In Search of Solace (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  “I’m so glad.” Vanna’s voice vibrated with emotion. “So glad she’s got you, that fate saw fit to cast your paths together.”

  “Sounds trite, but I am, too. She’s burrowed deep, Vanna Mom. Under my skin and into my heart, and I do not want to ever lose an inch of what she’s giving me.” Fiddling with the helmet straps, he considered his next words, finally deciding to go with what felt right. “She’s mine, you know what I mean?”

  “I do know that feeling. That ‘I’d do anything for this person because they’re my other half’ sense that bends reality so you can see into the heart and soul of your mate. Best feeling in the world, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it really is.” He took a breath, wondering why this felt like facing down the parents back in his teenaged years. “We’ll be sharing a room.”

  Vanna laughed. “Goes without saying, honey.” There was the briefest of pauses, then she asked, “She decided what she’s going to do with the baby yet?”

  And her question was like a velvet-gloved haymaker punch to the belly, knocking all the air from his lungs, the reminder that what he’d hoped for might be mist in the wind. He straightened on the seat, boots thudding against the ground. “Not for sure. We’ve talked about only one outcome, though. Every conversation aims at nine months down the road, if you know what I mean?”

  “Might be she’s made her decision but doesn’t know how to tell you, then, son.” A door closed in the background, and the noise of the family came back loud, making him realize Vanna had taken the phone outside for privacy during their call. Just another way this woman takes care of the people she likes. He wouldn’t count himself in Vanna’s inner circle yet, but Myrt was, so it made sense from that angle. “Might be you should tell her what you’re thinking without her prompting, so she knows it’s from you, and not a reflection of her emotions and hopes.”

  “Might be you’re a wise woman, Vanna Mom.”

  She laughed then, and he caught the sound of a deep bass rumble and knew Truck was nearby. “Might be I am, Will Crow. Might be I am. Travel safely, you hear me? We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh, hold on, Truck wants to speak to you.”

  He had to wait only a moment before the man came on the line. “Bane, road treatin’ you kindly?” The noise decreased again, and he knew whatever Truck wanted to say, it would likely dip into official business.

  “Yeah, it’s nice havin’ my ole lady wrapped around me on a long run.” He chuckled. “What’s with the round-robin phone call?”

  “Mason wanted me to have a word.”

  Bane leaned back, missing the heat and solid feel of Myrt at his back, kicking one foot back up on the highway bars. “Did he now?”

  “Ayeap. He and Blackie have a couple of ideas, but he wanted me to feel you out just a hair on where you saw this goin’ with Myrt. I know what Gunny passed along, but I’d like to hear it from the horse’s mouth myself.”

  Tipping his chin up, he studied the fading contrails of jets passed overhead long ago, these faint traces evidence that something, someone, had been this way. They crisscrossed in ways he knew weren’t representative of the true paths of the planes. More passing glances at a distance than a true joining of forces.

  Much like the posturing of the two men who waxed powerful in his world. Blackie, not wanting to lose a lieutenant after putting the time into training Bane the right way of doing things; and Mason, the acquisitive eyeing of his friends’ and neighbors’ patches passing into a fact of life as he angled to make his own family even more formidable.

  “Do I want to patch over from the Freed Riders to the Rebels? That’s the crux of it all, ain’t it, Truck? Not if me and Myrt are gonna stick around, but if I’d be willing to drop my colors and pick up a different cover? Those are the questions you won’t ask but need to.” Huffing out a laugh, he caught himself scowling at the sky, those contrails still overlapping each other. “Let me guess. Mason wants a straight patchover. With me moving out of region, that one makes the most sense. But I bet Blackie is digging deep, because Mason done dropped the note about lookin’ at the Iron Riggers, and him plannin’ on catching them in one cast of the wide Rebel net. Am I close? Do I win a prize?”

  “Not even in consolation prize territory.” The light tone Truck adopted said whatever Bane had gotten wrong, it wasn’t offensive. “Nice fiction write-up, though. You might have a career in Hollywood if this biker thing don’t pan out for you.” He laughed, a soft guffaw that held no heat. “Mason’s here tonight, you’re here tomorrow; I should just let him lay it out for you.”

  “Don’t do that shit to me, old man. You know my tender sensibilities. I won’t be able to stand the strain of wondering and worrying.”

  Bane liked the easy comfort he’d found with Gunny and Truck, a different kind of relationship than he had with Blackie or even Horse. The latter were men he needed to keep impressing, keep making happy with his performance, keep on his side in the club squabbles that happened. The RWMC guys so far had been men he could see letting loose with, having a few beers without worrying about how his mouth could get him in trouble.

  “Yeah, wouldn’t want you distracted and shit. You’re carrying precious cargo.”

  “That I am, so give it over. Tell me the grand master plan.” He sat forwards, resettling both feet to the ground. “Give it to me straight, yeah?”

  “As the crow flies.” Now Truck was laughing at his play on words and Bane groaned. “Seriously, nobody wants you to patch over, least of all Blackie. He’s nearly foamin’ at the mouth at the idea of losin’ you to another club, even one as formidable as the RWMC.” Well hell, that felt good to hear, pushing Bane’s chest out proudly. “Mason wants you in the area, and not only because Vanna wants to keep her hands on the girl—which my old lady does, she’s following Blackie’s lead with the frothing, hers at the idea of havin’ a baby in the house. Sharon’s kids come to visit often, but for short stretches, which means she missed out on a lot of the baby stuff.” Truck cleared his throat, and Bane wished for a video call so he could watch the man try to get back on track. “Anyway, Blackie’s against the idea of a patchover, Mason’s in favor of it but has offered an alternative everyone’s expressed interest in. Now we just need to know if you’re gonna hang around here, or if Texas has a bigger draw for you.”

  “I’m with Myrt, wherever that leads us. We’ve got her brothers and sister to watch over, too, so wherever we land, we’re going to need lots of support for a while.” He knew it wasn’t an answer, per se, so he pushed ahead. “She’s fond of Vanna. Fond and then some, honestly. I think Vanna Mom’s her touchstone, that person in her life who’ll keep her grounded and feelin’ capable. Havin’ someone believe in you is a powerful thing, and your ole lady’s made no bones about her feelings. I see us finding a place there near you and hanging around, for sure. So what’s the idea? You’re killin’ me here.”

  “You know the Iron Riggers.”

  Bane’s head jerked, surprise flooding through him. “I do. I’ve got a real good relationship with those boys.”

  “Blackie’s against the idea of RWMC takin’ IRMC under their wing, doesn’t like the thought of our full shadow falling on that part of Texas, where he calls home. But he’s less aggravated by the idea of putting a shoulder patch on ’em, making them a major support club.”

  “Back or front shoulder?” He shook his head. “Not a kidney patch, you sure?” Support patch placement mattered. A shoulder patch meant independent but supporting. If it was a front patch, it meant they were leading the way with finding other support clubs, left them open for downstream officers to approach with questions. It was a big signal for other clubs that there was a wealth of brothers at their back, ready to take up any fight on their behalf. A back shoulder meant a club was settled into their role, trusted but not lookin’ for the club, meant they supported but weren’t in line for consideration with anything from the dominant club. A front kidney patch meant low
-ball support, typically came with high dues and was considered almost a bought-patch, frowned upon. He’d never seen an RWMC support patch positioned there, so didn’t expect they’d start now. “Sorry, man, was surprised at the shift. Didn’t expect Mason would back down.”

  “Well now, we don’t see it as backin’ down.” We, not he. Truck’s wholly on board with whatever this is. “Not at all. It’s a considered sidestep with an eye on the eventual prize.” Noise swelled in the background, and Gunny called for Truck. The man shifted the phone away from his mouth and called back, “I’m tryin’ to, if you’d leave me alone for a half a fuckin’ second, brother.” He huffed out a laugh, then continued at a lower volume. “Asshole’s downright excited about the idea. Seems you found a champion in Gunny.”

  “He’s a good man, a good brother. I’m glad I had him at my back through all of this.” Every word was true, and he hoped his depth of feeling rang through.

  “That he is, and it didn’t sound a hardship for him to be around you, which is high praise from Gunny. He don’t trust easy.” There was a pause, only a few beats, but enough to put brackets around whatever was coming next. By now Bane had an idea but didn’t want to voice it in case he was wrong. “But, back to the matter at hand.” Truck’s voice had dropped an octave, adding an air of solemnity to his words. “Mason wants to think about startin’ a new Iron Riggers chapter here. The idea would be to grow it over the course of a year or more, get a good base, get it stable, and then when he and Blackie are ready, they’ll flip all the IRMC chapters at the same time. Oklahoma, Texas, and Florida.”

  “When Blackie’s ready? What does that mean?” The phrase felt portentous, and he wanted to shine a light on what the words might mean.

  “To bring his Freed Riders into the fold, too.” Truck had a muttered conversation with Gunny, phone muffled in a way Bane couldn’t make out any of the words. “You’ll need to talk to Mason about your backstory. And then he’ll have a tale to tell, but that’s not for me. So give it a think while you’re finishin’ the trip tomorrow. Give it a think and come to a decision on what you’ll want to do. I don’t think Blackie would give permission for a patchover, which would mean a beatout on his end. Of course, if you’re denied, it’s not definite you’d get a skull and key, because RWMC has to maintain a relationship with the Riders. You’re between a rock and a hard spot, that’s a fact, and you’ll have to find your way clear of the battleground.”

  “Sounds like my decision’s been made for me. I gotta accept the rook to queen move Mason’s playin’.” The idea he’d have no say in what happened wasn’t sitting well, but the alternative wasn’t good, either. He couldn’t ask Myrt to leave the only friend she had in the world, not when she was pregnant, newly freed from a brutal brand of slavery, just rescued her sister and brothers, and was startin’ a relationship with a man like him. None of that shit was fair, it simply was, and it was up to him to make sure he smoothed her road as much as he could. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Truck. We’ll have a sit-down with Mason.”

  “And Blackie.” Truck paused a beat. “He’s bringin’ enough men with him to deal with the beatout, if that’s the route taken.”

  “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” He pulled in a measured breath, trying to ratchet back his anger. His single shout had a family across the way huddling closer together, shying away from even looking at him. Shit. “Never mind. I’ll give him a call, see what’s on his agenda so I know what he expects from me.”

  “And that right there is what makes you such a valuable member. You won’t tell him what you want, not unless he asks and digs a little. But the club? That’s your first priority and thought. That’s why it’s gonna kill him to lose you. Shifting to the support club might seem like a demotion, but it ain’t. Gonna need somebody as charter president, might as well be you. I think you’ll be surprised at the members you’ll have flockin’ to your side.” Truck’s voice became quick and strident, full of business. “Now, you think on what we’ve talked about, and we’ll hear your decision tomorrow. Ride safe, brother.”

  Bane didn’t give him a signoff, simply terminated the call. He sat there, tossing the phone lightly in his hand, flipping it back to front and back again. Charter president, responsible for rolling up a brand-new chapter. Not something he’d ever aspired to. The phone landed face up again, and he tapped a speed dial, listening to it ring. Voicemail picked up, and he listened to Blackie’s recorded voice. “You got me in the middle of some shit or something. If this is who I think it is, then yeah, the old man has the right of it, but you gonna hafta earn it. Won’t mean anythin’, not a damn thing, if you don’t.” There was no invitation to leave a message, and the call terminated immediately after the recording cut off.

  “Shit.” Shoving his phone deep into his pocket, he grabbed the helmet and strapped it on. The bike roared to life underneath him, and he took a minute to appreciate the machine. It was everything he would want in a bike, plenty of power in the large engine well balanced between his legs, had ample room in the side bags for his and Myrt’s shit, and the back seat was fit for his queen. Rolling the throttle as he let off the clutch, he angled out of the parking lot and towards the grocery store he’d seen a few blocks away. After the last conversation, he needed more than convenience store beef jerky and cheap beer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bane

  Rolling to a stop in front of Truck’s house, Bane took inventory of the bikes and other vehicles scattered throughout the drive and yard, and along the ditches in the narrow road. From the various tank paint jobs, he saw at least four separate patches represented, only one of which surprised him.

  Then Luke and Thad were first through the door, with Marian and a flood of men and women and kids pouring out behind them. He killed the engine and settled the kickstand at the same time he reached a hand over his shoulder, steadying Myrt as she climbed off the bike. He fought back a grin as she hobbled towards the boys, fumbling with her helmet as her run towards her brothers looked more like someone on the chain gang than a woman scarcely in her twenties. She might be sore as hell, but he hadn’t heard a single peep of discomfort from her, even as he saw the pain building with each stop along the way.

  We’re here now, and hopefully even with all the extra guests, we’ll be able to stop movin’ for a time.

  Bane stepped off the bike and stretched, arms over his head before opening them wide to greet Blackie with a hard hug complete with rib-breaking pounding across their patches. The man looked good, rested and fresh—not as if he’d ridden his own ten-hour day to get here. Of course that ride had been yesterday, so the man would have had a few hours to rest up. Scanning the crowd behind Blackie, Bane spotted Peaches and grinned. He should have known the man wouldn’t come visit Vanna without bringing his ole lady. Those two women were fast friends, and the stories about the shenanigans they’d gotten up to together were inspiring.

  “Brother.” Blackie stopped thudding his closed fist against Bane’s spine and pulled back enough to stare into his face. There was fondness there, but a deep regret, as if he knew the decision was already made. “Heard about the issue management you engineered in Kentucky. Well done, my man. Well done.”

  “Meh, fire’s a great equalizer.”

  “That it is, my brother. That it is.” Blackie stepped to the side but kept his arm weighing heavily across Bane’s shoulders. “I think you know all the players, but as you’re my man in this scenario, it behooves me to ensure you’re up to speed.”

  “Lead on, brother.” Myrt paused at the top of the steps and turned to look at him. Bane gave her a grin and a chin lift, making a shooing motion with his hand. She smiled and blew him a kiss, the tips of her fingers lingering on her lips as if she were imagining something else. “Hold on, actually. Lemme give my ole lady a heads-up on my next few hours.” Blackie’s fingers tightened around the edge of his vest, and Bane turned to look at him, holding a finger up to keep Myrt in place. “What’s that about, brother?”


  “It’s good to see you latched on to something, and to know your something is sweet as pie. To realize my brother’s found his reason, and see the reason returned to him.” Blackie pretended to wipe his eyes. “Brings a tear or two, see?”

  “Oh, fuck you.” Bane shoved him to the side and trotted towards the house. Myrt came back down a couple of steps to meet him near the bottom, and her arms circled him as soon as he was in reach. Bane wrapped an arm around her, lifting his other hand to cradle her cheek. “I’ve got some business to tend to, baby. I’ll be inside soon as I can. Leave your bag, I’ll bring it in when I come. Just find a place to sit and put your feet up, yeah?”

  “Okay.”

  He captured her hand and lifted her fingers to his lips, then quirked a grin at her. “These had something that belonged to me.” He kissed her fingertips again, then sucked them into his mouth. “Had to come and retrieve it, doncha know?” She leaned her cheek against his chest, and he brought their joined hands up to fold together over his heart, swaying in place. “You okay, baby?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “You gonna find a quiet place to rest for a bit, until I come back to you?”

  “Yeah, I can do that.” She sighed and leaned against him more, fingers nervously tight around his.

  “I love you, you know that?” Bane stroked up her back to wrap his fingers around the tie holding her braid in place. He tugged and her neck bent backwards, chin lifting so he could capture her mouth with his, and he kissed her until some of the men in the yard catcalled. When Bane pulled back, he saw not only were her lips kiss-swollen and red as cherries but her cheeks had turned every shade of the gorgeous blush he loved so much. “Be back soon, baby. Let’s get you comfy, yeah?” He scooped her up and took the steps two at a time, letting her wrestle with the door so he could carry her through. Depositing her in the kitchen, he nodded to the women standing and sitting around. “Pregnant lady here, sore from nearly a thousand miles on the bike. Got a place for her to sit a spell?”