Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 3

by MariaLisa deMora

  Hoss asked, “You thinking he’s looking for some patched ass?” That would surprise everybody in the club, he thought.

  “Man’s wanted her as long as she’s been around. Used to make him crazy when she would hang around the clubhouse, rubbin’ up on brothers. He would go tearing off on his scoot when she would head upstairs with someone. At least now she’s only stripping, not fucking anything that moves and is wrapped in leather.” There was a noise in the room, and Gunny’s entire attitude changed, immediately on point and ready to react to whatever danger presented itself.

  Gunny had been like this for as long as Hoss had known him, wound as tightly as an overtorqued engine. Over time, he had learned the man was a dependable brother and officer, and he was now a good friend. After a few seconds, he eased back and settled against the wall again. Hoss smiled as he looked at him. The man was a study in intensity, and Hoss had often tried to capture him on canvas. The best he could do was graphite pencil, harsh strokes softened by the application of a smoothing fingertip, the Slavic cheekbones strong and prominent, overshadowed by those penetrating eyes. He had heard Gunny’s woman call him beautiful not long ago, and found himself agreeing with her.

  Hope, on the other hand, was a dynamic package of softness and light. He had watched while her face relaxed when she looked at her son, love written there in huge, sweeping emotions for anyone interested enough to notice. He would bet good money she had been beautiful beyond belief when carrying her child. Face rounded by pregnancy, gentle hands crossed over her curved and abundant belly, filled with the promise of life. He would have loved to capture her in those moments.

  She had hugged the boy, embracing him tight, and the emotions awakened at the way their bodies molded together were important to remember. He wanted to retain the feeling brought to mind by the tender gesture. Mother chickadee on a branch, wings spread over her chicks, tucking them close to her body. Shielding feathers fluffed to provide them a soft place to lean into, holding them there against the chance of danger, or fear of falling. The night and lights creating soft shadows around and on the mother and son, but her hold on the boy unshakable, protective, and secure. A magical type of mother, full of love for her child, a beautiful picture to put on canvas. That child a small but sturdy boy, with a scrappy feel to him at odds with the bespectacled look. Functional frames shielding slices of his face, giving him space to hide. Blond hair a touch too long, his love for his mother as evident and apparent as hers for him. A matched pair, happily dependent on the other tethered partner at this stage in their lives.

  He wouldn’t want to paint her face as she had looked after Deke pulled his shit, though. Seen through the windshield of her box- and bag-filled car, stark fear drawing long lines of tension in her brow. Face wet with terrified tears, her fingers clutched tightly around the top of the wheel, positioned thumb-to-thumb, the lot’s harsh light and dark shadows striping bars across her figure.

  “Mercy’s sister, huh?” Gunny didn’t look at him when he asked the question, his eyes ever moving, gaze sweeping across the crowd in the club.

  “Yeah, she’s a pretty little golden girl. Pint-sized boy, too. He didn’t seem to like me much, but maybe it’s all men. I’d be hard pressed to say which it is. I hustled them into the car when I heard the bikes. Wasn’t sure who would be rolling in, and when I saw they were club, thought I’d be able to save her the introduction. But then Deke, par for the course, was an asshole about her and Mercy.” He shook his head. “She’s headed over to Mercy’s now.”

  “Deke’s a dick; we all know that. Like I said, he’s hung up on the woman. Won’t be right until he admits it.” Gunny stood, eyeballing a man near the stage. “Fucking patched pussies, man. Damn, some nights I really fucking hate this ain’t a club bar.” He stalked over, and Hoss watched as he slapped his palm on the table between two men stuck in postures of aggression and animosity. With some surprise, he recognized Tater, a patched brother from the Chicago chapter of the Rebels, as one of the men at the table. Hoss watched as Gunny deftly handled whatever it was, and he relaxed. Trailing his gaze across the men in the crowd, he cataloged the looks of lust and desire, trusting his brother to deal with whatever shit happened.

  Pulling out his phone, he tapped out a message and then waited. In a few minutes, the device vibrated, and he looked down to see an image of Mercy on her couch, but this picture included Hope and Sam seated there with her. Wide smiles on the women’s faces, Mercy’s arm around Hope, and Hope’s arms around both Mercy and Sam. Mama in the middle. Chickadee on a branch. Here you go. We’re home, Hossman, her text said. His phone shook again a second later, and he looked down to read, Thanks for…well, you know…everything.

  ***

  Hope stood in the kitchen next to Mercy, rinsing dishes and handing them to her to put in the dishwasher. “You’re sure it won’t get you in trouble if we stay here?” They had talked through the evening, light conversation over pizza for supper, and then slightly harder topics after Sammy had bathed and been tucked into the double bed in the spare room. She was embarrassed her need was so apparent, but having her sister tell her family looked out for family went a long way to making things better.

  “Not a bit of it,” Mercy said with an easy grin, closing the front door of the dishwasher. She reached into the cabinet and brought down two tall glasses then opened the refrigerator and looked at Hope over her shoulder, asking, “White or pink?” Hope frowned and Mercy burst into laughter. “Wine. Do you want white or pink? I only buy the good stuff.” She reached inside the refrigerator and turned with a box in each hand, tilting her head with a grin.

  Hope laughed and shook her head. “Doesn’t matter; it’s all good.” Shaking her head again, she picked up one of the glasses and held it out. Wine in hand, they walked back into the living room and sat facing the other on the couch. Staring at each other and sitting in silence for a minute, Hope laughed when they began to talk at the same time. She let the laughter die down and then asked, “How long have you known about me?”

  “All my life.” Mercy shrugged. “Mom was kind of bitter, so she was vocal about everything, especially after she had a couple glasses of this.” She lifted her glass, half-full now. “I guess my mom was a little more than a month ahead of yours in the cooking process when she found him and informed him she was preggo. She always told the same story. She’d say, ‘He looked me in the face and told me my body was mine to manage, and keeping the baby would be my decision.’ Then she would look at me and shake her head.”

  Wrinkling her nose, Hope shook her head. “Ten years ago, I couldn’t have believed it, but after what he said to me when I told my parents I was pregnant with Sammy, I can totally see him saying those words. I hate you had to deal with that, though. I feel like I should be apologizing for him and what he did to you and your mom.”

  “Nah,” Mercy said. “Water under the bridge. Mom’s still a twat, but I don’t have to deal with her much, so we manage to get along for the couple days a year I see her.” Her phone buzzed and she smiled. “Figured he would be checking in sooner or later,” she said cryptically and tapped on her phone for a minute. “There, now he has a picture of you.”

  “Who?” Mercy had taken a selfie of the three of them earlier in the evening and made a big deal out of setting it as her home screen, her antics drawing a smile to Sammy’s face. “Who in Fort Wayne could want a picture of me? I’ve been here all of five hours.”

  “Hoss,” Mercy said with a smile. “Hossman. He’s a good guy.”

  “Is that his last name?” Hope asked, tipping her head to one side.

  “No.” Mercy laughed. “His name is Isaiah Rogers, but everyone calls him Hoss. I call him Hossman, because one of the club members runs his words together and calls everyone ‘man’, so when he says the name, they sound like Hossman, or Slateman. Hoss is a decent guy; he’s been there for me through a lot. Like a lot, a lot.”

  “Oh,” Hope said, thinking the name Hoss suited him better than Isaiah
. Isaiah made him sound like he should be a person her father would like, someone enamored of studious observation with lifelong rules. Hoss, now that was a name with a wild twist. Wild, but steady, like someone you could count on, someone to make you feel safe while still kicking up his heels at times. If he was as kind in truth as he seemed tonight, he was someone you would want in your corner. Someone she would like to have in her corner, but probably he was already taken. Nice guys usually were. She swallowed; she had seen him with Mercy and marked their casual, comfortable affection. “He seems really nice, was sweet to you. You make a cute couple.”

  With a shout of laughter, Mercy shook her head. “No, Hoss isn’t the one for me. He’s a loner, mostly. I don’t think I’ve really ever seen him with anyone.” Twirling her glass, she said, “He’s single, Hope. But, he’s a really good man. I trust him with my life.”

  “Oh,” was all she could force out through her suddenly tight throat.

  “So what’s the plan, Stan?” Mercy glanced over, reaching out to twirl a finger in Hope’s hair. “Staying here is easy. This place is a two-bedroom, and there’s a ton of space. We can easily fit a single bed in the spare bedroom for Sammy. You guys would have to share the room, but that way he’ll have his own bed. There are still a few weeks before school starts, and I have a friend who works in the school system. She can help us get things lined out for your little guy.” She tugged at the curl, smiling as it bounced back into place when released. “I love your hair; it’s such a pretty color.”

  Hope grimaced and looked down, reaching up to smooth her hair. “It’s been a while since he was in formal school,” she said quietly. “We spend a lot of time in the library, and he’s smart. Really smart. He can read way above his grade level. But there won’t be any recent records.” Glancing up, she saw an unreadable expression on Mercy’s face and looked down again to avoid the pity she assumed was coming next.

  Speaking slowly, Mercy seemed to be thinking aloud. “Eddie can help. Her childhood wasn’t…typical, either. She’s not going to look down on you for what you had to do in order to keep the two of you together.” She heard Mercy take a breath, and knew what was coming next. She waited for Mercy to say the ‘but’ part of the statement. ‘But’ you can’t stay here. ‘But’ the state will want to know about him. ‘But’ what kind of mother are you? Her eyes raised in surprise, gaze locking with Mercy’s when she heard her say instead, “I’m so proud of you. Looks to me like you’ve done an excellent job with him. I’m in awe, Hope. You are so strong.”

  Scoffing, she shook her head. “I hate what I’ve done to him.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she swallowed, forcing down a threatening sob. “He’s never gone hungry, but he’s lost a big part of his childhood that deserved to be normal. Ordinary. Instead, he had to grow up fast, and I hate it.”

  She was surprised when strong, warm arms enfolded her, tugging her head onto Mercy’s shoulder. “You are an incredible mother, Hope. Just got handed a craptastic deal. Shit happens, and you made the best of it. You are so tough. I’m so proud of you.”

  They sat like that for a time, the awkwardness of newfound family fading away with the strength of the connection between the two sisters, whose backgrounds were so different. Releasing her slowly, Mercy sat back, ducking her head to look at Hope’s tear-wet face underneath her bangs. “So let’s make a plan. We’ll sort out the sleeping arrangements first, and get Sammy a bed of his own. We’ll make a list of things we need. I have friends. I’ll introduce you, and we’ll figure out what we have to do for school. Then, we’ll find you a job, and you can get started making your way back onto your feet.”

  With a wry twist to her smile Hope didn’t understand, Mercy said, “I got you. We’ll figure this out and sort our shit.”

  What do you want?

  Sam scowled at the woman standing in the kitchen across from where he sat at the table, and then quickly looked down, spooning cereal and milk into his mouth. While he was chewing, and in between mouthfuls, he used the bowl of the spoon to push the cereal underneath the surface of the milk, fixedly watching the yellow balls persistently pop back to the surface. His new aunt looked a lot like Mom, like they had to be sisters. That meant Mom wouldn't be going back to Mac and Nelly, because they weren’t really family. Not like Aunt Mercy. He kept his gaze down and shook his head when she asked if he wanted juice.

  What he wanted was for Mom to be happy again. He had crept into the hallway last night and listened to the two of them talking long after he was supposed to be asleep, and Sam had not liked what he heard. It sounded like he was the reason Mom was sad. He didn’t want to make her sad, and didn’t think she knew how much her keeping him with her meant. He had to figure out how to show her.

  He was so focused on thoughts of what he had overheard that when Aunt Mercy spoke, it startled him, and the involuntary jerk caused a splash of milk to sail over the edge of the bowl and onto a newspaper lying on the table.

  “I’m sorry!” he yelled, pushing his chair back too fast, the clatter of it falling over backwards adding to his confusion and dismay. If I mess this up for us, if I make her mad, he thought, then Mom will be even more sadder than she is now.

  He was struggling, trying to tug his shirt over his head to blot the milk up, when he saw a kitchen towel sailing through the air towards him. Releasing his shirt, he reached up to pluck it from the air and swept it down onto the paper, careful to press straight down, not rubbing. Gibson had impressed the technique on him more than once when Sam had spilled on his things. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to the towel, lifting the bowl with both hands and setting it carefully to one side. “I’m sorry. I never meant to ruin it.”

  Poop, he hated this feeling, like he had a huge chunk of something stuck in his throat. The one where the back of his neck got tight like he was gonna sick up. “Ain’t no thang,” he heard, and the comfort and warm care filling the voice effortlessly drew his tears from him. Within seconds, his shoulders were jerking and he was swallowing hard to keep the cries inside. He lifted the towel and squeezed his eyes tightly shut when he saw the smeared and ruffled spot on the paper. “I’m sorry,” he repeated on a high-pitched whisper, and then there were soft hands on his shoulders, turning his body and pulling him into a hug.

  “Sammy.” He heard the concern in her voice and then felt fingers threading through his hair, cupping the back of his head and pulling him in tighter. “Oh, sweetie, it’s no big deal.” One hand scooped up under his butt and the arms lifted him. Eyes closed, he let himself be maneuvered, folded in half and seated on a lap, then his head tugged into place on a shoulder as he cried. And cried.

  He wasn’t aware of falling asleep, but he must have, because when he woke, he did it sluggishly, rising from dreamless darkness wrapped in warmth. There was a rumble in the room, and bit-by-bit, he recognized the voice of the big man from last night, the one who had been mean to Mom, telling her to put him in the car as if he were a dog or something. He remembered the way the man had looked at Mom at first, when he was still standing beside the big door that had let out the bright light, blinding him even before Mom covered his eyes. The expression on his face had looked like Mom was the last spoonful of sugar in the bowl, and he had his mouth set on sweet. Then he had yelled. I don’t like him, Sam thought. His Aunt Mercy was talking, and he tried to piece together enough of what she was saying to make sense.

  “She’s had it tough, really tough, Hoss. On her own, totally on her own since she was not even an adult. Nine years, no one’s been in her corner. On her own. I can’t even imagine how she has held it together as long as she has. This little guy…” A hand stroked up his back and through his hair, and he turned his face into her shoulder a bit more, because it felt so good, like it did when Mommy held him, humming their song. She had continued speaking, and he heard, “…is a bundle of tough all on his own. They are both completely exhausted from trying to hold everything together. He’s been sleeping on my lap for nearly three hours. The first thing he d
id this morning was cry himself to sleep.”

  “And Hope?” That was the rumble from Hoss again, making Sam scowl.

  “She’s still asleep. One glass of wine and she was down for the count last night.” There was a noise in the room and Aunt Mercy moved, twisting a little. “Hossman, you don’t have to do that. I’ll clean the table, baby.” More noise, and then the sound of running water. Sam sighed; no way could he go back to sleep with the man in the apartment. He picked up his head and opened his eyes to find his aunt looking at him. She smiled, her lips curling up at the corners and the edges of her eyes crinkling like Mom’s did when she was really, really happy. He offered her a tentative smile back then glanced over her shoulder, where the big man was dumping his cereal into the sink.

  “No!” he shouted and struggled, thrashing his limbs and trying to get off Aunt Mercy’s lap. “Don’t, I can still eat it. Don’t pitch it. Don’t. No.” He slipped from her knees and gained his feet, quickly trotting around the corner of the couch in a half-run, pulling to a stop next to the table, his breath coming in soft gasps.

  “Sam.” Hoss shook his head at him. “Soggy cereal ain’t good to eat.” He finished dumping the nearly full bowl then ran water and flipped a switch, using the garbage disposal to grind the balls into cereal mush. Soggy, ruined cereal mush. One big finger reached out and tapped the switch again, turning it off, and Hoss gathered up the paper from the table, crumpling it to throw it away. Poop. Sam lifted his hand, straightened his glasses, and then covered his mouth. He had wasted a bowl of cereal and ruined a newspaper. Poop, poop, poop.

  How can I make this right? he wondered, turning back to his aunt. That still sounded weird to him. He had an aunt. I have an aunt. He had two grandmothers and a grandfather, and now an aunt. “I’m sorry,” he told her again, and was stunned by the smile she gave him.

  She stood and took the two strides to get to him, and then lifted him and stunned him again when she turned him upside down, wrapping her arm around his legs. She suspended him like that with his head down, and used one hand to tickle him. The urge to laugh was immediate, but he was aware Mom was still asleep, and the man, Hoss, was in the room with them, so he tried to hold it inside. He remembered once when Mom took him to visit his grandmother and grandfather. They had goats, and one of the babies had gotten out of their pen.