In Search of Solace (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Pulling in a deep breath, Bane turned to face his friend and president, waiting.

  Blackie grinned at him, an expression that came easily to the man. “My old lady musta had an idea about what’d go down. She packed not only IRMC patches, but FRMC ones, too.” He shoved out a fistful of fabric towards Bane. “Here.”

  Bane accepted them, the weight of the patches somehow more than it should be. Profound moment, he thought, turning to the two men standing shoulder to shoulder on the bottom step. “You two get official permission, brothers?” Both nodded, the lines of their faces strained. Bane couldn’t imagine giving up his patch, and he hadn’t worn it nearly as long as these men had. “Mason, what say you to these men asking to step out from under the skull and key, taking off the colors of the Rebel Wayfarers?”

  “I say aye. Pained and reluctant, but an aye from me.” Mason took out a pocketknife and studied it for a moment, then gripped the blade and flung the handle away from the tang. He leaned over and handed the opened knife to Gunny, who accepted it with a scowl.

  Bane felt a twist in his chest. “Brother, if you aren’t—”

  “Sharon and I have already put down on a house butting up against your property. We’ll be neighbors, brother.” Gunny shrugged out of his vest and started at the front, using the tip of the blade to pick at the threads holding on his officer patch. “Just across the creek from you and Truck seemed to be a good place to start. We’re gonna be in each other’s pockets from the get-go, and this”—he arrowed a glance up at Mason, then over to Bane—“is something that’s been comin’ a while. Had my time in the north, but this southern boy has been missin’ his roots.” He tipped his head to Truck. “This reprobate shacked up with my old lady’s adopted mom, so it’s an ask to leave the RWMC, but it’s no ask at all for me to be here for him and you.” His hands turned the leather over, still taking care as he removed the top and bottom rockers. “We all know the plans, anyway. Couple of years, three at the outside, I’ll be sewing these damn things right back on. Gonna keep ’em for me, right, boss?” Gunny stood and passed the blade to Truck, then handed the worn and dirty patches to Mason. “Be a shame to have to break in new ones.”

  “I’ll keep hold of them, sure.” Mason folded his arms across his chest, jaw tight as he watched Truck begin the same process. “Different charters, hell, different clubs, you two are still fuckin’ mine. No way around how that feels. I’ll hold them for you, brother. I’ll hold them.”

  Truck worked silently, bottom lip folded between his teeth as he snipped the threads around the edges of his patches, just as road worn as Gunny’s had been. When finished, he made a show of closing the pocketknife and handing it back to Mason before turning to look at the men behind them. The crowd had grown silent and still, the only sounds from the kids off in the field playing, light laughter from a distance, while an air of solemnity lay heavily on these men. “What you see here isn’t the end of an era.” Truck propped a foot on a higher step, stretching to hand his patches to Mason. He nodded at Bane, then settled back on the bottom step. “It’s the beginning of a new one. The king is dead—” He chuckled, and then Gunny joined in on the next line. “—long live the king.”

  Bane studied the distance between them and made a decision, taking his time walking down the steps to stand between the two men. He turned to Truck first, holding out the main back patch and top rocker. “Bottoms will be in soon, so I’m told.” In one fist he offered the officer patch, holding it when Truck would have taken it from him. “I’ve known you a while, old man. Trust you with my life, and you know it. Would you step up and be my second on this ride we’re takin’? Can I depend on you to be my sounding board, my conscience, my right hand?” Truck nodded and Bane released the patch, turning immediately to Gunny.

  Arms wrapped around him and lifted him off his feet. He dangled there a moment, then dropped his head to Gunny’s shoulder and laughed. “Put me down, you bastard.”

  Retro hooted, and called, “He’s no Bastard, he’s a Rider.”

  “Hell yeah, I’m a Rider, fuck yes.” Gunny set him down, leaning back laughing as Bane slugged his shoulder. “Okay, okay. Let’s do this.”

  “I’m fuckin’ tryin’, man.” Bane cut his gaze up at Mason, who was grinning down at him. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”

  “Not sayin’ anything one way or the other, man.” Mason’s head shook side to side slowly, his laughter still spilling out.

  “Gunny,” Bane snapped, and stared at the man who’d become his good friend in the space of a few days. Forged in fire. “You strike me as a think-everything-through kinda guy, one who’d talk first and react second, and even though I’m fuckin’ lyin’ through my teeth right now, we’re gonna roll with it. Wanna be my enforcer and stand at my back as my SAA?”

  “Hell yeah!” Gunny snatched the patches from his hands, cradling them against his chest with a crow. “Hell yeah.”

  A truck rolled up the road, slowing and turning in the drive as Bane and the rest of the crowd turned to look. Pulling a livestock trailer, the driver angled around the vehicles already parked to find a level space. The man who swung out was a surprise, and Bane cursed as he recognized him.

  “What’s Heames Junior doing here?”

  “Delivering our club mascot.” Gunny stalked to Sharon and wrapped an arm around her, bending her backwards with a kiss. “Hold this for me, sweetness.” He shoved his vest and the loose patches into her hands, turned and walked to where the Kentucky lawman was standing staring at all the silent glares aimed his way. Gunny approached, stuck out a hand and shook, which had Mason muttering, “The fuck is he up to now.”

  A distinct sound split the air, and Bane turned to stare at Myrt, finding her looking just as surprised as he was. “Hey, Gunny,” he called, catching the man’s attention as the gate of the trailer swung out and down, creating a ramp. “What the hell you talkin’ about, mascot?”

  Heames disappeared from view only to reappear with the end of a lead rope in his hands. He passed the rope to Gunny and stood at the top of the ramp, apparently waiting on whatever was going to happen next.

  “Club mascot, Prez.” Gunny pulled steadily on the rope, backing down the ramp. Putting one dainty hoof in front of the other, a gray donkey came into view. “People always callin’ me a jackass, figured we might as well have one around.”

  “Uh, that’s a donkey, not a jackass.” Bane looked up at Mason again and caught him grinning. “Swear to God, you did this on purpose.”

  “He’s yours now.” Mason threw up his hands. “Every good leader needs one immediate problem to solve.”

  “And Gunny’s mine?”

  “No, man, the donkey is.”

  “I’m gonna call him Randy.” Gunny looped the rope around the corner post of the porch, the donkey standing placidly behind him, one hip cocked in an easy stance. “Seems fitting.”

  “Why, pray tell, does naming a donkey Randy seem fitting?” Bane motioned Myrt to him and wrapped an arm around her neck, then pulled her close as he dropped a kiss against the side of her head.

  “Because—”

  “Randy!” Gunny’s words were interrupted by an excited shout from the kids, and Bane looked up to see Thad pelting across the field. The boy had the widest smile Bane had witnessed on his face, and he arrowed straight to the donkey, threw his arms around the animal’s neck and held on tightly.

  “Because the donkey’s name is Randy,” Myrt murmured next to him, and he looked down. “Not as in a proper name, but because he’d mount anything that stood still. So not such a great name.”

  Bane rolled his eyes and buried his face in Myrt’s neck, laughing. “Sounds about right.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bane

  He stood and stretched, hands in the middle of his back as he looked over his handiwork. In the months since his charter was delivered and chapter begun, the main floor of the downtown clubhouse had come together quickly, but the second floor had taken more
time. Today was the last round of painting before the community-donated furniture could be delivered from the storage lot.

  Picking up the paint can and roller, he strolled to the railing edging the upstairs balcony stretching along one side of the building. They’d have four crash rooms here, for late nights that didn’t warrant a ride back home. Bane laughed softly, knowing that of the men who rode under his rocker, he was the last one who’d take an empty bunk over a warm bed with his woman.

  Dumping his load of stuff at the bottom of the stairs, he made his way towards the back of the building, where the bar and meeting room were. His vest swung heavily around his hips, the wide bottom rocker touting their chapter as “Baker Florida” still stiff, though it bore a beginning of the expected sheen of road dirt. Another few months and it’d look as broken in as the rest of his patches.

  “Denis,” he shouted, not catching sight of the prospect assigned to the main room this week. They’d shifted to weekly assignments for their three potential members, trying to spend enough time with each of them to determine if they were true brothers. There were no shortcuts to membership, and Bane was glad this was something he and his officers agreed upon.

  “Yeah, boss.” The man swung out of the storage closet set into the corner of the room. Bane frowned, not sure what would have drawn any interest in there. A bright feminine giggle came from that direction, and Bane’s frown deepened into a scowl.

  “Who’s in there?” A tousled blonde head popped out, and Bane groaned when he recognized the local mayor’s daughter. “Out, now.” Leveling a finger at Denis, he fumed, “Prospects don’t get visitation rights. Think of this as your personal purgatory from here out.” After watching the girl scamper out still straightening her blouse, Bane rounded on the man. “Might want to decide today if this is gonna be somethin’ you want. Because that?” He jammed a thumb over his shoulder at the door, closing in its frame. “That ain’t gonna be what you get. Last thing we need is the local politicos decidin’ they don’t like us settin’ up shop in their hometown. We’ve been well received so far, and I goddamned well wanna make sure it stays that way. No visitors of any kind for you, and if I find you’ve violated my rules, I’ll take the vest off your fuckin’ back.”

  Shoving past the man, Bane pushed the office door open, stepped inside, and kicked it closed with his heel. This shit is harder than it looks. Feeling like an imposter had been a frequent complaint over the first few months, and Bane was pretty sure both Blackie and Mason had gotten tired of his constant questioning their wisdom in promoting him. Then slowly, gradually, from recruiting to managing the men he and Truck selected to rousting Gunny to keep everyone in line, it seemed as if all the things with running a chapter had become easier. Blackie had told him it was like flexing a muscle, something you had to build up to until the movements came natural as breathing.

  “Fuckin’ hope that muscle memory kicks in sometime soon.”

  He walked to the table set in the center of the room and leaned on the back of one of twelve chairs set along the edge. He’d taken a leaf from Twisted’s playbook and wouldn’t seat himself at the end, leaving the place for whoever felt their words needed extra emphasis on any given night. No, his chair was this one, middle of the table, back to the door, and implicit was the profound trust it took to make himself vulnerable the way it did. He’d seen the respect in Truck’s and Gunny’s faces the first time he’d placed himself so, and a low buzz of pride had zipped through him. Not a vanity sort of pride, but one that told him he’d done a good job, had pleased his brothers, and made them think well of him.

  Only half the chairs were occupied at any given meeting. Him, Truck, and Gunny had been the only bodies at the table at first.

  Then he’d picked up Monday, one of Retro’s boys from the Bama Bastards, as their treasurer. Monday had proven to be a steady influence on the prospects and someone Bane had trusted nearly on sight. The man had come highly recommended by Retro, and he retained connections to a club not far removed in geography, the Borderline Freaks MC.

  Coolaid had been a contact from Twisted, pulling the man from where he’d been patched into the Incoherent MC Big Bend chapter. That was it for officers right now.

  Their regular members were a similar mishmash of patchovers, all earning their right to drop their original colors the right way, via petitions and pledges of noninterference. On advice from Wrench, the chapter had instituted a one-year no-vote policy for all patchover members, which were all they had. At least for now. Strange but true that if they worked out, it was likely the prospects could earn votes before some of the provisional members would, something Bane would deal with if needed.

  A sound from the main room made him open the door, and he looked out to see Monday sauntering in, a handful of men at his back. The former security professional had a confidence about him some of the local boys found mesmerizing. In the intake interview after Retro first put his name forwards, Monday had talked openly about why he’d wanted a change, which had nothing to do with the BBMC and everything to do with location. He’d caught his partner back in Birmingham cheating, and told Bane he’d sworn off men forever. It was the how he’d said the words that had revealed a lot to Bane, the tense posture that telegraphed Monday’d expected conflict. The sagging relief when it hadn’t come had told Bane even more. This was a man looking for a home, not a quick place to hide his hurt feelings. Bane had offered his yea vote immediately, as had Truck and Gunny.

  “Brother.” He approached Monday, hand out, pulled into the expected one-arm clinch. “I’m headed home. Odds are my ole lady’s already pulling her hair out.” He scanned the room. “Don’t forget, you’re all comin’ over for dinner.” One of the men murmured, and Bane shook his head. “No discussion, no bowing out. We’ve got a fuckton of guests coming in tomorrow, so tonight is our family dinner. No excuses accepted.”

  Three hours later, the large dining room table was scattered with empty dishes, plates cleaned of food and stacked in piles to make room for glasses of whiskey and bottles of beer. Bane willingly sat in the hot seat. At this table he had no problem being the dominant, and he watched as Myrt leaned over Truck’s shoulder, giggling with Vanna, who was seated on his lap. The two women cut their glances at him, and in an instant he knew they were up to something good. Now to simply let it play out.

  In the months since moving into the house, Myrt had done a good job making it a home. Comfortable touches everywhere a man looked, those little things told him his woman was thinking about her family. She was healing, and he loved watching that confidence overtake the shyness that had been beaten into her for so long. Sometimes it’s not time or distance that heals wounds, it’s meeting the right person at the right time.

  Getting the boys into school had been a revelation for all of them. Vanna said later she’d seen some indications, but it had been a shock to them all when they found out Luke not only wasn’t cognitively delayed but was advanced. The now-fifteen-year-old was currently taking classes that carried college credits, having fit into the academic role easily. Socially was a different thing, but the school was small enough to have all classes on one campus, which meant he had Thad for the breaks and lunch periods.

  Thad was turning into a sports junkie, somehow talking Bane and Myrt into both a league soccer team and Florida Pop-Warner Football. Either of them would have meant travel, but the boy playin’ both meant they’d traveled a lot. He grinned as Thad came into view around Monday’s shoulder, talking to the big man, who turned to focus on the boy. Good thing they’d had willing chauffeurs for the games Bane couldn’t make.

  “I like how you call these family dinners.” Gunny spoke from Bane’s immediate right, Sharon perched on her ole man’s lap and their sleeping boy Josh on hers. “Means a lot, being invited into your home and lives. Shows the members and prospects it’s not only the club.”

  “No, man. It’s the whole shebang. Club, family, community—we all work together to make the most of what we’ve got.
That’s what keeps a club strong, those connections. Reminds me…” He cleared his throat. “Hey.” Voice pitched to carry, he gained everyone’s attention with a single word. “Tomorrow’s a gathering of a lot of big players in the MC world. Best behavior and stay on our toes. We’ve not been quiet about who’s coming, so keep an eagle eye out for anyone not invited.”

  “What are you expecting from tomorrow’s meetings?” Monday lifted his glass, pausing before taking a drink. “Anything specific, Prez?”

  “I’m expecting to be told we’re golden, and how our national president is proud of what we’re building here in Baker.” Bane sat straighter, elbows to the table as he leaned into the message he wanted to convey. “I’m expecting to find ourselves approached by men either looking to join us or looking to steal some of us away. We’ve got a good thing going, and we all fit well. I’m hoping at the end of the day we’ll be adding to our ranks, not detracting from.” He shrugged. “I’m also expecting a stupid amount of baby stuff disguised as Christmas gifts.” Laughter from all the men told him nobody’d forgotten his complaints of how the child wasn’t even here yet and had taken over the house. Myrt pouted at him from over Truck’s shoulder, and he beamed her a smile. “We’ll also learn more about the support IMC needs to keep the cartel in check through this area. And I’m here to tell you from Blackie to me, the message is we stand with Incoherent. Not gonna see this stretch of the Gulf Coast run ragged by the Mexicans and their shit. We’ll plan on a club-wide meeting next weekend to go over what I learn. We can do it around that New Year’s Eve thing some of y’all plannin’.”