Watcher

by MariaLisa deMora

  This time, Watcher’s brows drew together in a sharp frown, because Ezra was no longer comfortably lounging, but had edged to the front of the folding chair, bewildered attention firmly on the road down the mountain. That was when Juanita began to shake, not a tremble but a full-fledged palsy born throughout her body, transferring through to his. Then he heard it, felt it through his boots. From the earth herself and up into his legs, his body. A growing roar, a distant rumble that could only have come from a hundred metal throats.

  Twisting to look down the road leading up the mountain, he instinctively pushed Juanita behind him. Holding her in place with one hand firm around her upper arm, he made sure she stayed close but protected. He tensed when he saw them, the first ranks three wide as they swept around the curve and into the straightaway leading to the cemetery gates, two staggered columns farther down the lines. Relief washed through him as he recognized the man on the lead bike. Head up, sitting straight, confident and proud: Mason.

  That relief was short lived when Spider stepped around the grave to place himself into a protective position beside Watcher and stare at the bikes coming up the road. Spider’s mutter wasn’t quiet when he asked, “What's that motherfucker doin’ here?”

  A slow-boiling rage started in Watcher’s gut, and he growled, “Watch your lip, brother. We’re standing at my brother’s grave, and you will watch your fuckin’ lip. Shoulda known Mason’d come and pay his respects. Known him all my life.”

  “Fuckin club killer.” Watcher turned to face Spider and saw his sneer was no less cutting than his words. “You heard what he did in Chicago, right? Traitor. Fuckin’ hell, brother. Bastard put his own brothers to ground. Tore up the club that took him in. Killed it. They say he's torqued up a new set of rags, but the bastard fuckin’ killed a club we’d all known for years.”

  Rage no longer building but now burning through him, Watcher knew he couldn’t say everything he wanted. In this life, if you had to explain what you’d done, you did so from a position of weakness. He knew Mason was still struggling to keep things together after wrestling control of his club from the previous president and officers. Picking carefully along what was publicly known and the background info he had from phone calls, Watcher walked a fine line that he hoped would be enough to shut Spider down.

  “His actions were backed by a bunch of his club members and officers, Spider. You got no idea what he was dealing with. From the outside-in is one story, but if you get a chance to learn what the view was from inside lookin’ out, you'd sing a different tune.” Watcher shook his head. “We might never know the full details. It’s not our club, and even though I count Mason a brother, it’s not my place. What it is, very definitely, is his, meanin’ it just as definitely ain’t yours. What I do know is it was long fuckin’ overdue. Long time comin’, man. You don't know that, I get it. Still got no call to say shit about this man. Won't stand for it, Spider.” Watcher’s anger was evident in his tone, and he watched as the weight of his words struck Spider, saw him decide to stand down and accepted the chin lift in mute apology before the man stepped backwards.

  Back straight, heat where Juanita stood close baking into his side, Watcher faced Mason, studying how the bikes with him pulled up in ranks and parked. Legs swung over the backs of bikes and once the last bike’s engine died, the silence in the mountain meadow was eerie. Chilling.

  ***

  Standing on the front porch of the house where Mason grew up, Watcher listened to the laughter and conversation filtering in from all sides. Mason had brought a portion of his rebirthed club with him to pay respects to the fallen Southern Soldiers’ president, and leadership from two other clubs had accompanied him. Combine those three groups with the Soldiers in attendance, and all told there were more than a hundred and thirty bikes parked around the big open area of the Mason compound.

  A diverse mass of humanity, each individual had interesting stories to tell spanning the past three months. While Watcher and the Soldiers had been mired in a running war with the Machos, Mason had waged his own internal war, seizing control of the Rebel Fiends from the old president, Deacon, renaming the club Rebel Wayfarers.

  Lights had been wending their way up the mountain for several minutes, their progress through the switchbacks heading upward easily tracked from where he stood, the headlights illuminating the trees on either side of the narrow drive. “You expectin’ more company?” Mason spoke from behind him, and Watcher shook his head.

  “Saw the lawyer in town today before the service. Saw all the family I care to see at the service. Not sure who this would be.” He shrugged, gaze tracking the vehicle as it rolled through the last ring of trees and into the open space. “It’s your place. Might be for you.”

  “Doubt it,” Mason said, and Watcher felt something bump his shoulder, looking down to see a bottle of beer dangling from Mason’s fingers. Parked, the truck’s headlights extinguished, leaving the clearing in the low light from before. “Ran everyone off the ‘top when the old man finally kicked the kettle. Pissed off everyone when I did, got nothing here for me other than the land now.”

  Accepting the beer, Watcher nodded his thanks, bringing the bottle, dewy with condensation, to his lips and taking a long drink. “Truck looks familiar,” he observed, then saw the light inside come on as the driver door opened. “Fucking shit,” he muttered, stooped and placed his bottle on the edge of the porch before he took one long step off the edge, bending his knees to take the force of the controlled three-foot fall.

  “What the hell?” Mason’s mutter came from behind him, and he heard a thump that meant his friend had taken the same route off the porch, eschewing the stairs on the end that made an easier path down.

  By the time Watcher had taken two steps, the small figure was out of the truck, the slam of the door loud in the silence beating in from all sides. “Mike,” she called, and then her arms were wrapped around his neck, holding on tightly, body pressed against him. “I’m so sorry. Ty just found out today and called me at work. It took a while to figure out where you were. Oh, Mike. I came as soon as I could.” She pulled back to stare up at him, then leaned in, pressing her cheek to his. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No sorries, doll face. No sorries, okay?” Eyes closed, he held her slight form, his mind turning back the years, again seeing her white face staring at him across the bench seat of Zonder’s truck, the same truck she’d just parked in the compound. “Good to see you, Bethy.”

  ***

  Mason

  Mason held his tongue for the minutes it took his little sister to greet his friend and convey her condolences, not wanting to intrude. How best to handle this? He scrambled for a path in his head. Cutting a look around at the groups of men standing at the entrance to every building on the place, he saw there were gatherings of friends and a few enemies surrounding campfires set near to tents or trucks turned into makeshift beds. Only a few knew he had blood living, and most of those he counted as enemies.

  Cautiously not saying her name, he quietly told Watcher, “Bring her inside when you’re ready.” Turning so Bethy couldn’t see his face, he stalked towards the house, one springing stride taking him from the ground to the porch. Scooping up his beer, he yanked open the screen, telling the men inside, “Got company. Lose yourselves.” Pointing to Tugboat, one of his most trusted and one of the only friends who knew about Bethy, Mason said, “Stay,” receiving a chin lift in response. The men scattered without complaint, but he knew that one action had marked Bethy as someone to note. Nothing to be done about it, he thought, stepping to place his back against a wall.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Tugboat asked, and Mason tipped his head towards the door, hearing footsteps making their way up the stairs to the porch. Bethy came through first, followed by Watcher.

  She walked into the room, head swinging left and right, likely cataloging the changes in their childhood home. He had gutted the whole house, lifting it four feet in the air and put a proper floor under their feet. Th
is was always the first thing he noticed, the solid wood underfoot where there had been shifting dirt growing up. She turned to look over her shoulder at Watcher and her gaze crossed him. Crossed, and then came back and he watched as anger flashed across her face before it settled into blankness.

  “Hello,” she said, her tone cool. Watcher’s head swung from Mason to Bethy, and he took a step towards her, halting in place when she held up her hand. Without looking away from Mason, she said, “I only came to pay respects, Mike. I won’t stay.” Turning towards the door, she called over her shoulder, “Ty says to call him sometime.”

  “Bethany.” Tone harsh, Mason whipped out her name, and she rocked to a stop, an arm lifted, hand outstretched towards the screen. He didn’t know what to say. It had been twelve years since he had seen her, twelve years of following her through the shadows, working to protect her every step of the way. Watcher had long since shared what had happened at his little sister's funeral. Shared what Bethy had confessed that day, Mason’s tightly held belief of her safety falling away with his words.

  She stopped but didn’t turn, and Mason called her name again, “Bethany,” and watched as her body shuddered through a flinch that caused a wave of fear to churn in his belly. Why won’t she look at me? Her arm settled back at her side, and at the slow movement, he called her again, “Bethy.”

  “Davy.” Her voice was plaintive and filled with pain. Her shoulders slumped, head tilting forwards as she spoke again. “What do you want?”

  “Want?” He echoed her word, not sure what was going on here. For the first few years after he had left home things had been so unsettled in Chicago, all he could do was send money home to help take care of her. Even now, three months into rolling his own club, things were still shaky. That was why when Bones, President of the Skeptics, and Hawk, President of the Dominos, offered to ride down to pay their respects to Watcher’s brother, he’d jumped at the chance. “I want for you to look at me, Bethy.”

  She sucked in a breath that sounded clogged, tipping her chin towards the point of her shoulder. He could see her eyes were squeezed shut, brows drawn down to force her lids closed. Her body shuddered again as she took another gasp of air that hitched a half a dozen times on the way in. Lifting her head, she twisted her neck a little farther, looking at him out of the corners of her eyes. Stormy grey, her eyes were exactly like the ones he saw in the mirror every day, and his face relaxed into a smile.

  Holding her gaze, locking her in place so she couldn’t retreat, Mason slowly opened his arms wide, giving her a clear invitation. It would be up to her if she accepted or not. If she walked out that door, from his side of things, nothing would change. She would forever be his baby sister, and he would continue to protect her from the shadows. Keep her safe. Always.

  Bethy held the pose for one second, then two, and took in another of those hitching breaths before turning on her toes. An instant later she hit Mason full force, arms flung around him, hands clutching at the shirt beneath his cut, her face burrowing into his chest like she couldn’t get close enough. Shoulders jerking and jolting, her whole being seemed to vibrate like a tuning fork. He felt her tears before the first audible sob, and the entire front of his tee was soaked within a minute as she wept out a lifetime of sadness in the arms of her big brother.

  She’s damaged, brother

  “So there’s this thing I want to do,” Bethy said, flipping her shoes off at the door and hurrying across the room to where Mason and Watcher sat, talking to Tyrell. She had barely walked in the door from work, still buzzing with energy.

  Juanita sat nearby, legs folded underneath her in an upholstered chair, eyes fixed out the window. Watcher noticed she had once again found a seat where she could easily hide the brand she bore. He frowned, muscles pulling into a scowl as he scanned the other people in the room, knowing even before he did that none of them were looking at her, much less the brand. When with friends, she shouldn’t have to worry about their reactions, and Watcher made a note to talk to her about that. Yeah, like you’ve talked to her about the other hundred things you’ve fucking thought about, he silently scoffed.

  He had enjoyed the heat and softness of her pressed up against his back for so many days. Been pleased she sought him out for comfort when things overwhelmed her, her tiny hand creeping into his, holding on like he was her lifeline. Conversations in English flying around with such a mishmash of club jargon and Kentucky slang it would have been hard for most people to decipher, much less someone for whom English wasn’t their first language. Watcher liked how she settled each time they stayed in place for more than a few hours, finding places to sit where she could keep her warm brown eyes on him. He knew she tracked him as he moved because if he were out of sight for too long, she would come looking for him, pressing herself against his side if the occasion allowed. Comfort in that physical connection went both ways, even if she’d never know what the soft touches did to him. What it meant to him.

  Tipping his head back, Ty groaned at the ceiling. “Oh, Lordy, here it comes.”

  Bethy giggled, moving behind Mason and draping herself across his shoulders, kissing the top of his head. After the scene in the homestead at the Mason compound two days earlier, she had dropped any misgivings or hesitation where her brother was concerned. She and Mason had talked through the night, the rest of the crowd giving them space and privacy. Next morning Watcher said his good-byes to the Skeptics and Dominos, as well as many of the Rebels, watching as they rolled out of the compound and down the mountain, two by two, headed back to Chicago.

  Mason had kept three Rebels with him. Tugboat, an old Outrider Watcher knew from their shared time in that club, and two other members, Red and Tats. Watcher had kept Opie, Devil, and Spider, sending the rest of the men back home. The Southern Soldiers would be holding a memorial for Darrie in two weeks, once everyone had made it back to Las Cruces.

  “There’s this band I want to promote, but they don’t have a label.” Bethy swung past Mason, pulling a chair out from the table and over so she could perch right next to her brother. She’d been staying close, and Watcher knew from Mason’s affectionately amused expression he was enjoying seeing and talking to his sister for the first time in so long.

  Twelve years, he marveled, still surprised by the information Mason divulged over coffee that morning. Twelve years since Mason had last seen his little sister up close, twelve years of her thinking she was on her own, never knowing Watcher and Mason had long been co-conspirators for her safety.

  Watcher reached out and grabbed a handful of cookies from the open package on the table, the entire surface of which was littered with junk food. Popping a couple in his mouth, he mumbled around the mouthful, “So, promote them. You run the schedule, you make the rules.” She did, too. Since beginning as a coffee and donut intern at the radio station, she had worked her way up to station manager. No small feat for a mountain girl whose formal schooling ended at ninth grade.

  “Not like this,” Bethy demurred, shaking her head. “Can’t promote or play more than a set percentage unless the band has representation. Dem’s de rules. This band doesn’t have a label. Can’t do it. Want to.” She made a face. “Can’t.” She shook her finger at him, “And stop talking with your mouth full. That’s gross.”

  “So, get them a label.” He tossed another cookie in his mouth, chewed for a few seconds, and then stuck his tongue out at her, drawing loud laughter from all sides. Glancing over to where Juanita sat, he saw a smile drifting off her face as she turned back to look out the window. He swallowed. “You know enough folks in the industry now, you probably know someone who’d take them on.” He laughed, saying with an affected accent, “Represent, sistah.”

  “Sure, I know folks. Good ones, but they won’t do right by these kids. The machine will chew them up and spit them out, and all that talent will be flippin’ burgers instead of filling arenas. They deserve more.” She shook her head, then leaned across to turn a bag of snacks her direction. She picke
d through the contents, pulling out two large potato chips. Fitting them to her mouth, she turned to look at Ty and uttered a muffled, “Quack, quack,” around her improvised duck lips.

  Mason shouted with laughter at her antics, and the sudden noise seemed to shock Juanita. Watcher stared, helpless to calm her fears as she scrambled to her feet, clumsily wedging herself back into the corner nearest the chair. Half hidden by the window drapes, she was already cowering with her head down before he could react. Moving as fast as he could, Watcher was all the way in front of her before he saw how she was shaking. Like she had done when the bikers first rolled up the mountain, her body visibly quaked.

  “Hey, hey,” he whispered, pitching his voice for her ears only. Stopping his advance only when he was in her space, he made it so he blocked out the rest of the world for her. “Look at me, honey. Hey, now, Juanita. Come on, look at me. Honey.” He was trying to draw her out, bring her back to herself, away from the terror consuming her. Her eyes had squeezed shut, tears gathering on her lashes, those oversize droplets swimming with shame and fear. Pain lanced through his chest, knowing the panic she had to be feeling. “Shhh. It’s okay, honey. Hey, hey, it’s okay.”

  Her head thrashed back and forth, braided hair flying like a whip, thumping solidly against the wall. “No, no. Por favor. No.” The tears flung from her lashes to land on her cheeks, tiny trails glinting in the overhead light.

  “Juanita.” He took another step towards her, leaning even closer. “Honey, look at me. Swear to you, you’re safe. I’m here. Right here with you. You’re safe, honey. Never again,” he vowed, the intensity of his emotions vibrating through his voice and her eyes flew open, staring at him. “Swear. You never have to be afraid again.”