Jase
Rebel Wayfarers MC
Book #4
MariaLisa deMora
Edited by Hot Tree Editing
Melissa Gill @ MGBookcovers and Designs
Shannon Williams Photography
Copyright © 2015 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 Printing 2015
ISBN 13: 978-0-9904473-7-5
DEDICATION
You miss 100% of the shots you never take. – Wayne Gretzky
For my Rebels: This is the beginning of anything you want.
CONTENTS
Before 11
Jase 14
DeeDee 22
Together 36
Off-season visit 60
Road trip 82
What is this? 100
Traded 116
Learning the ice 126
Broken things 138
All I see 152
New beginnings 163
Family 177
Time to train 183
The offer 196
Could be more 202
You let me keep you 207
Babies 209
Winding down 216
Take the deal 225
Rude awakening 235
Protect the club 246
Supporting you 256
Houseguests 259
Memories 270
Coach 274
Coming home 280
THANK YOU 291
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book feels like the perfect marriage of so many things I love: music, hockey, hot men, justice, and good friends. From the first word written about him in Mica, book #1 of the Rebel Wayfarers MC, I believed my favorite comedian/athlete needed his own book. Of course, that was back when Jase was supposed to be book #2. Then Mason would have been book #3, more hockey guys for #4, and finally Daniel’s brothers for book #5. Best laid plans, right?
As these stories began to play out—when I finally put them onto the page as words, strung together into constructs of sentences and paragraphs—I knew I needed to develop the world of the Rebels more before bringing Jase into the mix. It is important that readers be able to understand how attractive the life could be for someone like our much-loved hockey guy. How seductive finding a sometimes elusive sense of belonging would become. So, here we are, book #4, and it is the perfect spot for Jase to tell you his story.
A big thank you goes out to both Elliot Weber, the beautiful man you see on the cover, and Shannon Williams, a super talented photographer. From the instant I saw Elliot rocking out onstage as the front guy for Letters From The Fire, a brilliant rock band, I knew he was my Jase. Cutely cocky without being at all obnoxious, he’s hilarious and smart, totally good looking and immensely cool, and Elliot patiently submitted to the questions from this bizarre and weird lady while still happily signing CDs and posters for fans at the merch table. A couple months later, we found a possible slot in his tour schedule and booked with Shannon in Columbus. Elliot gamely came to the studio for the shoot, which was wedged in between load-in and going onstage for their show in town that night. He even busted out pushups to foster the look I wanted. And me? Well, I could not be happier with the outcome. Did you see the cover? Seriously? Close the book and look at it again…go ahead, I’ll wait. Come on! Shannon Williams is a freakin’ genius, and the discerning eye behind the lens for that stunning image.
From the beginning of this series, I’ve found friendships in odd and wonderful places. Musicians, authors, readers, athletes, bouncers, bartenders, bikers, photographers, graphic artists, business people, editors, exotic dancers, military veterans—no matter the walk of life, the most important thing you have in common is your willingness to give of yourselves, and I appreciate every stolen moment you’ve provided, along with your insight and expertise.
Within the professional hockey world, there have been a number of athletes who provided input on the mindset for Jase and the other players in my books. They helped guide my interpretation of pre- and post-game rituals and the process of training, transferring teams, preparing for games, pranking, dealing with nerves, and losing the game. Not just a game, but the game, which in many cases has defined their lives from childhood to adulthood. Whether that loss comes from injury, age, upward pressure, downward pressure—it matters to them that it be presented in a realistic way, and I truly hope I’ve done that. Thank you to Mike, Pavel, Bobby, Marko, Danny, and Lajii for helping me understand. Any mistakes are my own, because they tried extremely hard to educate me!
Thanks to Doc Matt for helping me understand that pure research is never a substitute to interviewing someone who has the hands-on experience of explaining bad news to professional athletes.
My friends and family, thank you. You have been tolerant and supportive, answering questions and providing feedback in an extremely patient way.
My wonderful critique partners—Hollie, Kristen, Kay, LeeAnn, and Brittney—each of you helped make this story better, and I thank you.
To my favorite guys in the world, the men of the Texas, Indiana and Ohio MC clubs who have encouraged and ridiculed me by equal measures—thank you. Keeps my feet firmly on the ground to be called a stupid bitch at least once a week by someone in the life! For my pet VOL, Ditzy—babe, this is my promise that you and your old man will always be welcome in my home.
The loudest and proudest thank you, as always, is reserved for you, holding this book or reading on your device. Yeah, you. Every book you purchase, every post you read, every review or comment you leave, it all matters. Thank you and enjoy!
~ML
Before
“Is this Mrs. Moser? Mrs. Martin Moser?” The voice on the phone was unfamiliar and the number unknown, not in her contacts. Understanding there was always the potential for threat through her husband’s association with a motorcycle club, DeeDee chose her words with care.
“May I ask who’s calling?” was her response, and she waited for the caller to continue speaking.
“This is Officer Hardwick, with the Indiana State Police, badge number nine eight four—”
She interrupted him, realizing something had to be wrong. “Yes, this is DeeDee Moser.” This is bad.
“Mrs. Moser, there’s been an accident involving Martin and Lockee Moser. Documentation in the vehicle identifies you as the emergency contact. Martin and Lockee Moser are currently being prepared for transport to Lutheran Hospital. Ma’am, you’re going to want to come down as soon as you can. May I arrange a ride for you? Is there someone I can call for you, to meet you there?” Officer Friendly—no, his name was Hardwick—sounded firmly helpful, but hadn’t given her any real information.
“Are they okay? Are my husband and daughter okay?” She held her breath, her stomach rolling as she waited for his answer.
“Mrs. Moser, you’re going to need to get to Lutheran as soon as you can. Would you like me to send a car to pick you up, ma’am? Is there anyone I can call for you?” Still calmly helpful, she found his insistence on getting support in place while avoiding the key question particularly alarming.
Trying to match his composed tone, she said, “No, I’ll leave now. I’m about twenty minutes out. Can you tell me what’s happened? Please, are they okay?” She shoved her sock feet into her boots then bent over at the waist to lace them up, holding the phone between her shoulder and ear.
“Their vehic
le was involved in a two-car accident on I-69, Mrs. Moser.” With his answer, she stopped moving, frozen in place as she thought, Can this be for real? Over the phone, she heard a noise grow dramatically in volume then rapidly subside, and realized it was a helicopter. “The medical flight just left the scene; they should be at Lutheran hospital within a few minutes.” He was carefully not saying how hurt they were, but to have a LifeFlight pick them up, it had to be bad.
“I’m on my way.” She forced herself into motion again and didn’t give him a chance to say anything else, hanging up the phone to grab her jacket and snap her ‘possibles’ bag with her wallet and identification onto her belt. Picking up her helmet, she slid her phone in her jeans pocket and walked out of the house, straddling her bike and starting it less than three minutes after the phone had first rung.
Pulling into the hospital parking lot, she looked around at the number of motorcycles, shocked. There are bikes everywhere, she thought, guessing there must be seventy or eighty bikes in the lot. She recognized a few of them, and that only increased her nervousness; this did not feel right. The combination of the call, LifeFlight, and seeing so many motorcycles at the hospital brought the sick feeling from earlier back in full force, making her hands shake.
Quickly parking the bike, she carried her helmet into the hospital with her, following the arrows and signs towards the emergency room. Rounding a corner, she entered a long corridor and halted abruptly, recognizing the man standing at the far end. All of a sudden, there was no air in the space surrounding her; her lungs could find zero oxygen…there was absolutely nothing to breathe. The man was joined by others, and as a group, they moved quickly towards her. Dimly, she heard a clatter, and she glanced down to see her helmet roll to one side, bumping into the wall as it tottered to a stop. Her knees unhinged and she was falling to the floor, when several sets of strong arms wrapped around her, lifting and supporting her.
***
Hoss stepped up beside Bingo just as DeeDee rounded a corner at the other end of the hallway, and he saw her come to a staggering halt, looking up at them with wide, frightened eyes. As Hoss, Bingo, and a dozen other brothers walked towards her, the helmet in her hands dropped to the floor, and she looked down to see it roll across the linoleum, coming to rest against one wall.
He picked up his pace as he saw the color leave her face in a wave. Watching her sway in place, he moved even faster, hearing the shuffling of leather soles behind him receding as he outpaced his brothers. Reaching out, he wrapped his arms around DeeDee tenderly, holding her upright just as Bingo and Gypsy did the same.
He pulled her out of their arms, pressing her into his chest, cupping the back of her head in one large hand. Feeling her go slack, he knew she couldn’t hear him, but he still whispered, “I got you, pretty lady. I got you.”
Jase
“Yeah, yeah,” he said into the phone, “I’ll be there, one o’clock. Count me in.” Jason Spencer threw the phone onto the couch beside him, retrieving the game controller. He glanced at the clock on the front of the DVR, checking the time. It was only ten; he had a couple hours before he had to get ready to go. Settling his headset back into place, he yelled into the microphone, “Invite me back to the game. I’m back. No longer AFK, so it’s time to kick some ass! Woohoooo!”
His phone rang again, and he looked at the clock, realizing he had gotten lost in the video game. It was now several hours past when he was supposed to have been at the gym. Scowling, he threw his head back and shouted, “Fuck,” as he tore off the headset. Throwing the controller onto the couch, he reached over to punch the off button on the game console and picked up the phone.
“Jase,” he heard when he answered. “Where the hell were you? Today’s workout was not optional. What are you up to, man? What excuse is it this time?” The words weren’t shouted, but said in a much more ominous, even tone, and he closed his eyes.
“Daniel…Cap’n,” he groaned, running a tense hand through his dark hair. “I fucked up. I lost track of time. I’m sorry.”
He heard Daniel Rupert, owner and captain of the Chicago Mallets professional ice hockey team, blow out a breath in a long sigh, sounding frustrated and tired. Jase, a key forward of the Mallets, was expected to show up to things like…say…mandatory workouts. You didn’t blow Daniel’s orders off, not and assume you would remain a team member for long, even if you were good friends. Chuck in the fact their team had just made the final round of playoffs and they needed to stay in top physical form, and in a single day, he tallied up an infraction of epic proportions. Then go ahead and pile on the knowledge Daniel was stressed, because he had recently broken up with his girlfriend, after which she retreated all the way to Texas…and it looked like this blowup could achieve nuclear capacity. Fuck.
“Jase, meet me down at the rink. Now. We’ll do some drills. You can do two-a-days for the rest of the week in the gym.” Daniel’s ruling was lenient, and Jase knew it.
“Thanks, Cap’n,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
Laced up and on the ice within an hour, he was soundly regretting missing the team workout earlier in the day. It would have been far easier than what he was doing now: skating up and down the sheet, chasing pucks on legs that were shaky with exhaustion. Daniel seemed to have endless energy when it came to torturing him, and continued pushing him hard for the next forty-five minutes, smiling grimly every time he heard Jase out of breath.
“Again!” He heard the shout from across the ice and spun around, barely in time to deflect a puck shooting towards his knees.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, using the blade of his stick to slap the puck hard towards the net, eschewing accuracy for velocity.
“Again!” came the shout, and he skated backwards into position, crossing over to snag the next puck and snap a shot at the empty goal.
He huffed, “Fuck,” and kept his eyes trained on his friend leaning against the short wall in the bench area, watching yet another bucket of pucks make an appearance. They worked without speaking for the next thirty minutes, Jase skating up and down the neutral ice area, staying between the blue lines while setting up to take shot after shot. After completing that bucket, the third of their session, he slowly skated over towards Daniel, unsure of his reception.
“Stretch it out.” The order was barked at him, and he dropped to the ice, gently stretching muscles and tendons hard used in their fast-paced drills. As he stretched, there was an annoying twinge of pain in his groin, tender since the last game. Using the blade of his skates for leverage, he got to his knees and pushed over backwards, gingerly stretching out.
As he stretched, he watched Daniel skate around with his stick, gathering all the loose pucks into a pile inside the goal net. Moving the net, the man used his bare hands to pick up the icy pucks, scooping them into the buckets. By the time he had finished stretching, Daniel was headed back. He was carrying two buckets and gently kicking a third across the ice in front of him, the handle of his stick trapped between his body and one bicep.
“Multitasking today?” Jase asked, laughing and reaching for two of the buckets.
Frowning at him, Daniel adjusted his grip on the remaining items, skating past Jase without a word, to clomp onto the rubber mats, angrily stalking down the hallway towards the locker room. Jase followed his lead, placing the buckets inside the equipment room along the way. Settling on the bench in front of his locker, he focused on getting his skates off and stripped the practice jersey over his head, leaving his torso in just his pads and undershirt. He tugged his arm pads down and held them in his hands, trying to decide how best to apologize again and make things right.
Looking up, he saw Daniel was sitting, elbows on knees, staring at the floor between the toes of his skates, not having moved since he sat down. “Cap’n,” Jase said and watched him stir, straightening up and putting his hands flat on his thighs. “I fucked up this morning. Won’t happen again. I’m down for the two-a-days, man. I’m sorry.”
Nodding, Daniel
looked through him with a distant gaze, eyes bloodshot and haunted. “Sounds okay, Jase.” He paused then sighed heavily. “Mason came and talked to me a few days ago,” he said.
“About?” Jase questioned, waiting.
“Said he’s going to Texas to bring her back.” There could be no question to which ‘her’ Daniel referred. It had to be Mica Scott, the girlfriend…ex-girlfriend. Davis Mason—now he was harder to classify. He was a local businessman, president of a biker club, a friend of Daniel’s, and apparently Mica’s best friend. “He told me if I didn’t want her, he would be making a play.” He shook his head. “I didn’t know what to say to him. She’s already left me, voted with her feet. So what was his gain in talking to me?”
He turned his head, looking at Jase. “Did you know her ex-boyfriend hunted her down? Made threats against her? From years ago, he hunted her down. That’s why she walked away. At least, that’s what Mason said. Why wouldn’t she just talk to me? Why did she run like she did? He said she was trying to keep me safe.”
He pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. “She fucking broke me, man. I’ve never been like this over a woman. If she does come back to Chicago, do you think she’s going to want to see me? See me like this? At all? Jase, man—I don’t know. When I was with her in Houston a couple weeks ago, I thought there might still be something there, but I kept remembering that she broke me. I love her, but I can’t set myself up for that again.”
Jase moved over to sit beside his friend. He didn’t exactly know what to say. Daniel was clearly hurting, and that was a position he had never been in. But, Jase knew from hearing other people talk that simply having someone to vent to could help with the pain of a relationship breakup. Not that he knew from personal experience. He had always been more of a love ‘em and leave ‘em kinda guy, but he could try to listen at least.
Jase Page 1