“Daddy!” Dolly wriggled free of Willa’s grasp and darted towards him. Mason lifted her, tossing her in the air once, then bringing her down for a hug before setting her feet on the floor. “Momma’s makin’ me pretty.”
“You’re already pretty, baby girl.” He rested a hand on top of her head. “She’s just polishing the raw beauty to a shine.”
Grinning at her mother, Dolly ordered with her own slice of “don’t fuck with me” attitude, “Shine me, Momma!”
Rolling her eyes, Willa didn’t have to say a word. He read her “see what you started” look and laughed. “Hey, babe. You gals nearly done in here? I’m gonna go out back and get the grill started.” There were a half a dozen Rebels coming tonight, all past and present officers in the Fort Wayne chapter, celebrating a couple of birthdays. Faith Inez was seven, only a few weeks younger than his and Willa’s Garrett, and having a joint celebration had become something of a tradition. In the beginning, it was more that the women worried Faynez, as her brother Sammy called her, wouldn’t have enough of a female influence if they didn’t stake their claim. Now, the party was just what they did.
“Yeah.” The tip of Willa’s tongue had escaped the corner of her mouth, an aid in her concentration to try and corral Dolly’s mass of curly hair. They weren’t certain where the girl had gotten her hair from, but it was uniquely Dolly, as unruly as the child could be. “In a minute.” The band snapped, flipping out of her fingers and she shook her head. “Dang it. A minute more than the last minute I talked about, then.”
She was still muttering as he made his way back down the hallway and back to the living room. The roar of pipes led him to the windows, and he looked out to see about three dozen bikes parking on both sides of the road. They were a mix of traditional and sport bike models, and he shook his head, yelling an answer to Willa before she even finished asking who it was. “Chase made it home. Looks like he brought a few friends over.” She’d see the numbers as soon as she came out, and that would be soon enough to worry about ordering pizza for the boys. Men, he corrected himself. Chase was nearly twenty-five and had carried that title for a long time now.
Need that boy to settle down. His oldest son hadn’t yet found his niche, trying his hand at a dozen things and doing well at all of them, but not sticking with anything. Except the music, he mused. Chase still played with Slate’s brother, Benny.
It wasn’t long before the backyard filled up, men sitting or standing as was their wont, women traveling back and forth between the house and tables outside. The kids were running rampant, a roiling mess of shrieks and scraped knees, dirty hands and wide grins. Mason was holding his second beer, having surrendered the grill to Chase who had promised him dibs on the first burger. He was talking to Fury, ironing out a shift in protocol the man wanted to put into place when Jase and Hoss walked up.
Grinning broadly, Jase elbowed him hard, catching him on the ribs. “Ow, motherfucker. What the hell?”
“Check it out, man.” He lifted his chin, pointing towards the house. “Hoss, did you see?”
“What?” Hoss and Mason asked at the same time, turning to look through the sliding glass doors and into the living room.
Mason froze, staring at the scene in disbelief. Faynez had a napkin or something pinned to the top of her head. Standing nearby and holding up what looked like a sheet knotted around her waist were Dolly and either Hayley or Kayley—Slate’s youngest set of twins were hard to tell apart on a good day, much less from twenty feet away. Faynez was solemnly marching towards where Gar stood next to Graham Williamson, Deke’s boy.
“Are they…?” Hoss’ voice trailed off.
“It looks like they are.” Fury’s laughter was scarcely contained. “Hey, Mason. Didn’t you call this wedding back when the kids were still in diapers? I’ve heard stories.’
In that moment, Mason was struck by how beautiful Faynez was, and would be, and how handsome his son would become. He looked at all the kids with fresh eyes, seeing in the hurtling bodies around them the wealth of experiences to come. This right here is where the future begins. We’ve been holding it in the palm of our hands for a long time.
“My boy looks good next to your girl,” he said to Hoss, keeping his tone offhand. “Kids might be onto something, man.”
The kids had lined up in front of Slate’s boy Allen, who was only a year older than Garrett, but already half a foot taller. Without taking his eyes off the evolving scene, Hoss responded, his words careful, tone reverent. “That’s beautiful.”
“Yeah, it really is.” Mason reached up, gripping Hoss’ shoulder with one hand. “Pretty as a picture.”
The end (of this story)
Cassie
Rebel Wayfarers MC
Book #12
MariaLisa deMora
Edited by Hot Tree Editing
Cover image by Eric Battershell Photography
Models: Kaitlin and Burton Hughes
Cover design: Debera Kuntz
Copyright © 2015-2018 MariaLisa deMora
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
First Published 2018
DEDICATION
It isn’t the date on either end that counts, but how they used the dash. For that dash between the dates represents all the time they spent alive on earth. And now only those who loved them know what that little line is worth. – Unknown, tombstone epitaph
For every reader who demanded a better ending for our own Isaiah Rogers, and for Hoss, who deserved more.
Contents
The artist
The art lover
Cassie’s walls
Bring out his happy
Ask for Tugboat
Every day is easier
Want that for you
You with me?
Check yes or no
One breath at a time
That’s who I am
Tell me
So fucking brave
Show me
About damn time
Took her from me
Rebels forever
Start with hello
Kids are kids
We got time
Extended family
Someone has her
I’m not waiting
We need to believe
Come home to me
Something to watch
Better than okay
Thank you
More from MariaLisa deMora
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
How do you thank everyone involved in helping create a saga that has spanned four real-life years, more than two million words, and included nearly two dozen titles?
With love. So much love.
Thank you to my family and friends, who have been infinitely tolerant of me. Endless requests to “just read this one chapter,” an endless number of variations on “what do you think of this idea,” and of course, the pre-launch freakouts which inevitably included at least one “oh, God, my words are shit and I shouldn’t inflict them on the world anymore.” You’ve been there during those moments of excitement when the characters came through so strongly, and listened during the times when these assholes were pissing me right the fuck off.
It’s no secret to me that as I channeled these men and women in the RWMC how often I took on bits from the least likable characteristics of their personalities, so I apologize for a few of them. Maybe even most of them …
Thank you to Kay, Brenda, Jesse, and Hollie, and my co-workers and friends who dealt with the in-person pieces of my crazy obsession most often. Extra-special thanks to Kay, who has accompanied me on so many road trips to signing ev
ents, helping keep me sane when all I wanted to do was run far, far away.
Thank you to the folks at Hot Tree Editing, for taking a chance on working with a new author and sticking with me. Becky Johnson, you are amazing. Kayla Robichaux, it all started with you, honey. The HTE beta readers and final editors have helped polish this book with the same intensity and enthusiasm as the first. Thank you so much. You’ve never, ever let me put forth less than 100% effort, and I appreciate how you push for excellence in all ways.
Kristen, Jamey, Kori, Kelsi, Megan—I could never ask for better critique readers than you. You’ve been willing to take on the rawest form of the books and look past my grievous grammatical mistakes to the heart of the story. Oh, the questions I’ve asked, and you’ve gracefully answered. MirandaPanda, you of the steady voice, thank you for everything. Thank you all.
My indie author friends, Lila Rose and Kathleen Kelly, you ladies have given me such a gift and I will forever treasure it. You’re always willing to talk plot and character, to dissect aspects of the business that frustrate, and I love you for sharing your wisdom so freely. You are my idols, and I adore you.
When I talk about photographers, models, and cover artists, I like to say I’ve been blessed to work with some of the best in the business. Only because it’s true! Professional and gracious, creative and capable of producing stunning work every time you step into your role.
To the bikers and riders, my brothers and wind sisters. The OGs who called it like they saw it, who gave me shit when I got things wrong, who bought me a shot when I needed lifting up. These deep connections span states and nations, and believe me when I say your support means everything to me. You’ve welcomed me into your clubhouses, and homes, added me to family dinners without hesitation, taken me to the range and the mountains, pushed me to be better—and in some cases worse (in the best of ways). You know how I feel, and so does the world. So much honor, loyalty, respect, and love. Always love. I believe in the brotherhood you share, because you’ve shared it with me.
Readers, ah God, my readers are the best. Demanding and mouthy or quiet and loyal, it matters not, because you all count so very much. I write the stories for me, but you push me to plot more effectively, plan farther, scheme better, and publish often.
You’ve driven books forwards with your words and connections, by texting and messaging me directly, by emailing and talking to me at events, by making me laugh with your suggestions, and weep with your reactions. By making me love each of you. By turning from readers into friends who I cherish.
Readers like Dyana, who sent a message about wishing I was at a hockey game and sparked a flurry of writing. “I wish you was at my game tonight,” helped add more than 30,000 words to this story, all from ideas derived from that single line of text.
Readers who joined in on my silly games, such as “Name a villain,” where the entry by Patricia Blair gave us Bedlam. And the entry by Sheri Secord gave us Drago, and you’ll learn more about those names between the covers of this book.
This book. Oh, this book. There’s never been another story that I circled back to as often—out, around, then out and back again—as I have this one. This specific story was begun immediately upon finishing writing of Hoss, three years ago. I put down and picked back up the manuscript nearly a dozen times through that span, adding to the story as inspiration struck and characters demanded.
The main character in this story is, of course, Cassie. But her love interest and leading man has already appeared as the main character in a titled book in the series.
I desperately wanted to honor the previous book in all aspects of this one. I hope it’s the better for the time spent crafting it.
I’ve cried and laughed, thrown things, leaned on the kitchen counter crying, and alternated wishing for tequila with regretting the decisions of the night before. I spent the better part of a road trip rolling storylines around in my head, talking to myself (and Mason), and have dreamed more dreams about this story than I care to count. I’ve infused much of my heart into this story, and at times the characters feel too close to true, because the difficulties they struggle with cut me to the bone. I’ve done my part, put in my time, and written from the heart.
And now, it’s down to you. My faithful readers. I hope you enjoy Cassie, or as I titled it for a long time—Hoss 2.0.
This book is an ending, that is true.
But, here’s the advice I’m giving myself: Don’t be sad that the series is coming to a close. Be glad that these characters, these men and women we’ve come to love so much, agreed to be part of our lives for so long, and with such a lasting impression. They’ve been central to my world for years now, it’s impossible to imagine things without my boys all around in my head. But, they’ve been telling me it’s the right time for a while now, and I trust the characters. They’ve given us every story, and never steered me wrong.
Personally, I’m holding out hope they’ll come visit again somewhere down the road.
Woofully yours,
~ML
The artist
Hoss
He stood and watched the ebb and flow of the throng as they moved through the small gallery, drifting in predictable patterns around and through where the pieces were displayed on the walls. The worn black leather of his vest rode lightly on his shoulders as he leaned against the wall nearest the back entrance. It was crowded, but not to the point he felt uncomfortable. All these folks are here to see me, after all. Hoss scoffed, keeping the rude noise far back in his throat. Quiet, for his ears only. These law-abiding citizens didn’t need to know how he felt about them.
Art-seeking crowds in Fort Wayne generally fit into distinct types, and he was mentally categorizing the folks he could see into one of three. The first was yuppyish but with a more forward-leaning Midwest attitude. Another was the “oh, look who I know” set, where the more popular the artist, the more likely it would be they’d want a selfie with them. The third group—and God, he loved ‘em for it—was here only for the art, suffering through shoulder bumps and those little huffs of annoyance directed their direction when they stayed too long in front of a piece, interrupting the movement of the crowd who sashayed around on the see-and-be-seen route through a showing.
We have a definite art lover in the house tonight.
The corners of his mouth curled up in a grin. The woman was his favorite kind of people. She’d stayed down here amidst the paintings all evening, which was unlike the rest of the patrons who had come in and done their prescribed circuit as quickly as was acceptable, then moved their asses up to the roof with ticket in hand for a comped glass of wine, staying for the cash bar and ongoing party. Not this chick.
His only frustration was that even though he’d tried—and he had, putting significant effort into it in between pumping handshakes with the potential buyers his agent steered his direction—still, throughout the night he’d only been able to catch glimpses of her from behind as she faced the artwork. He’d watched as she hung out in front of each piece for long minutes, her study of the art intense. Ignoring everyone around her, she’d even politely turned down a drink offered by a well-attired man, a good-looking banker Hoss knew.
Currently, she was parked in front of a commission he’d done for a local writer. It was a stark watercolor of a weathered barn isolated by a snowscape. Not one of his personal favorites, but he felt it captured the author’s grief after the death of his partner, and the woman seemed to appreciate it. It’s always cool to find someone who digs my shit like this.
Other attendees came and went, the regulars approaching him for a few congratulatory words. There’d been several times he’d momentarily lost sight of her, like now, and the absence set up an uneasy reverberation in his chest, his heart speeding up in response. She wasn’t tall, so once the latest group of interruptions moved on after their photo op with him, it took a few moments of him scanning through the guests scattered around the space, but he found her finally. She’d moved on from the
watercolor and was now planted in front of a more recently finished piece. Hoss watched with interest as her head tipped back and forth while she took in the detailed painting. Her body posture changed with the emotion evoked by the piece which made her every movement fascinating.
Glancing around, he identified a better vantage point and casually changed position, moving down to a different section. From his new location, he could finally see more than the back of her head.
She’s downright pretty.
Her bright hair was carelessly pinned up in a messy bun, and having it pulled away from her face revealed the lines of a strong jaw. Her soft cheek was exposed to his gaze, and he saw it crease into an unselfconscious smile again and again as she discovered pleasing nuances within his artwork. Wonder if she knows who I am? His gut tightened at the thought of meeting her, but not in a bad way. She’s really fuckin’ pretty. He surprised himself with his next thought, because women in general weren’t on his radar and hadn’t been for a long time. Something about her drew him, though. I wouldn’t mind getting to know her. Hoss let his imagination run free, constructing a scenario where he approached and chatted with her, laughing.
I could open with a lame line like, “Come here often?” She might respond with a smartass remark of, “Less often before now.” Maybe I’ll ask her opinion, “What do you think of this one?” Lifting an arm, pointing, letting my hand graze the back of hers by chance as mine fell while hers lifted in a gesture. Casual caress of skin on skin. I could fake nonchalance. Would there be a spark? A connection? If I set myself to dig into her response, I might ferret out the why behind the words. What if…I just might like what I find? What if I let myself follow this thread that’s pulling me towards her?
Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 4 Page 64