all his hard work paying off, because Sammy was one of the youngest prospects listed on those websites, arrayed alongside men he revered.

  “He’s healing.” Jase’s tone was firm, a statement that he would brook no argument on the topic. It was decided, at least in his head.

  “He is.” It had been four years since Hope died. Together he and Sammy had dealt with the beginnings of adolescent angst, a mini-rebellion when classwork had to take precedence over hockey, and the boy sprouting his first pubes. They’d also handled teething, potty-training, and the sad death of a first pet for Sammy’s sister, Faith. Hoss had replaced Goldie the goldfish with a rat terrier puppy, and Sammy was pretty certain he’d gotten the better of that deal. Hoss hadn’t known until they pulled away from PBJ’s house with the puppy wrapped in a blanket that a dog was Sammy’s dream pet.

  He’d wrestled with that guilt for a long time, Sammy’s tearful recitation of Hope’s arguments against a dog spelled out in their son’s quaking voice scoring deep. Another thing he hadn’t picked up on, and the example Hoss held up to himself on nights when he couldn’t sleep, wondering what else he’d missed.

  “Are you?” Hoss jumped, so lost in watching his son and his memories he’d forgotten Jase was sitting at his side.

  “Am I what?” Before Jase could respond, Hoss jumped to his feet, shouting “Yes! Goooaall!” as Sammy deked around one of the high school kids and slipped the puck between the knees of the also-a-high schooler goalie. “Way to go, Samboni!” He stood, clapping until Sammy glided off the ice, one mitt lifted Hoss’ direction in acknowledgment of the applause. “Did you see that?”

  “I did.” Jase chuckled. “Told you he was ready.” They sat for a moment, then Jase asked again. “Are you?” Hoss twisted his neck, one eyebrow raised, looking his question at Jase. “Are you healing?”

  Hoss didn’t have to wait. The grief of losing his wife swept over him, the edges of his vision blurring while he turned to stare straight ahead, ignoring the emotion as best he could, hoping Jase would do the same.

  “Brother.” Anguished, filled with a breathy pain, Jase tried to set what he must see as his misstep back straight. “I didn’t mean to make it harder. But,” Jase’s voice grew stronger, that same conviction returning from before, “you can’t keep on like this. You need something.”

  “I went in my studio last night,” he blurted, mouth running away with him. “Haven’t been in there in months, maybe years. I’ve done only a few things since Hope—” He stopped, breathing as if he’d run a mile. “It just, made things fresh, brother. You didn’t do or say anything wrong. It just made it fresh.”

  “You think you need to be going in there and stirring things up? Is that a good thing?” Jase sounded doubtful.

  Hoss wasn’t. He knew the cost of not going back to work. His art had always been a part of him. Much as anything could, he believed if he let it, art could help him come to terms with the loss of the light that had filled his days for such a short time. “Yeah. I think it’s what I need, now.” He inclined his head, indicating Sammy seated on the bench, awaiting his next shift. Following the dream that made him stronger, more resilient. Made him whole. “I think…maybe we’re both ready for this next step.”

  “Then take the fucking leap, brother.” Jase held that same confidence and conviction out like a lifeline. Hoss smiled.

  “Maybe I will.”

  Foreseeable future

  Mason, three years later

  “Babe?” Looking for Willa, Mason held Garrett’s hand as they walked through the house. Smiling wryly, Mason knew his youngest son’s steps were steady, no longer needing his daddy to hold to. Gar ran at full tilt most days, racing from thrilling experience to exciting event without looking back. At seven, he didn’t yet have the heft to back up his attitude of “don’t fuck with me,” but Mason knew he’d get it sooner rather than later, grinning each time Gar ran up against something that set him back on his heels. Those were the teaching moments, and Gar grabbed hold of them with both hands, wrestling knowledge to work on his side.

  “In here,” Willa called, and Mason turned up the kids’ hallway, Gar’s hand slipping from his grip as the boy pulled away, angling towards his room.

  “Don’t make a mess, Gar-boy.” His son lifted one hand in acknowledgment, not turning around. “We got company comin’.” Walking into the next room along the hallway, he found Willa seated on the bed with brush in hand, Dolly standing in front of her. Decorated in soft pinks and purples, there was no doubt whose room this happened to be.

  “Daddy!” Dolly wriggled free of Willa’s grasp and darted towards him. Mason lifted her, tossing her in the air once, then bringing her down for a hug before setting her feet on the floor. “Momma’s makin’ me pretty.”

  “You’re already pretty, baby girl.” He rested a hand on top of her head. “She’s just polishing the raw beauty to a shine.”

  Grinning at her mother, Dolly ordered with her own slice of “don’t fuck with me” attitude, “Shine me, Momma!”

  Rolling her eyes, Willa didn’t have to
say a word. He read her “see what you started” look and laughed. “Hey, babe. You gals nearly done in here? I’m gonna go out back and get the grill started.” There were a half a dozen Rebels coming tonight, all past and present officers in the Fort Wayne chapter, celebrating a couple of birthdays. Faith Inez was seven, only a few weeks younger than his and Willa’s Garrett, and having a joint celebration had become something of a tradition. In the beginning, it was more that the women worried Faynez, as her brother Sammy called her, wouldn’t have enough of a female influence if they didn’t stake their claim. Now, the party was just what they did.

  “Yeah.” The tip of Willa’s tongue had escaped the corner of her mouth, an aid in her concentration to try and corral Dolly’s mass of curly hair. They weren’t certain where the girl had gotten her hair from, but it was uniquely Dolly, as unruly as the child could be. “In a minute.” The band snapped, flipping out of her fingers and she shook her head. “Dang it. A minute more than the last minute I talked about, then.”

  She was still muttering as he made his way back down the hallway and back to the living room. The roar of pipes led him to the windows, and he looked out to see about three dozen bikes parking on both sides of the road. They were a mix of traditional and sport bike models, and he shook his head, yelling an answer to Willa before she even finished asking who it was. “Chase made it home. Looks like he brought a few friends over.” She’d see the numbers as soon as she came out, and that would be soon enough to worry about ordering pizza for the boys. Men, he corrected himself. Chase was nearly twenty-five and had carried that title for a long time now.

  Need that boy to settle down. His oldest son hadn’t yet found his niche, trying his hand at a dozen things and doing well at all of them, but not sticking with anything. Except the music, he mused. Chase still played with Slate’s brother, Benny.