Tangled Threats
on the
Nomad Highway
Neither This, Nor That
Book #6
MariaLisa deMora
Editing by Hot Tree Editing
Proofreading by Whiskey Jack Editing
Photography: Wander Aguiar, Photography
Model: Nathan Van Dyken
Copyright © 2021 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 2021
ISBN 13: 978-1-946738-73-8
DEDICATION
“The trouble is, you think you have time.”
~ Carlos Castaneda
For those who have loved and lost,
and are still rising.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There aren’t enough pages to provide thanks to everyone who supported me through the past few months. Some days it seemed like the hits just kept coming, and it was only those early a.m. check-in calls that kept me moving forward.
Thanks to Megan, for helping with all things social media. Becky and her crew at Hot Tree Editing, thanks for helping make my words represent what I wanted. Much appreciation to Mel from Whiskey Jack Editing, for polishing and letting my story take flight. Mucho thanks to Wander Aguiar for the image on the front cover, and to Nathan Van Dyken for just being your best self, man.
Greatest gratitude to you, holding this book in your hands. If it weren’t for you, Dear Reader, none of this would exist out in the world. Your appetite for my stories allows me to write these characters out of my head, and introduce them around. It’s quite likely you’ve helped me retain my sanity, so seriously—thank you!
Woofully yours,
~ML
Tangled Threats on the Nomad Highway
Einstein won’t allow himself to believe in fate. His wife and daughter had deserved more than three wizened crones cutting short the fabric of their existence. Fate has nothing to do with the holes in his heart and life. No, those are due entirely to a world he tries to keep in his past. Tries and fails—and now all he has is cold granite to embrace.
As the only nomad for the BBMC, he takes pride in policing all potential threats to the club that has become his home and family. That includes the unwelcome, trespassing shadows from his past.
Marian Threadgill still hasn’t become accustomed to her new life. After years spent resigning herself to living as a broken prisoner in her childhood home, she found liberation in the form of unconventional champions: rough-and-tumble bikers who proved to her how deceiving appearances could be. In the months following her rescue, she’s developed a strong sense of loyalty to the men who wear black leather and ride steel steeds. She’s vowed to herself to defend them against all comers, even threats larger than they might seem.
As danger once again darkens her world, Marian is thrust into an unfamiliar role. She’s never seen herself as anything other than an underdog until Einstein demands so much more.
Chapter One
Einstein stood immobile, muscles painfully locked into unforgiving stillness while the first scattered drops of rain patted at the dirt as if with tiny, wet hands. Each droplet raised minuscule clouds of dust that settled back to the surface in an obscuring skin, blurring and muddying pure, clear liquid until it was spoiled, soiled.
Already he missed her. Lauren.
The weight of the golden oath on his left hand was a binding promise he couldn’t set aside. He imagined he felt the heated graze of her lips on the skin of his neck and froze at the sensation, holding tight to the illusion for as long as he could.
Every memory would fade with time, like photographs too-long exposed to sunlight. Brilliant reality and the gleam from day-to-day life would overlay the stories in his mind until only shadows remained.
Still. Forever he would miss her.
The slide of silken hair in his hand, the undulating glide of skin against skin. Sweet teasing touches intended to rouse and rile, her brilliant smile owning his reactions. No more.
Miss them.
The welcome heat and weight of his baby girl resting against his shoulder as he carried her to bed. A burden he’d never shirked or begrudged. The best part of his life had jolted into being on the day Makayla had taken her first breath.
Never again.
“Ashes to ashes.” The words drifted through the air around him, as useless in this moment as his efforts to save them had been. Forgettable and harmless, except that the sounds served to mark the beginning of the end of a journey.
My family. My girls.
“Dust to dust.” He didn’t lift his gaze from the mud rapidly developing underneath the soles of his boots. Watched as the dirt changed texture, becoming something innate to its nature, but an evolution nonetheless. He didn’t want to see what was in front of him. Didn’t need to see. She wasn’t there, not anymore.
All her vitality, the beauty she had carried on her skin and in her heart, was gone forever. The love that had stabilized him through the changes in their lives was already becoming a fallible memory. The heart-stopping pureness of their daughter’s love and light—gone. Snuffed out in an instant by a murdering bastard.
Who’s gonna save me now?
Weight settled in the middle of his back, a heavy hand bearing down in the same sorrow that coated him. The steady pounding echoed the rhythm of his heart, closed fist thudding against his spine, centered over the patch that was the only thing still holding him together. From nearby, he heard the only word that could bring him back from the dark thoughts circling the edges of his mind.
“Brother.”
Chapter Two
Elbows propped on his knees, Jim Dancer leaned his face into his hands, fingertips digging and rubbing across his forehead.
Today.
That’s what he’d told himself when he’d risen out of sleep midafternoon, head still pounding from the skinful of forgetfulness he’d sucked down last night—aiming, as always, for oblivion. Today would be the day he’d change his current existence.
That was three hours ago, and the farthest he’d gotten so far was perched at the edge of the mattress, surrounded by rumpled covers.
The paint colors were bright, and on the wall in front of him, a large sticker of a cartoon figure was peeling, the top edge folded over itself. He couldn’t stay put. He needed to get up and take a piss, maybe find something nutritious to put in his belly for a change. Only now that it was time to make a decision, it was looking like maybe tomorrow would be a better fit for a shift in trajectory.
Today was too hard.
Eight months not long enough.
Pounding echoed through the house. He shoved up from the s
ide of the tiny toddler mattress to stalk towards the kitchen door, not bothering to pull on pants or a shirt, because whoever this was, they wouldn’t give a rat’s ass what he wore or didn’t wear.
Stumbling over an empty pizza box, he kicked it out of the kitchen doorway and was shocked to see the table and chairs upended, thrown around the space like a child’s blocks. Loud knocks clashing with his headache, he struggled to pull a chair out of the way of the door, then thumbed the lock, unfastening the bolt at the same time he turned around, giving his back to the man walking through the door behind him.
“Jesus, Einstein. What the fuck happened here?”
Flinging a hand up to hopefully silence his friend, he responded with, “Don’t know, don’t care,” before disappearing into the bathroom. Accessible from the hallway, it also joined the main bedroom. Blocking the thought from advancing, he ignored the prickles across his skin. That was a space he avoided at all costs. Einstein gritted his teeth and tried to shove the door closed against the wad of dirty towels jammed in the way. He gave up with a grunt and took another step into the room, downturned gaze registering the state of the sink. Lauren’d be so mad. Toothpaste, whiskers, blood—the scum was caked on so thick he thought he could peel it off like a leathery skin.
Then his traitorous gaze wandered just a little away from the sink, and every muscle locked in place. A pink, barely used toothbrush stood next to his in a dusty jar. Twins sharing a container, just as its predecessors had, symbolic of his and Lauren’s marriage. Only this one hadn’t moved in months. She was never coming back.
His shaking hand hovered over it, muscles in his arm shuddering and cramping. In a flash, his fingers clenched, and his elbow bent until he smashed knuckles against the side of his head. Once, twice, a third time before he bent over the countertop, breathing hard through the blooming ache.
“Einstein…Dancer. Brother.” The pain in Retro’s voice was real, bleeding straight through from his soul, and it shattered Einstein’s control to hear it. “You gotta let me help you.”
Hands to the edge of the counter, Einstein squatted and sucked in great huge breaths, forehead pressing against the smooth wood of the cabinet doors. “I don’t know what to do, Jerry.” He rocked in place, lightly battering his head against the hard surface. “I can’t get past it. Can’t do it. Not at all. She’s right here—” He smashed knuckles against his temple again. “All the time, man. All the time, and I can’t get past it.”
“You’re not supposed to get past it, brother.” A hand landed on his to deflect the next blow; then an arm wrapped around his waist and lifted. “You’re never gonna get past it. But I promise you, it’ll get easier.” Still a dead weight in Retro’s hold, Einstein let himself be guided to his feet. At the last instant, he scrambled for the jar, knocking it into the sink before his fingers landed on Lauren’s toothbrush. Plucking it from the shards of glass, he cradled it to his chest as he stood more upright but still leaned against Retro. He felt his brother’s shoulders lift in a pained sigh. “Come on, brother. Past time for me to get your ass outta here.”
It took an hour, but eventually, he was dressed and standing in the living room. He stared at the couch, remembering the visible terror on Lauren’s face over the gag shoved into her mouth. Einstein’s nail raked against the bristles of her toothbrush before he tucked it into the inside pocket of his vest, fastening the button closed with a forceful push of his thumb.
“Come on, man.” Retro’s hand landed in the middle of his back, discharging heat through the leather and into Einstein’s spine. “Let’s go for a ride.”
“Fuck, man. Don’t know if the bike’ll even turn over after this long.” He stepped into the kitchen, surprised at the sudden order that had been restored. The table sat in the corner near a bench he’d built specifically for Makayla, the few unbroken chairs lined up on the other sides, pushed underneath as if ready for a hand to claim them. Smashed dishes and pieces of shattered wood had been swept to the side, dented pots and pans placed in the sinks. “You didn’t have to do this, Jerry.”
“Bike’ll start.” Retro kept up an insistent pressure, pushing him towards the outside door. “And you know I don’t do anything I don’t want to, brother. Now come on.”
The door closed behind him, and he was startled at the heat and humidity rolling through the air. He looked around, shocked how nothing seemed familiar. His bike was in the right place, but instead of bright chrome and dark paint, it was a lump of fabric.
Following Retro over, he watched as the man took off the cover, using edges of the fabric to slap at dust that had settled on the seat. A battery-minder was plugged into a pigtail that hadn’t been there before, and the idea of needing a battery charger in Alabama nearly made him laugh. He was familiar with them, sure, because East Coast winters were no joke. Philly, sure, but ’Bama?
“You been busy.”
Retro tilted his head and cut over a look so filled with anger Einstein took a step back. “You wouldn’t let me do anything else, brother. So I took it upon myself to do what you wouldn’t see and couldn’t complain about.” Retro straightened, shoulders going back as he turned to face Einstein. “And the only thing you need to take out of this little sass session is your bike’ll fuckin’ start, so get your ass in the saddle, man.”
Stalking past Einstein, Retro reached out and clasped his forearm, fingers tight around muscle and bone. There and gone, but piled onto the contact from before, it was the most he’d been touched in— No, I’m not going there.
The familiar blat of Retro’s old-fashioned straight pipes filled the air, and Einstein hustled towards his ride, fumbling with the pigtail as he unplugged and set the cord from the charger aside. Then he slung a leg over the seat in a move that felt as natural as breathing, straightened the bike between his legs, and clicked the knob on the tank to activate the electronics.
Everything looked good.
Tank was full of fuel, neutral was lit up in green, and the whine of the injectors told him the bike was in working order. He strapped on his helmet and bounced experimentally, then leaned over to double-check the tires. Just as he was about to climb off and give them a kick, Retro’s pipes blatted again, and he looked up to see his president and friend staring at him, helmeted head shaking back and forth slowly.
“Trust me,” Retro mouthed, and Einstein could only nod in response.
He pressed his thumb to the button and the bike turned over as if he’d ridden it earlier that same day, as if there’d been no time between then and now. Einstein shoved that vicious blade deep inside him, holding on to the tiny bit of happiness that nothing would get between him and the wind today.
He’d been doing things the other way for months. Anything that brought him pleasure also carried pain, and up till now, it had been the bloody ribbons of self-hatred he clung to hardest.
He rolled past the two vehicles in the driveway, steadfastly ignoring them, disregarding their dusty condition, more proof that he’d been sucked into a time vortex and hadn’t been able to escape. Retro waited patiently at the edge of the road, and Einstein pulled up as if to T-bone the man’s bike, leaning far over his handlebars to shout, “Where are we headed?”
Retro stared at him, then shrugged, the somber expression not leaving his face. “No destination,” he called back. “Just…forward.”
Einstein kicked his bike back a few inches and nodded, rolling onto the pavement behind Retro as they rode up the street.
This? No decisions, no reminders of what he’d lost, just paying attention to his brother’s signals and rolling free. He could do this.
I’ve had worse days.
***
Hand slackening on the throttle, Einstein allowed a gap to develop between Retro’s bike and his, having only now realized where this section of the road would take them.
It had been a good day. They’d run two tanks of fuel through the bikes, gone nearly state to state in their west-to-east and back-to-west trek, and played for hour
s on the small, curving roads through the national forests surrounding Birmingham. Lunch had been cold beer and hot burgers at a roadside diner where the matronly waitress served up the food along with a side of jokes and good humor.
And now, they were two minutes from rounding a curve after which the clubhouse would be on the right-hand side of the road.
Einstein had no doubts the route was intentional. Oh, not during the ride. That had been pure chance, flipping coins occasionally to pick a left- or right-hand turn. But now Retro was going to demand something from Einstein he didn’t know if he could pay.
You can and will, he imagined himself saying to someone else. Brothers don’t stop being brothers because of a loss. Einstein knew if he walked into the clubhouse, there’d be no dancing around him on eggshells. His brothers would take his presence at face value and assume it signaled a willingness to resume his former life. They wouldn’t squawk over feelings, or how shitty it was to lose loved ones. They’d be as supportive as he allowed, their love as good as gold.
I don’t think I can.
Retro twisted around in his seat and glowered over his back fender to fix Einstein with a long, firm gaze.
Bossman thinks I can do this.
He nodded and rocked the throttle, closing the distance within seconds. The whole time Retro kept that stare pinned on Einstein’s face, until his front wheel was in line beside Retro’s rear wheel. Only then did Retro return his gaze to the road, opening up in a curve in front of them.
A couple of minutes later, Retro’s left hand lifted, palm forwards, and Einstein downshifted as they steered into the clubhouse parking lot. Up near the building, he paused, waiting as Retro backed his bike in. Then Einstein took his turn, parking three bikes down the row in what had become his spot, and clearly had been held open and waiting for him, as no fresh wheel tracks disturbed the dust and gravel.
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