She looked up at him through tear-clumped lashes and said, “Hope.” Mac had laughed and told her it was a fitting name for a beautiful young lady. His kindness pulled the first smile from her that she had felt on her face for days.
That had been the first of many nights spent in her car. Nervously not sleeping, she parked in a shopping plaza lot until about three in the morning, when security ran her off. Crying, she drove around until she found what looked like another likely spot to sit until dawn.
Over the next days and weeks, she fell into a comfortable routine for an uncomfortable situation, arriving at the diner in the evening after most of the customers had finished their meals and left, making their way to their homes and families. In those quiet hours, working alongside Mac she helped him clean and prepare for the next day’s menu, eagerly taking up all the time he could spare for the human connection and conversation she found herself as hungry for as the the simple fare she felt was deserved for the work. She would never let Mac do as much as he wanted, nor his wife Nelly, the waitress with whom she became friends. She rotated parking spots, learning the schedules for the patrols, finding the dark corners most often overlooked, where she could get a couple hours of uninterrupted rest.
One job led to another, and she did what she had to do to get by. She cleaned the offices at a hotel in exchange for the use of a shower twice a week in one of the unoccupied rooms. Learned how to wash truckers’ laundry to earn a few dollars in cash, and straightened shelves in a small grocery store for spoiling fruit and day-old pastries. And, with the passing of time, with the natural demands of life ignoring the numbness in her heart, her belly grew.
She often thought it didn’t seem possible this had become her life. Only six months ago, things were so different. Back then, she had a warm bed with a frilly, ruffled comforter and a door she could lock to keep her parents from snooping. So many snacks in the refrigerator she could stand with the door open and look for five minutes, deciding what to eat. Expensive, scented shampoo to soften and tame her wild, curly hair.
Now, with the season churning deep into winter, she often wore all the clothing she owned in an effort to stay warm. These days, she was happy if she had a meal at all, much less a hot one, and she had stolen baggies filled with liquid soap from gas station bathrooms to wash her hair.
Then, Cal found her.
She hadn’t seen him in months. He looked shocked when he located her, sleeping in the backseat of her car, waking her with a steady tap-tap-tap on the window over her head. When she saw who it was, she screamed and scrambled to the other side of the car in terror, staring at his face peering curiously at her through the glass. “Hope?” His voice came through muffled and distant, but no less frightening now than the last time she had heard him, shouting right beside her ear as he choked her unconscious.
“Oh, my God. You are. You’re pregnant.” His incredulity seemed absurd in the moment. He evidently found it more surprising she was a viable, reproducing female than that she was a girl who had been semi-affluent a few months ago, now resorting to eating handouts and sleeping in her car. “Your father told me, but I didn’t believe him.” Tap-tap-tap. “Open up, Hope.”
She shook her head, gaze flicking to the front seat, where the keys hung on a hook under the ignition. Tap-tap-tap. Headshake. “Hope.” Headshake. Tap-tap-tap. “Hope, open up.” Headshake.
She climbed over the console between the front seats, arranging her limbs into the driver’s seat behind the wheel, head down, hair curtaining her face and narrowing her focus to her next move. Clinically, she examined her hand as she reached out, trembling fingers clasping the keys. She had barely begun to push them into the ignition when the glass beside her head exploded inward. She didn’t even have time to scream as he pulled her through the window, jagged corners of safety glass gouging routes through the flesh of her back.
It was one of the dreaded security patrols who saw him, saw her on the ground in front of him, saw his feet swinging forward and back, fists falling heavily as he bent over to reach her.
He had determinedly tried to kill the baby cradled in her womb. The child she birthed alone only days after the attack, their sole hospital visitors Mac and Nelly. Samuel, the child she loved more than life itself.
The judge had made Cal sign over all his rights, even before she had the baby. Done in lieu of a paternity test, to be conducted at a time of her choosing after the infant was live birthed, the results of which would not void the writ and decree of attempted manslaughter nor restore his rights. The legal language was straightforward, his lack of authority over the baby clear, which was good, because it meant he would never be able to take Sammy from her. Not even now, when she knew things were about to go to crap. Again.
If she had her way, Sammy would never know what a jackhole his father—the sperm donor—was. For eight years, she had given him two birthday presents each year, one with a bright, fancy homemade card saying ‘From Mommy.’ And one with a small folded piece of paper, with a pencil-written ‘Dad.’ Christmas time was treated the same, and even though he was older now, she still refused to let Sammy learn everything came from her. So now, in his mind, of course his oh-so generous father could become their savior.
“I got this, baby boy,” she said with a smile she knew he would never believe. “I so got this.”
“But what are we going to do?” He stirred the rings of noodles in his bowl, pushing them under the tomato sauce with his spoon, waiting for them to bob back to the surface and forcing another round of peek-a-boo pasta. “If we have to leave then we’re in the car, right? Dad wouldn’t want that.”
She heard the unplanned words coming out of her mouth, as surprised as he was when she told him, “We’re going to go find my sister, your Aunt Mercy, and see if we can stay with her.”
Sam twisted in place, looking at her to see what the joke was, the skin around his eyes tight in a way that caused her stomach to twist painfully. “I don’t…I didn’t know I had an aunt.”
She reached out, smoothing his thick, blond hair back off his forehead. She licked her thumb and grinned, saying, “Hang on. You got a little something—” wiping the dab of tomato sauce from the corner of his mouth. “You do have an aunt. We’ll meet her together, okay?”
***
He stood in the noise and chaos of a huge family backyard barbecue, a tolerant expression on his face. Looking around, he smiled to see the expansive space bursting with people he knew and trusted. Loved. The air filled with the cries and shouts of children, their toned limbs poetry in motion as they ran back and forth, sunshine bright and gentle on their faces. He saw the scene in splashes of color: the brilliant yellow of a little girl’s dress imposed against the dark green bushes near the house, the radiant red lounge chair set with the faded brown fence.
As long as Isaiah Rogers could remember, he had always been this way, seeing split seconds as frozen windows into each experience, ways he could hold onto the moment beyond the instant as it happened. It was a frustrating trait for his father, because he would get lost in the scenes in his head for hours, instead of finishing whatever chore had been his assignment for the day.
Growing up, their family farm had supported them comfortably enough, and while they weren’t rich by any stretch of the imagination, he never felt second-class or poor. When they took the drive into town, there were always folks who would walk out of their way to visit with Pop in the diner or store. They sought out his wisdom, friends and neighbors alike. Then, come Christmastime, their family would chip in with the rest of the community to help the church put together baskets for those ‘less fortunate.’
That’s always how his mother would term it, not that the ones needing assistance were poor, or destitute, or lazy, but that they were less fortunate. “There, but for the grace of God,” she would say as she packed a box full of home-canned goods, handing him the blessing and bounty from their garden with a charge to deliver it safely.
Now, Isaiah was privileg
ed enough to stand in the midst of a group of people with the biggest hearts of anyone he had ever met. Everywhere he looked in this big yard, he found friends he knew without a doubt would die for him. Emotional riches such as he had never seen, swirling around him everywhere.
“Hoss.” He heard his road name called and turned his head, smiling to see Bingo seated in a recliner perched in the middle of the yard, kids ebbing and flowing around that firmly placed promontory. In his mind, he mixed pigments, using a palette knife to spread it thickly on the canvas. He knew when he returned home tonight he would be sketching out the idea of yet another lighthouse of a particular shade of gray to match the bushy beard the man wore proudly on his face.
“Yeah, brother?” he responded, walking across the grass, the heat of the sun beginning to soak through the black leather of his vest. Hoss was the vice president for the Fort Wayne chapter of the Rebel Wayfarers motorcycle club. He had come many miles since leaving Alabama behind in his rearview mirror. Now, with these men, he finally felt the strongest sense of home and family he had since leaving the farm and deciding to make his own way.
Reaching down, he grasped Bingo’s hand, careful of the wounds from the recent IVs. “How you feelin’, old man?” he asked.
“Good enough…for a tired old bastard who just had half his lung yanked out his motherfucking back.” Bingo grimaced and shifted in the chair, which had been brought out to the yard from the house in the hope he could rest comfortably while still being part of the party. “Kane,” he called with a frown, “get your sister off that slide.”
“I’ll get her,” Hoss said, walking over to scoop Gilda up before she fell headfirst off the ladder. Without having to think twice about it, when Bingo’s younger sister died a few years ago, the man had taken responsibility for her children. All nine of them. The club jokingly called them Bingo’s tribe. Now with the diagnosis of, and resulting treatment for lung cancer, he and the kids had moved in with another member and his old lady, Jase and DeeDee. Hoss grinned, thinking if Jase got his way, soon he would be more official than just her old man. “Got you,” he said, tickling Gilda and smiling to hear her sweet squeals. Setting her feet on the ground, he watched with a smile as she ran off towards the women, prattling about “Hoth.”
“You like kids.” He heard the voice and frowned, not having expected to see her today.
“That a question, woman?” He turned around, gaze sweeping up and down Mercy’s small frame. He was glad to see she had toned down her usual wardrobe, in a concession to the setting. “Deke ain’t supposed to be here, hon.”
She wrinkled her nose, looking down for a moment. “I didn’t come here looking for him.”
“Bullshit.” He laughed. “That want is written all over your face. Prez needed him to take care of something, but he might be by later.” Looking around, it didn’t pass unnoticed by him that, out of all the women present at the party, she was the only one standing near the men, not clustered into hens’ groups chattering about kids and schools, neighborhoods and family. Shaking his head, he slipped his arm around her. “Darlin’, you didn’t expect any different, did you?”
She scoffed, and then looked down at the grass again. “Not really. I hoped some, because DeeDee’s usually cool.” She shrugged, leaning into his side. “It’s okay. I know my place.”
He sighed again, frustrated at the hurt she kept heaping onto her own plate. “You need to decide what you want, woman. Two years ago, you wanted to fuck every member you could, regardless of them having family or an old lady. I told you then it would come back around and bite you in the ass, but you didn’t want to hear it. Not ten months ago, you set your sights on dancing at the strip joint. You’re doing that, staying out of the clubhouse, finally doing right by yourself. Now, what, you looking for a rag and an old man?”
Before she could answer, there was a disturbance from near the house, and as soon as Hoss saw who had arrived, he winced. She unwrapped her arm from around his waist and smiled up at him, her expression fragile and sad. “Looks like that’s my cue.” Rising on her tiptoes, she gently kissed his cheek. “Night, Hossman. Shiny side up.”
Wordlessly, he watched her walk away, edging around the groups to the side gate in the fence. With a quickly lifted hand, she waved goodbye, her gaze pausing for a moment on the tall man who had walked in, his arm wrapped around a thin blonde woman. Hoss shook his head again as he saw Mercy swallow hard then pull the gate closed, cutting off her view of Deke standing with his latest club whore.
***
“Nope, she ain’t here,” he said again, frowning at Deke. “Already asked and answered, fucker. You lookin’ for a different reply?” It was the third time he had asked, and with each negative response, his brother became a little more agitated.
Slurring his words, Deke shook his head and said, “Saw her fuckin’ car in the fuckin’ goddamned street. I know she’s here.” He lifted his face, raising his voice to a shout as he yelled, “Where the fuck’s Mercy? Bring out the whore.” Raising the beer in his hand to take a drink, he gulped open-mouthed at the liquid, pouring half the bottle down his throat before digging into his back pocket and pulling out a flask, taking a healthy swig from that, too. Grimacing at the bite of the liquor, he offered some to Hoss, shrugging and mumbling when it was turned down.
Hoss looked over to Slate for help, but the Fort Wayne chapter president looked away, shrugging and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Shit,” Hoss muttered, turning back to face Deke. “Like I told you, brother, she ain’t here. She was here, but she left.”
“Why the hell’d you let her go, man? She’s a fun time.” He shoved at the blonde who had been plastered to him since arriving at the party. “She never tells the brothers no.” He staggered and Hoss reached out, pushing him against the house so he wouldn’t fall. “Tells me no, but she’s a pretty pussy. Always gets me hard. Just lookin’ at her makes me hard. Not like this bitch.”
He pulled out the flask again and drank deeply then followed it by another long drink of his beer. Hoss watched with a frown as the blonde rolled her eyes and walked away, pulling out a phone, probably to call for a ride from a friend.
Deke didn’t even notice she had left; he was still looking around the backyard. “Always tells me no. Mercy me, she’s pretty. You sure she’s gone?”
“Yeah, brother. She left soon as you got here.” He heard a brittle laugh and looked over, seeing the blonde had already latched onto the arm of one of their prospects. Maybe if Hurley were interested, she wouldn’t need that ride after all.
“Whadaya mean?” His slurring more pronounced, Deke fumbled at his beer bottle, nearly dropping it on the patio.
“I mean she saw you show up with Rapunzel there and left.” Hoss shrugged, and then regretted his bluntness when he saw first hurt then anger cross Deke’s features.
“Well fuck ‘er, then. Jus’ fuck ‘er.” He listed sideways and Hoss stepped to stand beside him, pulling one of Deke’s arms over his shoulders.
“You wanna fall down, or sit down, you useless piece of meat?” Hoss winced when he heard the voice, half-turning with Deke.
“Prez,” Deke said with a wide grin. “I din know you 'er here. Yer a goo man. I like you.”
Hoss gave the man approaching them a chin lift in greeting, for about the hundredth time critically cataloging the features of Davis Mason, national president of the Rebels. He was a hard man, and it showed in his face with a firm, chiseled chin and sharp cheekbones. The man’s eyes were one of the most fascinating things about him. Hoss had spent hours trying and failing to reproduce the exact shade of grey, mostly because it changed depending on the man’s emotions and attitude. Light grey when he was laughing, with only a small, dark ring around the pupil, darker grey when things were more serious, and a stark, steely, brilliance showed in them when things were intense. Right now, they were on the lighter side, and Hoss sighed.
“Yet, here I am,” Mason said. “Hoss, need some help?”
“I wa
s thinking of just letting the bastard slide down the wall. Maybe take bets to see how long it’d take him, see if he left a snail trail.” Hoss grinned and nodded. Mason gripped Deke’s other arm, and together they guided him into the living room of the house, positioning him at the end of a couch and letting him drop backwards onto the cushions.
“Snail trail.” Mason snorted. “We should call Marko, get a patch made quick, and tell Deke it’s his new club name.”
Hoss grinned at the thought and then laughed. “Yeah, but then I’d have to listen to him bitch about it for a long-ass time, so…yeah, naw.”
“What set him off?” Mason rolled his shoulders. “I know he’s been volatile for a while, ever since shit went down with Gunny, but he looked okay when he got here.”
“Found out Mercy wasn’t here.” Hoss shrugged again, thinking he had done a lot of that tonight.
“She is here, man. I talked to her, wanted to find out how she was handling things after all the shit abuse she took from Birdy.” Mason looked around the room, leading the way back to the kitchen and the sliding doors that opened into the backyard. “Where the hell did she go?”
“Whores and old ladies, you know about how well they mix, Prez.” Hoss accepted a beer from Jase, waiting to see if Mason wanted to continue the conversation.
“Not at all, is what you mean.” Mason shook his head ruefully. “She seems a decent enough gal, just took her a while to find herself.” Looking around, he called Jase back over with a chin lift and asked him, “Hey, Captain, did DeeDee mention she was unhappy Mercy was here, man?”
Jase, road name of Captain, hadn’t been patched into the Rebels for a long time, but he had been around the club for a couple years. Through that association, he had been exposed to the life. It also meant he met DeeDee, Mason’s cousin and manager of Slinky’s, the club’s strip joint here in Fort Wayne. Jase shook his head at Mason’s question, walking back to the grill and flipping a row of burgers. “No, she made sure Mercy knew the invite was for real. We thought it would be a good way to make her feel comfortable around us again. After what went down with Birdy, you know? On the plus side, DeeDee thought it also might help put Sharon a little more at ease having Mercy here.”
Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 3 Page 2