“Need to get her in a good place, brother, and soon. Deke says she’s worried, asking Mercy all the time about money. She’s gotta stay, man. School starts before long and that boy needs to get the help Eddie’s offering.” Hoss paused, and then admitted, “Fuck, Slate, I need her stable so I have my head on straight. I got a message earlier, suspect you received the same. Mason’s fighting shit in Chicago, he’s called me back up to Mother for a bit.” Hoss took a seat on the sofa across the desk from Slate. “Let’s talk what kind of changes this means for the Fort, see who I’m taking, and who you need to stay.”
***
Running her bar rag over the counter in front of the man who had just seated himself, she said, “Hi. Thanks for coming in. What can I get you?”
“Beer,” he muttered, turning to place his back against the bar.
Rolling her eyes, because the single word didn’t give her enough information, she asked, “Got a particular kind you like more than others?”
“Don’t fucking roll your eyes at me, girl. Get me a draft, something wet and cold.” Looking up, she found him using the mirrors to watch her and she fought against another eye roll.
“Coming right up,” she said brightly, turning to pull a chilled mug from the cooler and tipping it underneath the draft spigot, flipping the lever forward with the side of her hand.
She had been surprised when she got the call from the agency about a bartender job at Murphy’s Law, but had jumped on the chance for the promised day shift. Working days meant Sammy could stay with Mercy instead of a sitter, which was way more comfortable for both of them.
Mercy’s questions when she heard the name of the bar were surprising, because the first thing she asked was if Hoss knew where the job was. She had shaken her head, puzzled, because there was no reason for Hoss to care where she worked unless it was a club business, and thus could reflect badly on him. Finding out Murphy’s was a biker bar had given her pause for a moment, but bringing in money was more important than anything else right now. She couldn’t keep sponging off her sister, not and be happy.
Today, over the next few hours of her shift, the bar slowly filled up until, by late afternoon, she was hard pressed to keep ahead of the drink demands. Pausing for a breath, she swept the room with her gaze and with a deep sense of disquiet saw she was the only female present. Not that any of the men had given her reason to be uneasy, they might be impatient or flirty by turns, but at no time had she felt threatened. Rolling her shoulders to shrug the feelings away, she grabbed a stack of buckets and half-filled them with ice, trying to anticipate and get ahead of the next round of orders. From behind her, she heard Green’s voice, calling out in surprise, “Gator, what the hell you doin’ in town, man?” Green cooked here at Murphy’s, and was supposed to be her backup bartender for busy days like this, but she would almost rather he stay in the kitchen, because the big man tended to get in the way.
Glancing up, she saw a new group of men had come in and were approaching the bar. With an internal wince, she recognized the man out in front. He was one of the men from the last table she waited on at Marie’s. There was a flash of red from behind him and her breath caught in her throat, because she suspected that color hair could only belong to one man. Gator, as Green had addressed him, stopped short at the sight of her behind the bar, and a broad grin broke across his face. “Blondie,” he called, and stepped to one side, revealing Fury behind him. The man’s face was tilted down, gaze on the phone in his hand, but at Gator’s greeting, it swung up and fixed on her, pinning her in place with an unexpected intensity.
Straightening from where she was crouched by the icemaker, she stood, looking at him. Other than the buzz of noise from the nearly muted TVs scattered around and mounted on the walls, the bar had fallen unnervingly silent, as if they were waiting on something. Even the noise from the pool tables had faded away, and she saw most of the men had turned to face Fury, but their gazes were dancing back and forth between him and her in a way that made her wonder what they were thinking.
Taking the last three steps that brought him to the bar, Fury shoved a stool to one side, leaning against the edge of the counter with his forearms, hands clasped in front of him. He raked her up and down with his gaze, and she saw him begin to smile. As it had before, the expression transformed his face, the well-established lines at the corners of his eyes testifying to the frequency of his smiles and she heard his voice, low but clear, call her name, “Hope.”
Taking a breath, she greeted him in the same fashion, letting him know she remembered him, too. “Fury.” Schooling herself to stillness, because she desperately wanted to fidget, she asked, “Beer?” At his slow nod, she glanced at the rest of the men now clustered beside him at the bar, the men previously seated there having moved to make room. “All around?” Fury’s lips moved slightly, the look on his face slipping into a teasing grin from the pleased smile of before, and he nodded a second time. “Got you,” she said, sticking to their laconic exchange. Bending over and placing the ice-filled buckets into the cooler, she racked her brain to remember the kinds of beer each man had ordered before. Quickly pulling out what she hoped were the right selections, placing the final bottle in front of the now-grinning Gator, she asked, “Tab?” Fury nodded again, reaching out to pick up his beer and take a long pull from it.
At his action, the noise in the bar gradually began to build to normal levels, and she shifted, about to step backwards, when he reached out his other hand, gripping her wrist. “When did you start here, gal?”
She shrugged, futilely twisting her arm in an effort to dislodge his hand. “Couple weeks?” She twisted her arm again and he frowned, his hand tightening then releasing her. When he didn’t say anything further, she turned and worked her way back up the bar, refilling mugs and setting freshly-opened bottles in front of men. Ignoring the weight of his stare on her, she was making her way back and forth between the patrons and the register, ringing up sales and adding to the many running tabs she had open.
Raising her head when the door opened, she saw several new men walk in, going directly to an empty table near the wall. Grabbing a wet rag, she walked over and wiped the table down before placing coasters in front of the weary-looking men, asking with a smile, “What can I get you?” Her question ended on a gasp as the man to her right looped an arm around her waist, pulling her into his lap, one hand aggressively palming her breast. Held tightly with her back to his front, her efforts to extricate herself were unsuccessful, and he laughed loudly at her furious demand, “Let me go.”
His laugh ended abruptly as he was knocked to the right, falling out of the chair and losing his grip on her when she was launched the other direction by a strong hand on her bicep, pulling her to her feet and away from the table. The hand stayed on her arm, but she was shoved behind a broad back bearing a Diamante patch, Fury stepping between her and the table as he said, “Keep your goddamned fucking hands off, Lalo.”
The man who had fallen to the floor surged to his feet, and she saw him step forward until he and Fury were nearly chest-to-chest. She shifted her feet, and the hand on her arm tightened until she stilled, and then it loosened, sliding down to bracelet her wrist. Glancing over Fury’s shoulder, the Hispanic man scowled at her then tipped his head slightly, transferring the force of his glower to Fury. “You need to keep your tail out of the bar, brother.” The blatant insolent emphasis on the last word caused Fury’s hand to tighten around her wrist, but at her indrawn breath of pain, it loosened again.
“Fuck you, Lalo. What the hell you doin’ in the Fort? You’re supposed to be in Ocala, tightening down territory there.” The energy in the bar changed, lifting, and Hope belatedly realized all the men in the room were on their feet. Those nearest this table had moved away, most giving a cleared space around the two men in front of her. Glancing around, she saw Gator and the men who had walked in with Fury were standing close behind them, just as the men who had walked in with Lalo were likewise gathered at his back.
“Got tired of the beautiful sunshine, thought I’d come visit a different climate.” He snorted a laugh, his gaze raking her again. “Wanna explain putting your hands on me?”
“Nope,” Fury said, and she saw Lalo’s face get tight. “Blondie works our bar; she’s ours. I don’t know what the fuck you did in New Mexico to lose your old place there, but you ain’t even in your new place right now, are you? Neither New Mexico, nor Florida. You’ve come to my house without even a fucking courtesy call, and I will put my hands on you any fucking time I want.” At the movement of a man behind Lalo, Fury growled, “Go ahead, Chismoso. Go right the fuck ahead. You fucking lost Chicago, and that in a way that came fucking close to putting you out bad. Damned near cut. Now, you want to come to the Fort and start shit with your own fucking patch brothers?” His voice smoothed, becoming cold and slow as he continued, “You wanna dance? Then, bring it the fuck on and let’s dance.”
The atmosphere in the bar had shifted back to a heavy, suffocating weight and she began to panic, frantically twisting her arm back and forth as she had earlier, wanting desperately to retreat behind the safety of the bar. He didn’t clamp back down on her as she expected, but instead, Fury’s thumb swept back and forth across the back of her hand, the slow, soft touches dispelling her panic, scattering it and leaving a growing confidence in his ability to protect her in its wake.
They stood there for a minute, and when no one responded, he gave a little tug, pulling her up beside him. His arm flipped over her head, keeping his hold on her wrist so her arm bent double when he tucked her into his side. “Blondie is ours. Hands off, man,” he said with a nod, turning them to walk back to the bar, his arm hot across her shoulders. Hope was surprised at the tension she saw in Gator and the other men’s faces, because beside her, Fury felt as relaxed and loose as if nothing had happened.
The widening of Gator’s eyes was the only warning she had before a shot rang out in the enclosed space. She screamed, flinching, and dropped to her knees on the floor in reaction as one of the neon lights over the bar ahead of them exploded, the flash as blinding as the gunshot was deafening. Fury twisted, his legs straddling her, one foot on either side of her hips as she cowered.
“Oops,” she heard as if from far away, and then the bar was filled with movement when the men from the edges of the room flooded in, moving past her position. She focused on the floor in front of her, struggling to bring her breathing under control. She watched as scuffed brown and black leather boots strode and stepped, treading the boards, seeing how the wood bent and warped under their weight, only to rebound, unaffected in any long term way by the treatment received from these men. She hoped she could be the same, but the terror clogging her throat made it impossible to believe.
She screamed again when hands gripped her waist, picking her up off the floor, closing her mouth abruptly and quieting when she saw it was Fury holding her, his arms wrapped around her back. Standing firm as the fight ebbed around them, he was still holding her, staring into her face when, through the buzzing in her ears, she heard Gator say, “What you want us to do with the problems, boss?”
Still flat and cold, his voice threaded through her remaining fear, gathering and ratcheting it up again as he said, “Clubhouse.”
“Ya, boss,” Gator said, and she turned her head to watch Lalo, Chismoso, and the men who had come in with them escorted out the door, restrained by a variety of utilitarian methods, still struggling against the men holding their arms.
Fury strode forward, lifting her effortlessly and setting her on the bar. He pulled out his phone and glanced down to dial, lifting his gaze back to her face as he waited for a moment, and then said, “Shut the fuck up. Hope’s in my bar.” The buzzing in her ears grew louder as he paused, and then snorted, saying, “Not jacking with you. She’s got her sweet ass on the bar right now, and I’m standing right here, between her fucking knees.” He made this truth as he pushed her legs apart with his hips, wedging himself into the space, even as it seemed he retreated from her, sounds other than the buzzing even more muted. There was another pause, and then he said, “I’ll walk her out when I see you on the cam.”
Without looking down, he pushed a button on the phone and slid it into his pocket. Flicking a glance behind her, he said, “Greenie, get Blondie here some juice.” To her, he said, “Gal, you’re white as a sheet. Don’t you go fainting on me.”
There was a noise, and she slowly turned to see a hand holding up a glass of orange juice. “Breathe, Hope. Take a breath, gal,” she heard Fury say, and twisted back to look at him, realizing she was lightheaded, the sounds around her receding, even while the lights seemed to dim. From far away, she heard cursing, and then nothing as darkness crashed down on her.
She became aware by slow stages, first of the muted sounds of traffic in the distance, then noises from nearby of birds quietly putting themselves to bed as night came down. There was a fast thud under her cheek, that sound nearly familiar, and she rubbed her face back and forth, thinking she would feel a soft, supple leather against her skin. Instead, she felt the scratching of fabric edges and whispered, “Hoss?”
The arms holding her tightened and she heard a hissed, “Fuck,” that drew her eyes open, because she couldn’t place who had spoken. Tilting her head back, instead of the familiar and safe features she expected, she found the tense face of Fury hovering over her. That caused her to jerk back, moving away just as a voice she recognized called her name from a little ways away, “Hope?” He’s here.
She tried to twist away, but as had happened the first time she met him, her efforts were ineffectual until he cooperated. “Please,” she whispered, “let me go.” She turned her head, trying to find the face she wanted, calling, “Hoss?” Fury’s arms loosened and he swung her legs to the ground, his hands at her waist to steady her first faltering steps.
Then she turned and was running, flying over the parking lot pavement, crashing into Hoss. Feeling his arms wrap themselves tightly around her, hearing his voice soft beside her head, asking, “Hope, honey, what’s going on?” She shook her head, unable to speak, simply knowing when she heard his voice she had to be with him, needed to be in his arms. Shaking her head again, her hands clutched tightly at the shirt under his leather vest while his hands moved slowly up and down her back.
Projecting his voice, his tone was steady as he asked Fury, “You want to share with me exactly what the fuck is going on?”
“Hope was working her shift when we had a little disagreement inside. Things got over and done with, and I called you. Then she passed right the fuck out, so I brought her out here to wait for you.” Fury’s tone was as quiet as Hoss’ had been, and she squeezed her eyes shut, thinking how silly she must look, running from the man who had kept her safe.
“The fuck you mean working?” Hoss had tightened under her hands, but he kept moving his palms over her back slowly, soothingly, calming her with his touch.
“She fucking works in my bar,” Fury said and laughed gruffly. “I see from your face that’s a surprise, and I’m telling you it was a surprise to me, too. I guess Dale hired her while I was in Kentucky taking care of business.”
“She don’t work for you anymore.” At this flat statement, Hope pulled back, looking up at Hoss. She didn’t know she was crying until his face softened and he brought a hand up, thumb sweeping her tears from her cheek. “Sweetheart,” he said softly, and she shook her head.
“I’ve been here two weeks, and this is the first problem I’ve had. Please, I can do this,” she said, swallowing hard and wishing it didn’t sound like she was asking permission. “I can’t lose another job. I can do this.”
“No, baby,” he muttered, and at his words, she subsided, knowing it was useless to argue with him right now. Hoss lifted his head to look behind her at Fury. “She got shit inside?” There was a noise and one of Hoss’ hands left her back, coming in front of her and offering the strap of her purse. Keeping an arm wrapped around her shoulders, w
ithout another word, he turned and led her to his truck, parked near the building. He held the door as she climbed inside, waiting until she was settled to close it and walk around the front of the vehicle. She looked out the window at Fury and lifted her hand in farewell as he stood there unmoving, watching them drive away.
At the apartment, Hoss pulled into the lot and parked, sitting with his hands gripping the steering wheel, gaze staring into the darkness. “Hope,” he said, and she bowed her head, waiting. “Go on in, baby. Likely you didn’t see anything worth mentioning, but just in case, let’s keep this quiet. Tell your sister you weren’t feeling well. I got some shit to clear, and I probably shoulda called a prospect to bring you home, but I wanted to see you got here okay. Go on in, now. Put tonight behind you.”
Through the whole drive home, he hadn’t spoken to her, and now, during his entire speech, he hadn’t looked at her. It felt as if she didn’t exist for him most of the time, with weeks passing between interactions. Then she had to go and throw herself at him tonight, expecting him to catch her simply because she had gotten scared. He’s right, she thought. I need to put this behind me. I need to put everything behind me. It’s time to grow up and put away stupid, childish dreams, Hope. Silently, she climbed out of his truck, without looking up, not wanting to see if he had bothered to glance her way. She closed the door and walked to the apartment door without looking back.
***
Hoss watched her walk into the apartment and noted everything. How her steps slowed the farther she got from his truck, like she didn’t truly want to go. The curve of her neck as her gaze tracked the walkway passing underneath her feet, her head not lifting even when she got to the door. She never looked back, didn’t see him watching her, and didn’t see the longing he knew was written all over his face.
Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 3 Page 11