Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 3

by MariaLisa deMora

“No, you’re asking me to help you extend your pain, and I will not.” Her words were quiet but hit the mark, and he dropped his head.

  Pressing the phone tightly to his ear, he whispered, “Mercy, please. I just…please.”

  “Hoss, baby,” she whispered back. “You gotta move on, sweetheart. The two of you agreed it wasn’t good to continue, and you have to give her that now. You gotta move on, Hoss. She is—”

  He interrupted her, his voice tight with strain, “What the fuck do you mean she’s moving on?”

  “Hoss.” Her voice had become tentative, faltering, and he waited for her to continue.

  When she didn’t, he again said, “The fuck. You mean. She’s moving on?” Silence from the phone. “Mercy. You telling me she’s dating?” More silence. “Is that what you mean? She moving on with someone in particular? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Hoss.”

  Now her repetition of his name was pissing him off, and he roared, “I fucking know my own name, Mercy. What I don’t know is the fucking name of the fucking moron she’s moving on with.” Nothing. “Fuck this, and fuck you. Fuck Deke, too, if he knew this and didn’t tell me.” He was about to disconnect the call when he heard a whispered word, and he barked, “What?”

  “Dickie Rupert. They’re going to that steak place near the mall.” Without another word, she disconnected the call, and he stared at the wall in front of him for a moment.

  Dickie Rupert was a brother to Daniel, the man who married Mica. Mason’s first love, who had gone to a citizen, because he didn’t think she could handle a life in the club. Mason had drifted for a long time afterwards, riding the currents back and forth aimlessly, his sole focus the club. Then he met Willa, a woman he latched onto in a way that made it impossible to think of him before her without knowing it was needful, all his pain, all his loneliness—needful, because it brought him to her.

  “I ain’t Mason.” He made this statement to the calm air in his room at the clubhouse. Ninety days. She was still living in his home, and he was here. Waiting, but for what? Waiting for her to remember she wanted him? Or… No. Waiting for me to wake the fuck up and fight for what I want. “I ain’t Mason, and I ain’t gonna let that fucking citizen waltz in and take what’s mine. She ain’t fucking moving on; she’s fucking moved in, and I’m too fucking stupid to realize she’s waiting for me to figure it out.”

  Taking a deep breath, he grabbed his jacket and slipped it on then strode out of the room and down the stairs, flipping a finger at the prospect behind the bar when he heard his name called hesitantly. “Ain’t got time for shit. It’s important, they can fucking find me.”

  Minutes later, he was sitting astraddle his bike’s seat in the parking lot of the steakhouse, looking at the sea of cars. Pulling out his phone, he dialed, and then said, “No time for bullshit, Myron. Get me the make and number of Dickie Rupert’s ride here in the Fort.” At the club treasurer’s question, he barked, “I said I didn’t have time for fucking questions, man. Look the shit up. I know you got access to the BMV database.”

  It got quiet on the phone, and he said, “No time for bullshit, man. You can’t help me, or won’t help me? Tell me, and I’ll move on my fucking way.” A moment later, Myron was reciting information in his ear and he grunted his thanks, already scanning the lot to find the truck he was looking for parked on the edge of the lot. Fuck, he thought, she’s in there with him right now.

  Dismounting the bike, he walked to the door and opened it, ignoring the hostess when she squeaked a question at him. There Hope sat at the bar, back to him, but the golden fall of her hair was unmistakable, even in the low light of the restaurant. He stepped over to the bar and slid onto the empty stool next to her, seeing Dickie’s eyes fixed on the TV in the corner, where a football game was on. The man wasn’t paying attention to Hope, who wasn’t paying attention to his lack of attention. Chin tucked down, she was talking to her wineglass, fingers twiddling with the stem as she spoke quietly, oblivious to her new audience.

  “—day, I’ve regretted the things I said to him. Sammy looks at me and asks every morning, even now, three months down the road, asks me when Hoss is coming home. Calls it that, ‘home,’ not Hoss’ house, but home, as if we belong there. I should have already moved out, but I can’t bear the thought.”

  This couldn’t be her first glass of wine; in fact, he suspected she was tipsy enough he would worry about putting her on the back of his bike right now. Pulling out his phone, he texted Hurley and told him to bring a cage, instructing him to park it in the lot near his bike and leave the keys behind the overhead visor. Slipping the phone back in his pocket, he dialed back in on Hope’s conversation with herself.

  “—to my door, and he was right, but I don’t care anymore. I just…miss him.” Picking up her glass, she drained it, nearly missing the bar when she went to set it down. “I love him.”

  Dickie looked over then reached out and patted her hand absently before glancing around the bar. His gaze locked on Hoss, and all the color fled his face when Hoss grinned at him, knowing his teeth showed in more of a snarl than a smile. Snatching his hand back, the man visibly swallowed then started to speak, “Hope—”

  With a quick shake of his head, Hoss interrupted him and then tipped his head to the door. Dickie nodded and slipped off his stool, but before he walked away, he leaned close to say, “I’m sorry.” Hoss wasn’t sure if the words were directed at him or Hope, or what the sentiment was supposed to cover, but he gave the man a chin lift anyway.

  Hope never blinked; lost in her thoughts, she kept staring at the now empty glass. Watching her closely, he flinched when she brutally bit her lips and then shook her head slightly, reaching out to turn the wineglass in random movements, back and forth. Pulling his wallet out, he threw some bills on the bar then turned to see a familiar car pulling into the lot as he shoved the wallet back into his pocket.

  Taking a steadying breath, because he wasn’t certain how she would react to him being there, Hoss leaned close, putting his lips near her ear to softly say, “Hope, baby.” She jolted, but didn’t look at him. Didn’t raise her eyes from her fingers on the stem of the glass, but her lips parted and she breathed out his name like a wish, “Hoss.”

  “Baby. Let’s get you home, yeah?” Holding his breath, he reached out and covered her hand with his, turning it so they rested palm-to-palm, and then he threaded his fingers through hers. “Home, baby.” Standing, he tugged, and she came off the stool and on her feet, weaving in place for a moment, eyes still fixed on the glass.

  “Hope,” he called, and when her eyes finally lifted to his, he sucked in a breath at the dullness he saw there. Her chin quivered and her eyes filled with wet before she closed them, shutting off the sight of what he had done to her. “Baby,” he said softly, cupping her cheek with one palm, thumb tracing across her lips. “I can’t live without you, Hope. I need you, baby. Let me take you home, okay?”

  She nodded and lifted her chin, eyes fluttering open as she looked at him again. Her mouth worked for a minute, but nothing came out, not until he leaned close, fingers sliding up into her hair and cradling her head into his neck. Then, mouth moving on his skin, he felt her lips pressing into him just before she said, “Please, don’t wake me up. Please, oh, God. Please. Don’t wake me.”

  “Hush, baby,” he whispered, lifting their joined hands between them, resting them against his chest. “Home.”

  Helping her into her coat, they stood like that for a minute, and he wondered what was going through her mind, wondered if she was too drunk for this to be real. Wondered as she did, for a moment, if this was a dream. Taking in a breath when she softly said, “Not a dream,” realizing he had spoken aloud.

  Pulling her into his side, he slipped an arm around her waist, prepared to hold her up if needed, but she walked steadily towards the door. He saw Hurley climbing on the back of Tequila’s bike and laughed silently, wondering why the prospect agreed to ride bitch, but glad he at least thought of
getting a ride back to the clubhouse, because he would have driven away and left the man standing in the lot before putting him in the car with Hope.

  She started angling towards his bike and he steered her to the car, lifting a hand in a brief wave at Tequila. He saw his brother had a broad grin on his face as he rode away, Hurley leaning as far away from him as was possible on the small seat without falling off the bike, scarf over his nose and mouth, gloved hands tightly clutching the back of the seat for dear life.

  “Here, baby,” he said, opening the car door and holding her hand as she settled into the seat. He leaned in, pulling her seatbelt across and latching it, turning to see her face only inches away, a look of amazement on her features. “Hope,” he breathed, and then her mouth hit his, hungry and hot, her tongue sliding across his bottom lip. “Goddamn, baby,” he murmured against her lips. “You want me, Mama?”

  “Mmhmm.” She made a noise deep in her throat and he let go the control he was holding a little bit, kissing her back, taking over, working at her mouth until their breath came hard and ragged, loud in the silence of the car. Pulling away, he saw a small smile on her face and leaned in, brushing her lips with his a final time.

  “Let’s get you home, baby,” he whispered, straightening and closing her door to walk around and climb inside. Once he did, he shifted to look at her, asking, “Hope, where’s Sammy?”

  “Home,” she said softly, turning her head to lean it against the back of the car seat, her gaze trained on him.

  “Sam is at home?” Thank fuck, he thought, I don’t have to stop somewhere and pick him up.

  “Yep, he’s at home. Hoss’ house, but our home.” The corners of her mouth tipped up and he smiled at her, working the gearshift and clutch to move through traffic quickly.

  She reached out and laid a hand on his leg, fingers curling around the inner curve of his muscled thigh as he operated the pedals. Fuck. She was drunk, had to be, and there wasn’t any way he would do anything to fuck up this second chance, not even if she pushed him.

  “Hope, honey, how much did you have to drink?” She made a humming noise as he worked the clutch again, powering through a turn. Nearly home, he thought, and then her hand was sliding up his leg, heat burning him through the fabric of his jeans. “Hope, no. Wait, baby.” Goddammit. “Hope.” Fingernails scraped across his zipper, trailing along the ridges of his already stiff cock, and he reached down, moving her hand back down to his knee. Fuck. “No, baby. Wait.”

  Turning into the gate, he rolled down his window and lifted a hand at the guard on duty tonight. Seeing a car he didn’t know parked in front of his house, he asked, “Hope, who’s with Sammy?”

  “Luce,” she said and smiled wide. “I like Lucia; she’s sweet. She’s sweet on Benny, too. Luce and Benny. Bear will have him in a full-body cast if he tries anything, though. I heard Benny say so the other day. Luce’s been babysitting Sasha since Eddie went back to work. Bear’d have that darlin’ little girl in a papoose and carry her everywhere if Eddie let him.” She giggled, her voice low and rich, and he groaned at the sound.

  Her head lolled a little when he turned the car into his drive, and she grinned at him again. “Deke wants Mercy to go off the pill. Isn’t that sweet? Mercy and Deke having a cute, little, baby Deke? Sweet.”

  Setting the emergency brake as he killed the engine, he told her, “Sit tight, baby. Let me come around and help you out.”

  “All right,” she sang, her voice lilting sweetly. Turning, she looked at the house then up at Hoss when he opened her door. “Where’s my car?”

  “In the garage, ain’t it?” He pulled her from the vehicle, tucking her against his side as she wavered.

  “Not unless you’re magic.” She giggled, her voice again dipping into that rich tone of pleasure that raised every hair on his body in response. “Poof. Magic Hossman.” She giggled again. “I didn’t plan on drinking, so I drove tonight.”

  “Dickie rode with you?” Now he was confused, because he had seen the douchecanoe’s truck in the lot.

  “No, silly. He met me there. I wanted to have…” Her voice trailed off, and her face lost the look of humor it wore, the smile sliding away as her lips pressed together. “Since…” She sighed. “I didn’t want to have to depend on…so my car, my out.” Shrugging, she stumbled, and he tightened his arm around her as they walked to the front door.

  The instant the boy caught sight of him with his arm around Hope, Hoss realized he hadn’t begun to prepare for this, and the pained and frightened look on Sam’s face underscored his devastating lack of foresight. Up to that point, he had only been glad Sammy was already safe at home, that he was taking Hope home, a sweet and tipsy Hope, who had not only forgiven him and confessed to herself she loved him, but had initiated a hot, deep kiss, hinting at the night to come.

  Now, seeing the color blanch from Sam’s features, his mind began turning in futile circles, looking for something to say that wouldn’t come across as calloused or make him out to be a bigger asshole than he already knew himself to be, making and breaking promises with only days between. Without a word, the boy’s chin slowly rose until he was looking at Hoss over his cheekbones, glass lenses glinting in the overhead lighting. Sam’s hands involuntarily clenched into balls, shoulders thrust back—preparing for a hit or a fight, it was hard to tell. Whatever Hoss could have found to say was derailed by Hope, however, as she called, “Bud, look who found me! Hossman is home, baby.”

  Her fingers tightened on his and he wondered if some of the buzz from her wine was falling away, because she seemed much steadier on her feet. A little of the tension left Sammy’s frame, and when Hoss knelt, even more bled away as Hope began leaning into him, fingers idly trailing through his hair. “Hey, Sam,” he said quietly, flicking his gaze to Lucia sitting, a silent witness on the couch, and then back to the boy.

  “You promised.” The whisper was so soft he read the boy’s lips as much as heard the words, and his emotions at that moment had him silent and frozen in place. “You promised, and then you lied. You said the words, said you’d work.” Drawing in a rough, hitching breath, Sammy sighed and then repeated, “You promised no lies.” On a whisper he repeated, “No lies.”

  “And this is me keeping that promise.” Hoss’ voice was low and surprise at his words twisted Hope’s fingers in his hair. “Love you, boy. Love your mom. Love Mama.” He paused, because there was a painful slipping feeling in his chest, like his bones had suddenly gotten three sizes too small, clenching down on his heart. “This is me telling you I didn’t lie, and this is me showing you and Mama I’m here for the long run. Putting in the time, doing the work, making things right. Because I love you both. Can’t live without you, son. Love you both.”

  As he spoke, the pain flashing across the small boy’s face nearly killed him, but by the time his words finished echoing through the room, Sammy had already flung himself at Hoss. The boy’s last steps a flight through the air, landing against Hoss’ chest with a heavy thud. Launched himself, because he knew Hoss would catch him.

  Trust and belief like nothing he had ever experienced, and Hoss found himself happily knocked on his ass in the living room of his home, one arm holding the small boy who had just let him in, and one arm around the hips of the woman who had delivered them both into life.

  ***

  Several hours later, a definitely un-tipsy Hope was curled up beside him in his bed dressed in one of his tees. Feet towards the headboard and eyes on his face, she was resting her cheek on his stomach, barely north of his hips, her hair draping across his thighs.

  Hoss was trying studiously to ignore his hard-on, clearly visible beyond her head as a developing bulge in the sheet covering him to the waist, and painfully present in the throbbing in his cock and balls. Holding her hand in his, he slowly stroked across and down the back of each finger, up over the knuckle and then down the back of the next, methodically moving from pinky to pointer, then back again. He would never again take for granted the ab
ility to touch her, to hold her, to love her.

  He paused for a moment on her ring finger, thinking about Mason’s words to him from a couple of weeks back. ‘I get it now, understand what would pull a man to mark a woman as his own.’ I get it too, he thought, and then dragged his attention back to what Hope was saying.

  Not meeting his eyes, she was trying to explain everything that went through her head over the past three months and more. From her side of the fence, she had struggled with her emotions being all tangled up by having him pay attention to her a few times, and liking that notice from him, wanting to please him, but finding everything broken and torn down by periods of absence in between. No time for trust to build, because he seemed to run so hot and cold.

  Then things had become intense for a few days, with their bike ride and first encounter in the park. The time they spent in his home, making love…then that attention reverting again to nothing at all for weeks, a silence during which she convinced herself that she could never be what he needed. Then he reappeared, and she and Sammy both were installed in his life and house not even forty-eight hours before that door suddenly slammed again. Everything she said pointed at self-doubt and a twisted belief that she wasn’t worthy. At nearly every turn, she was trying to pull the blame blanket high on her shoulders, taking it on herself when he knew the real score.

  “Hope…hush, baby,” he said gently, giving her hand a shake. Clamping her lips closed, she lifted her gaze to meet his, eyes swimming behind unshed tears. Fuck. “You. Did. Nothing. Wrong.” Arching his eyebrows for emphasis, he repeated his words, “Seriously, baby. You didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing.” The look on her face as she turned away ripped through him, and he could see she wasn’t hearing him, couldn’t believe him…so he decided to try a different tact.

  “You love me?” He kept his fingers moving slow and steady over the back of her hand, eyes to her face, so when she cut her gaze up to look at him, he caught and held it. “Hope, baby, do you love me?” She pulled in a quick sobbing breath, and then like silk, her hair moved across his skin as she nodded. “I love you, too.” When she opened her mouth to speak, he cut her off, shaking his head. “That’s the truth, baby.” Gripping her hand a little tighter, he told her, “No lies.”