Jase

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Of course, hon,” he reassured her. “It’s her suite, and this is her family. Nothing will happen to Melanie here. We got her, DeeDee.”

  Nodding, she turned to leave, pulling her phone from her jeans pocket and punching in numbers. The call went unanswered, and she left a message. “Mel, baby girl, I’m going on the run with the boys this weekend up to Chicago. Not sure when I’ll be back, but Bingo knows you’re staying here. Be good, girl. The club will watch out for you. Love you.”

  Winger and Lockee had been killed more than two years ago in a car accident. Distracted by an incoming text, an inexperienced driver’s careless swerve had forced their truck off the road where it flipped end-over-end multiple times. None had survived extraction from the mangled vehicles, and DeeDee had gotten the call.

  Like an extended family, the club had rallied around her, offering her love and care in a loss they all shared. Someone had been with her constantly as she moved in shock through those first days following the accident. Even though she had been part of a club for more than two-thirds of her life and knew how close the men all were, the outpouring of support and love had still stunned her. There had been more than three hundred members riding in the procession from the church to the cemetery, and because Winger was ex-military, there was another whole group of Patriot Riders. Melanie had been beside her every step of the way, at times physically holding her up when overwhelming grief would crash over her.

  The club knew she would have to sell their small house, so without even being asked, they had shown up a week later with boxes and a truck and moved her into a suite in the clubhouse. It had two bedrooms with a sitting room and half-bath, and they handed her the keys with no questions asked. She lived here since then, rent free, and the club placed no demands on her, but she voluntarily helped by keeping the clubhouse tidy, trying to make sure things ran smoothly.

  Even with that, her status within the club felt tenuous, because with Winger gone, she wasn’t an old lady anymore, the typical place granted women. Winger had been a well-respected member, so she used the men’s memories of him, as well as any other advantage she had, to keep herself and Melanie housed, clothed, and safe.

  That included doing things with the club. Like this weekend, when she would be going to a party she didn’t want to attend, just because her presence had been requested. Davis Mason was the national president for the Rebels, and she respected him, was proud of the man he had grown into. With his role in the club, when he said jump, you didn’t ask how high; you just hopped like crazy hoping you would hit the mark…even if you had known him all his life. So now, since he asked for her personally, she would by God show, even if it pained her to do so.

  Mason had been in Texas recently and was riding back now with Mica Scott, a young woman not much older than Melanie. Mica had a unique status in the club. In a brotherhood where women were denied membership, she was named Princess. The ins-and-outs of the title and role were still muddy to DeeDee, but it sounded like she was granted the club’s protection without any demands or strings. Kind of like how things are with me right now, she mused, shaking her head.

  She heard rumors Mason was somewhat stuck on the woman, so who knew how long the gal’s independent status would last. With men like Mason, once they set their sights on something, it was seldom they failed to acquire it. There were damned few exceptions, not even if that something happened to be a woman.

  In the suite, she paused as she was packing her small bag, clothes clasped loosely in her hand. I wonder if Jase will be there, she pondered. Shaking her head and smiling, she told herself aloud, “Doesn’t matter, old lady. He was fun to play with and pretty to look at, but you should not go there. Just decide now to set temptation aside.”

  Jase Spencer was a young hockey player who had pretended interest in her. Because he was a nice guy who noticed she was lonely, he set out to entertain her for a couple of evenings. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since returning home, but to be fair, she hadn’t left him her number and certainly hadn’t expected anything. Snorting in amusement at the idea of her with Jase, she finished packing.

  Downstairs in the main room of the clubhouse, she looked at the men scattered around the room, her gaze glancing across the scantily-dressed women seated with many of them. She sighed as she sized-up her options for a ride to the storage unit where she kept the bike parked. One of the visiting Chicago members waved her over, and wrapping an arm tenderly around her shoulders, greeted her with a squeeze. He had his long, white hair tied back with a bandana and nuzzled the side of her head with one of his most striking features, a dark, full mustache. “Tugboat,” she greeted him fondly, sliding an arm underneath his leather cut to return his hug.

  “DeeDee. You are looking lovely as ever, my lady. What a beauty.” He smiled at her, bringing his hand up to softly pat her face. “You take my breath away.”

  “Goofball,” she joked. “Hey, Mason wants me in Chicago on Winger’s bike. Can you give me a lift over to storage?”

  “You betcha, pretty lady. I could be ready now if you are, or you can let me know when. I place myself at your service. Anything you need.” He smiled and winked, flirting as natural to him as breathing, but as always, she knew he didn’t mean anything by it. He was a good-looking man and well respected in the club. No way would he be interested in her when he could have any young thing he wanted.

  “Now is good. If that works for you.” She lifted her bag to show him. “I’m all packed and ready. I want to get the bike to the shop and check it out quick. That way I can be back here in time to pull out with you guys. I don’t want to ride up there on my own.”

  He frowned and looked at her through squinted eyes. “I’ll follow you to the shop and stay until you’re ready to come back. That way you’re never alone, pretty lady.” Reaching out, he took her bag from her hand. “Let me.”

  ***

  Hoss watched DeeDee leave the clubhouse with Tugboat, jealousy slicing through him. He saw the indecision on her face as she walked down the stairs and thought for a minute she was coming to him, but then Tug had waved her over. He knew Tug would be headed back to Chicago with them today, and wondered if this exit was him leaving early. But why would he take DeeDee with him?

  Picking up his beer, he walked to the open door of Bingo’s office behind the bar. The Fort Wayne chapter was structured differently than others, as they only had a few officers. The main ones were President, which was Bingo; their Treasurer, Torres, who was also manager at Down Range, one of the club’s businesses; Road Captain, a position currently filled by PBJ; and Gunny, an ex-Marine, was Sargent-at-Arms. No Veep, no Lieutenant. That meant there wasn’t anyone to run interference for Bingo when members wanted to see him, which worked in Hoss’ favor right now.

  Knocking as he walked in, he pulled one of the metal chairs back from the desk and sat, staring at Bingo steadily. “Where’s DeeDee going with Tug?” Might as well get the question out there. He hadn’t made any secret about his interest in the woman over the past year or so, which would make it more of an issue if Tug were making a play for her.

  Bingo stared back at him for a minute, then said, “He’s probably taking her over to get Winger’s bike. Mason wants her at the party.”

  “Why would he want that? She hasn’t been going to barbecues or anything with the club. She might live in our house, but she hides from club business. Why force her into something like this?” Hoss held up his hand. “Not that I’m questioning Mason. But why DeeDee?”

  “Something to do with Mica, no doubt.” Bingo shrugged. “Why you askin’, brother?”

  “Did you send her to Tug?” Bingo shook his head and Hoss nodded. “Okay then. Do you know if he’s makin’ a play?”

  “Doubtful,” Bingo laughed. “He’s hoping she gets busy with that hockey guy she flirted with last time she was in Chicago. Said if he got a chance, he was going to spin her Spencer’s way.”

  “What the fuck?” Hoss growled. “Jase Spencer? You want
a citizen for Winger’s old lady?”

  “She ain’t Winger’s old lady anymore.” He shrugged. “I want her happy. She’s holding so tight onto what was that she ain’t looking for what could be. Woman’s fucking mired in the past, and we ain’t done her any favors by keeping her close.”

  “Keeping her close helps keep her safe, brother.” Hoss settled back into the chair. “And what could be is sitting right here in the fucking room. You and Tug both know I’ve been biding my time, letting her grieve and move past all that shit. I want her in my bed…want to keep her in the club. Hell, I’ve made a study of DeeDee; I can tell you anything you want to know about that woman.”

  “Anything except what she wants for herself, I wager.” Bingo leaned back, propping his heels on the edge of the desk. “If you know that, then you know more than she does.”

  “I know what I want—”

  Bingo interrupted him, “You want to fuck her. She needs more than that. She needs to be someone’s sweetheart, needs a real bed in a real house, and needs someone who can accept Melanie as she is. What she doesn’t need is a brother as mired in the past as she is, making a play because he’s tired of being alone.”

  “Fuck you,” Hoss said, folding his arms across his chest. “It isn’t like that, Bingo.”

  “Tell me what it is, then. Because from where I sit, having someone like Jase Spencer sweep in and cover her shit is a good thing.” Bingo frowned at him. “She needs someone who’ll focus on her, someone who sees her sweet for what it is, not what it could be for the club.”

  “So you’d be okay letting her go?” Hoss was confused. He had come in here expecting to get a green light, and now it sounded like Bingo would back the citizen’s play before his.

  “If it’s what is best for her, hell yeah, I’m okay with that. I want to see her back to herself. Want to see her looking with bright eyes towards the future. I want to write love poems about her life, and I want that life to be amazing. I loved Winger like a brother, independent of the club. How can I want anything less for his widow?” Bingo stood and stretched. “You think about what you want, and why, man. Ride beside her, keep an eye on her, and keep her covered. But while you do that, you consider what’s best for her.”

  ***

  At the storage yard, Tug waited astraddle of his bike while she pushed Winger’s out of the bay, gliding it to a stop and putting down the kickstand. Walking back, she tugged hard on the overhead door, struggling to close and lock it. She turned to get on the bike and saw Tug looking at her with an odd expression on his face.

  “What?” she asked, swinging her leg over the seat, tiptoeing up towards the tank to where she had enough leverage to balance the big bike. Sitting for a minute while she pulled on her helmet, he shrugged and silently made a motion for her to precede him out of the lot.

  At the garage, she idled the bike into an empty service bay, heeling the kickstand down and settling it before she dismounted. She was taking off her helmet when she heard a sharp whistle and turned to see several men walking towards Tug as he sauntered in from outside where he parked. “Check out Winger’s bike, change the oil, and make sure everything’s right for a Chicago run. Mine’s outside; key is in it. Just top it off, check it out.” He was speaking to one of the men in the garage who gave him a chin lift and then looked up at DeeDee with a smile and an easy nod.

  “No.” She shook her head. “It’s okay, Tug. I got it. I always do this myself. I don’t mind, and I hate to be a bother.” She moved towards the tool cabinets, pulling out her keys. “I still have Winger’s wrench key, so I don’t even have to bug anyone.” Before she could reach her destination, however, a pair of firm hands gripped her elbows, pulling her to a stop.

  “Let the boys do this for you, Dee. We all know how you hate to accept help, don’t want to admit when you need it…but let them do this for you.” Tug’s voice was near her ear. The low tone coupled with the brush of his mustache against her neck made her shiver, and he chuckled at her reaction. “Come sit with me a minute, keep an old man company.” He used a wheedling tone and she couldn’t help smiling up at him.

  “Old man, ha. More like in your prime, mister.” Unsure, she hesitated, watching as the member looked at her then back at him, waiting for a decision. “Okay, Tugboat.” Turning, she waved at the other members clustered around Winger’s bike, quietly calling, “Guys, thank you.” She received brief waves and a couple of chin lifts in response and turned to walk with Tug towards the office area.

  “You want some coffee or tea?” he asked and looked at her closer. “Water, maybe?”

  “Water’s good, but I can get it, Tug.” She demonstrated by opening the refrigerator and pulling out two bottles, holding one out to him.

  They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, watching out the window as Winger’s bike was serviced, one of the men wheeling Tug’s bike into the shop to begin the same process with it. She lifted the cold bottle of water to her lips, nearly spitting out the drink she had just taken when Tug startled her by asking, “You get laid in Chicago, woman?”

  “No,” she laughed. “Hell no.” She shook her head.

  “Why not? Jase was into you.” Tug said this flatly, as if he was commenting on the chance of cloud cover for the day.

  “Because I’m Winger’s old lady,” she retorted with a short laugh, twisting the top back onto the bottle with some force.

  “Nuh-uh,” he spoke gently, but the words hurt nonetheless. “Winger’s dead. So, why didn’t you sleep with Spencer?”

  She turned, drawing on her fifty-two years of experience to form a look of disdain and contempt so withering two of the men in the garage stepped backwards when they glanced through the window and caught sight of her face. “I didn’t sleep with him because I am Winger’s old lady,” she repeated, enunciating clearly.

  “Bullshit,” he shot back, tilting his water up and draining the bottle. “What are you afraid of, woman?”

  “I’m not scared of anything,” she told him, her anger still bubbling over his denial of how she felt, but she had a sharp pull of fear too. It was as if he were trying to strip her of the limited status she still had within the club, and she couldn’t let that happen. Without them, she would lose the last pieces of Winger she still had. I can’t let it happen. “I didn’t want to fuck him,” she said crudely.

  “Bullshit again,” he said. “I saw you dancing with him in Jackson’s, and you were as into him as he was you. What happened to derail that love train?”

  “I just—couldn’t. It’s disrespectful; at least, it feels that way.” She dipped her chin, looking down at the bottle in her hands. “Plus, he’s just a kid. A really pretty kid, but just a kid. Jase would be way more appropriate for Melanie than me.”

  “And there it is,” Tug scowled. “I knew we’d get to the meat of the matter sooner or later. Who cares about the difference in age? What is it, anyway? A dozen years?”

  “Twenty-two years,” she whispered, licking her lips and repeating it even more softly. “Twenty-two.”

  “So? Who gives a fuck? I’m what, twelve years older than you? If I went after a pretty young thing of forty-two, would you say the age difference was too much?” He wiggled his eyebrows at her, pulling a lecherous face and making her laugh.

  “Of course not. But you’re…that’s diff-er-ent,” she stuttered over the last word, already anticipating his argument.

  “No, it’s not. It isn’t different. Too much is too much, no matter if it’s two or twenty-two—it all depends on the people involved. Honey, you know in this case it’s not too much. Not for either of us. And it wouldn’t be for any man out there in the shop, if you so desired. Hell, about any Rebel member, regardless of age, would be honored if you smiled their way. Whether you realize it or not, you’re only alone because you want to be.” He motioned to the window as he barked out a laugh. “So, you’re saying it’d be okay for me, but not for you? I think you’re sexist, which surprises me for an enlightened woman
such as yourself. Why are you thinking like that, Dee? Do you care so much what people say? What they think?” He watched her steadily, waiting for her response.

  “Don’t do that. It’s different for men in the club and you know it,” she shot back.

  “Nope. I’m not buying it. You’re sexist. And that’s a bullshit reason to deny yourself something sweet you want. It would be good for you. And darlin’, Spencer’s not a kid; he’s a fully-grown man who has a pretty good idea of his own mind. He’s also a decent guy, one of Daniel’s best friends. You could do worse, DeeDee. Hell, you’d do worse by not doing him.” He sighed. “Beautiful lady, you’ve mourned a long time. Let yourself have some good again. Take a chance on the sweet.”

  A rap at the office door broke the tension holding her in place and she stood, walking towards the shop. “I’m not having this conversation, Tug.” She threw the last over her shoulder and was shocked when he was right behind her, pulling her to a stop, hands again on her elbows. His mustache brushed against the side of her neck like before, the breath of his whisper bringing goose bumps to her skin, pebbling her nipples into hard peaks she knew showed clearly through her lightweight clothing.

  “You need to move on, beautiful. Your husband died, but do you think he wanted you to die with him?” His question was harsh, but his tone was so soft and tender she nearly couldn’t respond. “Answer me, woman,” he pressed, and she shook her head. She listened for a moment to the song playing on the shop’s sound system, her mouth tightening as she heard the plaintive tones of The Weepies singing Love Doesn’t Last Too Long.

  “Damn straight he wouldn’t have wanted you dying there on the side of the road with him.” Tug’s cheek rubbed her neck and he kissed the side of her head. The warmth of him at her back was so good. “That means he would want you to live. So you fucking honor him by living. That means loving yourself enough to live, not wasting away, pretty lady. It means letting yourself be loved.”