Neither This Nor That Box Set 1

by MariaLisa deMora

  “I’m gonna make sandwiches? And you’re going to use some lame-ass nickname to direct me like that? You think that’s gonna happen, Po’Boy? Huh?” She shook her head, adopting a patois and an accent that her father would surely hate. “You flat loco, man. You wanna ‘splain to me exactly when it was we became friends? I seem to remember lots and lots of hate and threats. Shoutin’ and threats. Cursin’ and threats. Why don’t we go back to that? Huh? Back to you cussin’ me out and yellin’ at me, all up in my face? That dude? I didn’t have to make that dude sandwiches.” Bell turned to look at her and he slowly shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting his beard slightly. She sighed heavily, dropping her gaze to her sock-covered toes. “Got a preference, friend?”

  “Little sister, you gonna keep that shit up, I’ll have to take offense; think you don’t like me much. Fuck, bitch, I brought you a fuckin’ present and you ain’t even offered me a beer.” He held his palm out, insistently tapping his fingers against his palm. “Gimme back.”

  “Fuck you, brother.” She gave him what he wanted, and his hand shot out, gripping her shoulder. A squeeze of his fingers and she saw lines of peace settle into his face. This meant much more to him than she thought, and she wondered what the story was behind those emotions. “Oyster or mudbug?”

  “Not that anyone apparently gives a fuck if I starve, but oyster sounds good to me.” Bell, clearly done with his brother bonding with his ole lady, broke into their conversation. “And he can call you whatever he fuckin’ wants, but that ain’t your nameplate, baby.” He gestured to Po’Boy with his good hand. “Fuckin’ give her the real deal, asshat.”

  Glancing down at Twisted, Po’Boy complained, “She’s Yousa to me, brother. Best names have deep stories. You fuckin’ know that.” He reached into the pocket at the breast of his vest, bringing out another small, rectangular patch. Holding it in his palm where only he could see it, he asked, “You sure, brother? She gonna be pissed as fuck if she don’t think this is funny. You might wanna wait ‘til you can at least fuckin’ run. She gonna be pissed like that.”

  Penny dipped her chin, looking up at Po’Boy from under her brows. She didn’t say anything, just held out her hand. He dropped the small piece of fabric there, and Penny smoothed it out on her palm. She stared at it for a long time. Shiny. Just the one word, saying everything. Bright and polished, a new beginning for both of them. Eyes to Bell, she waited for a beat before pulling on a scowl. His brows flew up, and she barked out a laugh. “FooFoo?”

  Bell’s head fell back, and he complained to the ceiling, “Dude had one job. One.”

  She looked at Po’Boy, seeing an answering smile to her own on his face. “Love and respect, brother.”

  “El and ar, little sister.”

  ***

  Twisted

  He watched Penny and Po’Boy, feeling something warm grow inside him. Something he’d not felt in a lot of years. Movement in the kitchen caught his attention, and he glanced that way to see Ragman walking into the room. Fortunately for him, he’d decided not to hold a grudge for the conk on the head, the only anger being that Penny’d killed Leswayne, stealing the chance from him. From the debriefing they’d done, the coup had been months in the making. It was unfortunate timing that Incoherent’s beef with Guanyin’s Shield happened when it did, escalating Ragman’s timeline significantly. Then everything had gone sideways when Twisted had crashed, and Vicar’s Wrath was there to scoop him up.

  Time enough in the days and weeks ahead for the club to explore all the ways the power exchanges had shifted. The war launched meant every MC in the region was affected, all the way from east Texas to the Florida panhandle. For now, he had his shiny Penny, and they had the protection of their brothers while he healed. It would be a chance for them to see how they fit together, but he had no doubts that the way they suited each other would be pleasing, and satisfying.

  Twisted watched her face, noting the soft expression that played across her features when she looked up at Po’Boy. There was a deep, genuine affection there, not something he’d expected, but he’d take it. Take it all day long, happy he had that between two people who mattered so much to him. Things could have gone so many different ways, but it had all sorted out right in the end.

  The first night in the hospital he’d worried about her state of mind, unable to get the image out of his head. Her on one knee in front of that motherfucker, his hand finishing the arc of the swing that took her down. Leswayne shifting, readying for another blow, Ragman sprinting out from where they’d been but no way he could get there in time, then Penny exploding from the ground, arm moving, gutting the motherfucker. Ragman getting to her, pulling her away just as Po’Boy materialized out of thin air, along with about eighty friends. Riding to the rescue, literally, their three patches presenting a united and strong front.

  It had been a rout from there. The smartest of the Vicar’s Wrath members hit their knees where they stood, understanding they were relics of a club that was no more. He’d managed to stay on his feet long enough to see the confiscation of all the patches there.

  Twisted had accepted a visit from Ragman while still in recovery after surgery, the biker showing while the nurses all wisely looked the other way. They’d come to a quick accord, dealing in Ragman as a second to Po’Boy in a new Incoherent chapter running out of that fuckin’ clubhouse, after all the shit had been cleared. Uprooting members from all sides, throwing together combinations that would take a year to see if they worked. Good enough for now, he thought, gaze traveling up and down Penny’s frame. Delicate but so fuckin’ resilient, everything he wanted in one package. Someone to protect, but someone who could stand strong when needed. Tough enough.

  She’d crawled up in the hospital bed with him and hadn’t left even when the nurses came in to run her out, wordlessly refused. And when security came, one look from her ran them out of the room. Once they yanked the tube out of his throat, he told them all she had the right of it. She was his, and he was hers. Enough said in those words.

  Doc had come in, frowned at her and then ignored her, something that pissed Twisted off, too. Not that he wanted the motherfucker to look at his ole lady, but she was there. It wasn’t until later when she whispered part of her story into his ear that he realized Doc was keeping her secrets. He’d been the one to work on her after Gollum was done.

  Now they were home, her face healing, and his shoulder as well. Po’Boy reported things were good in the club. Catfish was settling into a newly expanded role taken on when Twisted gave up his local office. Doubling their membership in a weekend meant he wouldn’t have time to fuck around with politics once he was healed. Instead, he'd be needing to roll between houses, keeping track of everything.

  Penny. He looked at her, assessing her for the hundredth time that day. She was solid. Even with all that went down, she was solid. Not untouched, but she was a woman who could run to him with the blood of his enemy coating her hands and take a moment to banter after assuring herself—albeit silently—that he was okay. That woman would find her way to solid, even without him in her bed. With him there, she’d find her way there faster.

  Retro had told him about the scene on the way to his rescue, how she had refused to accept any answer except the one she demanded, and how the moment had transformed Po’Boy. If he had an ounce of doubt in his body about his brother, he might worry with the way the man looked at her. Jealousy didn’t live in him, however. He knew Penny better than that, knew Po’Boy to his soul. Ride or die, both of ‘em.

  She pushed up from the couch, leaned deep to brush her lips across his, and turned to saunter towards the kitchen with a shout over her shoulder, “Oyster comin’ up. Ragman, you’ll stay.” Not a question, Ragman still gave her a nodding response, and she moved out of view. Twisted looked at Po’Boy, then Ragman.

  “Brief?” He didn’t offer to get up, didn’t pretend to be anything other than what he was: recovering from surgery to reconstruct his shoulder. It would be weeks be
fore he could ride again, at least according to the surgeon. Between the wreck and everything that happened after, it was a wonder he was standing.

  “Bastards report no negative chatter,” Po’Boy began. “Wrench had different news, but Ragman talked to him last.”

  “Mexicans are moving.” Ragman’s voice was quiet, pitched so Penny wouldn’t overhear. “They’ve not recognized the shift in leadership nor the new players on the field.” He paused, then glanced at Po’Boy. Slowly, he said, “Got more, but not sure how much you want to hear right now.”

  “Everything.” He couldn’t make decisions without information. He couldn’t deal if he didn’t know what aces might be still in the hole. “Gimme what you got.”

  “Gollum…talked.” Ragman’s lips twisted. “Motherfucker talked a lot. Talked to the wrong people about something that he got hold of a few months back.” Twisted tensed, the tender muscles in his leg protesting. The throbbing in his shoulder lifted from dull to sharp. “He found an audience in Nogales.”

  “Arizona?” That was news, but unless there was something else Gollum would have had to talk about, Twisted didn’t have any ideas why a Mexi gang would have thoughts about Penny. “What the fuck is in Nogales?”

  “Cartel. Straight line to Columbia. Do not pass go. Do not collect any fuckin’ thing.” This came from Po’Boy, and Twisted watched with unease clenching his gut as his brother glanced towards the kitchen where Penny could be heard humming and rattling pans. “Gollum talked a mean streak. Ran his mouth about everything that would gain him advantage with his suppliers.” It wasn’t until after everything had gone down that Twisted had learned how deeply the Vicar’s Wrath was into running and dealing. Jimbo had always adopted an attitude that each club had to police themselves, kind of a “not my circus, not my monkeys” way of looking at things. But now, knowing what they knew from all Ragman had told them, that hands-off stance would have been the undoing of every group in the region. Vicar’s Wrath was the sole reason the DEA had focused on southern Louisiana for so much of their efforts over the past months, looking for links and holes in the partnerships and friendships, trying to find an in with Leswayne.

  Po’Boy asked, “You ‘member what you said the trigger guy told you?” Twisted looked up at him, sorry he hadn’t insisted on being at least sitting for this conversation. Relaxed, stretched out with his head on the arm of the couch wasn’t how he wanted to do this. He pushed and struggled, dragging himself upright, grunting and wincing at the awakening pain. Po’Boy continued, “You ‘member who he said was on radar?”

  “Yeah, I fuckin’ remember.” The name had caused that man’s death to drag out long and hard, blood and tears washed down the pipes for hours before Twisted granted him peace. “What the fuck does that have to do with Nogales?”

  “Gollum talked to the wrong people. See, the cartel has need of Norteamericanos who match a particular type, and they noted that the only living relative of a man they hated, that man being Bagger, was the same person Gollum claimed to have a line on if they wanted. Two birds, one stone. She’s pretty, brother.” Twisted jerked his head to the side, not wanting Po’Boy to see his reaction. “And they like pretty. They like untouched, too, and with what Gollum told ‘em, they know she’s nearly that.”

  “She’s mine.” He growled the words because this was true. Fuck.

  “Know that. Soul deep, brother. Ain’t dick happenin’ to her.” Po’Boy shook his head. “Won’t let anything happen to little sister.”

  “The whole club is on alert, Twisted,” Ragman put in, keeping his voice low and quiet. “But you gotta know, they have long arms, longer memories, and they remember very well how Jimbo and Bagger joined forces to run their asses out of the region. You being Jimbo’s and her being Bagger’s, and now her being yours? That’s a big fuckin’ target, brother.”

  “Retro ain’t heard shit about this?” That was surprising because Retro’s network ran coast-to-coast, and up into Canada. He was diligent about fostering relationships, building his network. His blood brother was in a club poised to go international, if rumors were true, an access to which would give Retro a broader base of intel than ever before.

  “Nope, and I didn’t beat around the fuckin’ bush askin’ either. He’s digging deep as we speak.” Po’Boy stared at him. “Ain’t shit happenin’ to your ole lady, brother. My hand to God, may he strike me dead if I’m lyin’, ain’t shit gonna happen to your Penny gal.”

  Twisted turned his attention to Ragman, considering everything he knew about the man. Long believed to be a dissenter in the Vicar’s Wrath ranks, no one outside Ragman’s inner circle had known how deep the hatred of his father ran. Seemed Leswayne liked everything rough, preferred his boy to want rough, too. He’d been vocally disappointed when Ragman didn’t live up to the legacy Leswayne felt he was handing down. That disappointment had turned into physical abuse, and for years Leswayne paid that through his boy’s blood.

  Throughout his life, Twisted had seen a dozen father-son pairings much the same, where discipline morphed into abuse as the frustration grew, wanting the boy to “man up” or telling him “for your own good” or “won’t have a pussy in my house.” Those boys staying and taking it rather than running, because really, amidst the stilt houses dotting the swamps and bayous, where could they go? Family everywhere, all with the same raising, telling the kid they just needed to “toughen up.”

  After cutting their teeth on the villagers in the backcountry of ‘Nam, Leswayne and Fiddler had been collaborators after they came home, too. And, with Leswayne, it went so far beyond physical torture with his boy; it was a wonder Ragman came out as good a man as he did.

  The thin, dark-haired man stared back at him. In the hospital, he had told Twisted that he felt this was a chance at a new life for him. A chance to find peace. He wanted to give Ragman that opportunity, and would, but first, they had to figure out where the enemy might come from next.

  Twisted began, “Ragman, need you to take a trip. Got friends in El Paso. We can sort a meet there. They’ll have a closer hold on Nogales.” He swung his eyes to Po’Boy. “Call Retro, ask him to set a meet with the Soldiers. He’s got tighter ties to Las Cruces than me.” El Paso hosted a chapter of the Silent Deaths, a club he’d had occasion to deal with in the past couple of years as they worked a transit corridor deal out, granting passage on I10 for their ventures. Las Cruces was the Southern Soldiers, and Retro had a channel through his brother. “You up for that?”

  Po’Boy spoke up. “Sure you want him out of reach right now, brother?” Not to be misconstrued as a slur against Ragman, this was Po’Boy’s way of saying he thought the man had value here that might not be outweighed by his ability to gain info.

  “Then who?” Twisted ran through the short list of people he trusted, coming up dry.

  “Me and Wrench,” Po’Boy offered. “Sends a loud and clear that us and CoBos are side-by-side on this. Not that anyone would think any different, her bein’ who she is. But for folks looking from the outside in, it’d deliver a crystal message.”

  With a tilt of his chin, Twisted gave agreement. Po’Boy turned away, pulling his phone from the front pocket of his jeans as Penny called from the kitchen. “Is that enough time? Need me to stay out of the way longer?” Po’Boy looked over his shoulder at Twisted, grinning.

  “Naw, we’re good, baby. Come on back in.” Solid. Made for me.

  Carrying everything on a TV tray she’d taken off the stand, she brought a bag of chips, and a six-pack of beer, along with plates loaded with sandwiches so stuffed with fried oysters and fixings it was a wonder the buns didn’t split in two. “Jesus, Yousa,” Po’Boy laughed. “You cookin’ for an army?”

  “Y’all are big boys, need sustenance. I figure this should hold you for, oh, let’s say, an hour?” Passing each man a sandwich, she opened the chips and set the beers on the coffee table. “See this?” She pointed to the beers, looking pointedly at Po’Boy. “This is me not holding a grudge, brother.�
�� Twisted saw Po’Boy’s face soften again and knew there was a story there he’d have to pry out of his brother eventually. “Eat up.”

  “He picked good. You didn’t lie, Penny Dane.” Po’Boy’s mutter was quiet, but still Twisted knew Penny had heard him when after a moment, she cleared her throat, turning to look away. She laughed aloud when he finished up with, “Yousa not a liar.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Twisted, six months later

  “BELL! Where?” Her shout broke the stillness of the night, jerking him up from a sound sleep. She was thrashing, fighting, the covers transformed to demons in her mind, and Twisted reached out, gathering her close to his side. The dreams didn’t often come, not anymore. In fact, she faced them less and less with every passing month, which was good. But, when they did, it took her a while to settle. “Where are you, Bell?” Panting, the question in her voice quavered in a way he knew she’d hate if she recognized it.

  “Right here, Penny. I’m here, darlin’.” Slipping one hand up her back, he cradled her head and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “Right here. Safe and sound. We’re both safe and sound.” Sometimes the dream was about his wreck. He’d made the mistake of talking about it where she could overhear, and she relived the crash a dozen times the first week afterward. Him waking alone, in pain, unable to call for help, then thinking assistance was there, but finding out it was as far from relief as he could get.

  Then, once he was off the pain meds, smoking some green to mellow himself, she broke out the tequila one night. Between tokes and shots, he’d gotten blitzed enough to talk about the hours spent at the mercy of Leswayne and his men. Her dreams were different, then, filled with anger alongside the fear, the two combining in a punch that took her down deep inside herself. Hard to rouse, she fought him nearly every time, making it difficult to contain her until she woke.

  Lately, however, the dreams had changed again, and these she wasn’t willing to talk about, but she would only settle once she knew he was near. Resting his chin on top of her head, he listened to her breathing, hearing it begin to even out, slow, only occasionally interrupted with a lurching catch. For a time, the dreams had been so bad he hadn’t wanted her in the truck by herself. Working was part of her, ingrained deep, and he couldn’t deny that need. He just didn’t want her by herself if a dream came calling.