Part of it was having an internationally dominant club at the event, which had typically been attended by only local clubs in the past. Many of the local riders had been nearly as starstruck as the club whores for the first few days. Starstruck, or afraid. He snorted. You’d think they expected the Rebels to roll in with guns blazing, machetes at their hips, and movie stars riding bitch.
Occupy Yourself finished their current song, and he gripped the edge of his plastic cup in his teeth so he could applaud with the crowd. The band swung into their next number, and he watched as onstage Chase, Mason’s oldest son, stepped forwards to the edge of the platform, put his foot on a monitor, and ripped into a solo that had the crowd roaring approval. Benny, the band’s lead singer and Slate’s baby brother, stood back by the drum kit chugging a bottle of water.
Last night at dinner, Benny had spun stories of the road that had most of the men shaking their heads, recognizing the tough struggle the band still had to retain their hold on the charts and in popularity. Over the years, their bookings had gone from small, intimate bars to arenas, back to bars, and now they were on the upswing again. Part and parcel of a band, because their sound had to morph with the times while riding the edge of familiar to keep the older fans. There was a science to it, and Hoss had watched as Mason and Bethany had chimed in, showing off their expertise in the area, gained in their years of owning a recording company. He snorted. Iron Indian Records, even the name of the business told part of Mason’s history.
Movement from the side pulled his attention and he watched as Blackie, president of the Freed Riders, stalked up to their camp. He was alone, and that pulled at Hoss’ radar, because up to now every time he’d seen the biker, the man’s old lady had been with him, Peaches. Slate and Peaches had a history Hoss didn’t understand, but Blackie didn’t seem bothered by it. If I knew a man who’d been with Cassie before, I’d sooner kill him before I’d shake his hand. He blew out a huff of air at the thought. “Blackie,” he greeted, receiving a nod in response.
“Good crowd.” Blackie’s voice was deep and gravel-filled, but his expression didn’t match the pleased tone of his words. “Nice turnout for your boys.”
“It is. You Texans know how to put on a hella party, my friend.” He grinned and tried on a drawl he’d lost over the years. “Y’all southerners got taste in music ’n friends.”
Blackie flashed a smile at him, white teeth parting a dark beard generously speckled with gray. “Fuck yeah, we do. You’re Alabama, right?” Hoss nodded. “That’ll do.” Blackie turned towards the stage and the men stood, side by side, listening through the next song. Once applause broke out again, Blackie glanced at him. “I got a question.”
“Figured as much.” Hoss waited.
“Duck’s boy, you know him? You seen him around?”
Uh, oh. “A bit ago. You need Eli for somethin’?” Hoss had seen the boy walking through the crowd earlier with his arm around Blackie’s oldest daughter, but as far as he’d known, they’d been a matched pair for years.
“No, need to talk to someone who knows kids.” Blackie stared at him. “Someone who knows about takin’ on a kid that’s not yours.”
Hoss’ stomach rolled and he deliberately unclenched his fists, fighting against the instant aggression flooding his veins. “Gonna stop you right there, Blackie. If you’re talkin’ about Sammy, then you should know by now that he’s mine, full stop. His momma brought him into my life and he’s never walked back out.”
“Yeah, but he wasn’t always your boy. And my question ain’t about you carin’ for him. That’s always been clear as glass that there weren’t no differences between your son and daughter when it came to you. But does he talk about before? Does he have questions?” Blackie’s brow was furrowed and tight, and he frowned when Hoss shook his head. “Never? Fuck.” His chin dipped and he glared at the ground in front of his boots.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” Hoss shrugged. “Maybe I’ll be able to line up some dots for you.”
“My old lady, Peaches…see, our oldest kid isn’t biologically mine. Peaches was preggers when she came back to me, and Randi’s never known anything other than our family, you know?” Hoss nodded. “But she knows, somehow, someone told her last year, and it’s eating her insides out. If I knew who it was, I’d fuckin’ pound ’em, but I don’t, which leaves me dealin’ with the fallout.” He lifted his gaze and stared at Hoss, his expression pained and earnest. “She’s mine, like Sammy’s yours. In my heart and soul there ain’t no difference between her and any of our other kids. Mine were the first hands on her body, and the first arms that held her. She’s always been mine. But now, she’s rockin’ along with this wounded look on her face because she feels less than because it weren’t my spunk that made her.”
“Do you know who it was?” Hoss wouldn’t call whoever the man was Randi’s father, because it was clear to anyone who could see that Blackie filled that role completely.
Blackie shook his head slowly. “No, just some guy who was down here for a job. Rubber had a blowout, and I got Randi out of the deal. He’s back up in fuckin’ Ohio somewhere.”
“What does Randi want? She lookin’ to meet this guy? She wantin’ medical history or something? Or is it just curiosity?” Ohio was a big state, but the Rebels had chapters in every nook and corner of the place, so if there were a name they might have a shot at finding him. “You want help finding him to vet him before she meets him?”
“Fuck if I know. I overheard her quizzin’ Peaches the other night, asking a thousand questions about him. How tall was he, what color eyes, how did he speak, was he nice, did she think I’d like him.” Blackie growled far back in his throat and spit to the side, lifting a hand to rub across his jaw. “It’s tearin’ my old lady up, and that tears me up. The other kids know something’s up, but as far as I know, they don’t have the story.”
“Yet.” Hoss offered him a grim smile. “Kids are kids, and they figure shit out fast. How old is Randi now?”
Blackie’s jaw moved back and forth. “Twenty-five.”
“Late to be finding out something like that.” Blackie nodded. “Sammy knew his sperm donor. Knew all the bad about the man, even before he tried to take my boy away.”
“Fuck, I’d forgotten about that. You had to race down to ’Bama.” Hoss took a breath and nodded sharply, once. “So he had memories, but not a good one in the mix.”
“Yeah. All he ever wanted was someone to take care of his momma like she deserved, and I was lucky enough she picked me.” Hoss swallowed hard, pushing past the familiar pain, surprised when he found it lessened than in the past. “Once I won her, he came fast. When the man was killed in prison, Sammy didn’t flinch, didn’t question. Just said ‘Good’ like it was something he’d been waiting on.”
“You gave him your name?”
Hoss nodded again. “His ask, when he knew I was gonna beg his mom to marry me. He wanted to be mine, too. That’s where my situation is so different from yours. I was blessed with him, like you were Randi, but he picked me and never looked back.”
“She never questioned why her last name was Peaches, and not mine.” Blackie’s head hung, chin dipping towards his chest. “That’d be a big fuckin’ clue right there. She’s mine, but I never put that legal piece to it. Peaches didn’t want to dig up anything on the guy, and she would have had to for me to adopt our girl.”
“It’s not too late.” Hoss shrugged. “You wanna tie a knot in it and keep things from unraveling, you could get the papers together and have her sign ’em.”
“You don’t think twenty-five is too old to be doin’ that?” Blackie looked over at him, head cocked sideways and one brow lifted to his hairline.
“Nope. Not if it settles her soul.” Hoss shook his head. “Never too late to make sure someone knows how much you love ’em.”
Blackie’s gaze swept back to the stage where Chase and Benny had teamed up to sing on a single mic, the music rolling from them as natur
ally as breathing. “You are 100 percent right.” He sighed. “Dude’s a biker, but not in the RWMC. He’s in Celina or Columbus, I’ve heard both.” He cut his eyes back to Hoss with a grimace. “He ain’t a cool dude.”
“What’s that mean, exactly?” Celina was close to three RWMC chapters, Fort Wayne included, and they had a chapter in Columbus. Given the proximity, it wasn’t unreasonable for any of their men to know him, including Hoss. “You got a name then?”
“Yeah. Bedlam. Heard of him?” Hoss froze in place. Blackie eyed his reaction and cursed softly, then said, his voice low and pained, “You know him.”
“Fuck yes. Sayin’ he ain’t a cool dude is like sayin’ the sun is kinda hot. Understatement of the year.” He shook his head. “Jesus. Bedlam’s crazy. Certifiable, you know?” Blackie huffed out a sigh and nodded. Hoss took in the defeated expression settling into place on his face and decided. He pulled out his phone and hit a number. Myron answered. “Need you by the camp, brother. Got a job for ya.” He disconnected and lifted a hand to Blackie, who gripped his wrist tightly. “We’ll pull up papers and, if we need to, if it will settle your woman or girl’s mind, I’ll even have someone pay a personal visit, get those fuckers signed. We’ll get you your girl, Blackie. She doesn’t need to have anything to do with that crazy fucker.”
“Thank you.” The words were heartfelt and Blackie followed them up by pulling Hoss close to pound his back hard with one closed fist. “Thank you.”
“We got you, brother.” Hoss shook his head, brain swimming with the memories of making this same decision for Sammy, and knowing it was the right one. “We got you.”
We got time
Graeme
Standing near the stage, Graeme Nass scanned the crowd, studying all comers with a close eye for troublemakers. This was his role, and he was good at what he did, working the fringes of every event the Freed Riders put on to ensure things went off like his president wanted: smooth and easy. Graeme—also known as Horse—owed Blackie a blood debt he could never repay, but he kept after what was due from him, chipping away at the feelings of obligation little by little.
Tonight, even with the volatile addition of two very dominant and dangerous clubs, things were going surprisingly smoothly. Mason, the Rebel president was in the center on the rail, his old lady propped in front of him. Her arms were up and waving while he anchored her to his body, holding on and keeping her safe from the crush of the people surrounding her. In concentric circles around them, the crowd was studded through with other RWMC stakeholders, officers and leverage members from a dozen chapters. They’d all converged here to this tiny town in Northeast Texas for a benefit rally. Ostensibly, it was because one of the band members was Mason’s son, but Horse knew differently.
He’d finally gotten Blackie to give him the real lowdown this afternoon, just in time to prep for the evening’s festivities. That’s when he’d gotten the full list of who was in town, and why.
Horse stared at Blackie in disbelief. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” Blackie’s head swung back and forth, eyes dancing with the laughter that was never far from his president’s face. “You aren’t kidding.”
“Nope.” Popping the p, Blackie laughed, holding his side as he rocked in place. “Your goddamned face kills me, Horse. Every fuckin’ time. Kills.”
“I wouldn’t get this expression if you weren’t an asshole about shit like this.” Horse sat back on the lightly cushioned bench seat around the table in the RV in which Blackie and Peaches were camping. “Seriously. We’re talking major negotiations happening here, right under everyone’s noses, and you held that shit close to the vest?”
“Fuck yeah, I did.” Blackie’s lip curled and he leaned forwards. “One, we don’t want a fuckin’ war on our hands because of these clubs. We danced through the edges of one years ago, and I do not like looking over my shoulder like that. We do what’s needed for our own shit, sure, but cleaning up like we did? I did not want that in our territory again.”
He studied Blackie’s expression and then sighed deeply, pushing air out with a groaned, “Fuck.” Blackie nodded. “They’re all here, too, aren’t they? Every one of them from that time.”
“Nearly. They’ve had losses, which is another reason I do not want to stir that particular pot.” Blackie reached across and gripped his wrist. Horse turned his arm in the hold, reaching to clasp Blackie’s wrist, too. “We had our own dead to deal with, Horse. We don’t need to take on anyone else’s.”
Still attentive to the shadowed figures along the edges of the crowd, Horse flicked his gaze through the faces and names he knew. Mason and Willa, but back in the day it had been a different woman who occupied that man’s mind. She was here, too, and Mica stood far from the grinding pit of sweaty dancing bodies, leaning her head on the shoulder of a man who looked physically fit, but so well put together Horse wouldn’t expect the man to do anything other than gym routines.
I’d be wrong. He snorted at himself. Daniel Rupert had flown his wife, their two sons, his brother and sister-in-law down in his private jet for the event. Private jet. Rolling his eyes, he studied the couple for another moment. Retired hockey player who still engaged in highly competitive league play, and coached rising star athletes. They weren’t staying on the grounds, thank God. Mica’s family had land only thirty miles away, and Horse had verified that’s where they’d be during down time. Last thing we need is a fight involving citizens.
The RWMC’s international and national president, Fury, rocked and rolled in the pit with his old lady, who happened to be Mason’s little sister. She’d no doubt had a wicked time of it latching herself to a man like him, because Horse assumed Mason hadn’t wanted this for her. Family, they’ll do what they want, every time. Pain from the thought shafted through his chest and he reached up, rubbing his fingertips across the scar just under his collarbone. Fuck family.
Continuing his visual sweep, he marked Duck and his old lady, come in from a western chapter of the RWMC. Horse’s gaze stayed on the man for a long time, marking the scant similarities between this man, a good one by all accounts, and the man Horse had killed all those years ago.
The bull rider stared up at him from the floor of the van, his eyes peaceful as their gazes locked. At least the man was accepting of his fate, not fighting the bonds any longer. They’d picked him up at the Houston fairgrounds, with explicit instructions of how to handle this disposal. It was a coup for the Freed Riders, to be asked for such a marker, and Graeme hadn’t balked at the orders. Not after he’d heard what this piece of filth had done through the years. Serial killers weren’t always who you expected them to be, and a compact, fit, handsome athlete didn’t match the typical stereotype of backwoods loner. Fuck, this guy is scary, he thought, not for the first time.
Turk yelled something from the front of the van and Graeme looked up. By the time he looked back down, the man was writhing on the floor again, mouth chomping on the gag as if he were trying to cut it into two with his teeth.
That had been a watershed moment in his life, a point in time where his morality and beliefs swung freefall over a chasm of doubt, but he’d come out the other side of the crucible stronger than before. Duck’s brother, Ray Nelms, had died in the desert at Horse’s hand, and knowing now what he did, far beyond what had been suspected at the time, Horse still slept easy at night. Does that make me a killer? He sighed. I was a killer. Took his life, but his death was an earned execution.
Cycling his attention back to the stage, he watched the band for another few minutes, then began his visual sweep once more. Marking every known face, and isolating the few he didn’t know for later identification. These were learned skills that he put to use for the club every day. It was what let him sleep at night, and ensured those under his care were safe and protected.
Something moved in the shadows and his gaze paused, settling onto the inky darkness. The outline of a body, an elbow held akimbo from the torso, the glint off something metallic—he was moving w
ithin an instant, racing through the edges of the crowd. Crouching carefully, he slipped past members of a dozen clubs, their wives and children, lovers and families intertwined in the pit. It was a killing ground, too crowded to escape easily, and if there were chaos…
Horse came up against the side of a tent, ruthlessly controlling his breathing to listen intently for the slightest sounds. He heard a click, sounding like coins rubbing together in someone’s pocket, then a muffled curse, then, farther away, a footstep.
By the time he rounded the corner, the dark nook was empty, nothing more than the heavy scent of a man’s cologne to indicate anyone had been present. He swept the ground with his gaze and bent over, picking up a glinting talisman. Horse stared at what he held for a moment, then turned to stare out over the undulating crowd with wide eyes. Blackie caught his attention with a questioning shrug and he jerked his head, calling his president over. A moment later he reached out and placed it in Blackie’s palm.
“What the fuck?” Blackie echoed what had been running through Horse’s mind as they stared at the bright brass cartridge of an unfired bullet.
***
Hoss
Hoss looked around the group gathered on the other side of the fire in the RWMC camp, frowning as he watched the Freed Riders members mingling comfortably with the Rebels. Peaches balanced on one knee, Blackie sat near Truck and Mason, who held their own old ladies close. Hoss leaned forwards and swiped another beer from the nearby cooler. Dammit.
Mason turned his head and gave him a look, then with a pat on Willa’s ass, moved her so he could stand. Stalking around the firepit until he was close enough to grab his own beer, he stood with an arm crossed over his chest, bottle to his lips for a long drink.
“What the fuck’s up your ass?” Low, pitched for Hoss’ ears only, Mason’s growled words yanked Hoss’ spine straight. “You been scowling all goddamned night, and I’m not quite sure what’s eatin’ at you, but you needa fix it now. Willa’s worried about you.”
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