Going Down Easy: A Rebel Wayfarers MC & Incoherent MC Crossover Novel

by MariaLisa deMora

  “No, it’s not.” She looked at him, lifting an eyebrow. “If it was perfect, you wouldn’t be leading with that weepy-eyed look you knocked on my door with. So let’s begin again, and tell me what’s not so perfect.”

  “It’s not in Chicago.” She swallowed, realizing for the first time that taking this opportunity meant more than losing Jock. It meant losing all the friends she’d made along the way, including this man in front of her. Someone she’d watched and hurt for, back when he’d been looking for something to hang his hat on, and then pleased for him when he found it in Ruby. “It’s not in Fort Wayne, or anywhere close.” He stared at her, face impassive, but she saw a tiny tic in a muscle along his jaw. “It’s near New Orleans.”

  “That, my dear, is a problem.” He leaned forwards, propping his elbows on his knees, wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and muttered, “Fuck me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s perfect?”

  “Yeah, been in the same building since the late eighties, but they’ve done a bunch of reno in the past couple of years. It’s a show shop.” He’d know what she meant, being as he not only was an avid watcher of the program but had also wrangled his way into her chair twice during filming, so he was on the show, too. “Gallagher, season six winner, walked out the day after his mandatory contract was up. The lead artist has been holding it together, but it’s a strain because he’s not business-minded.”

  Slate considered her a moment, then muttered softly, “Fuck me. You are.”

  “I am.” She lifted a shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “I’m also a talented tattoo artist and am a fair hand at piercing.” He snorted and she flipped him off, making him smile briefly. “Shaddup, you. I don’t like to toot my own horn.”

  “Written up in four magazines that I know of. I’d say you’re better than talented and a fair hand.”

  He wasn’t exactly wrong, but it was actually seven magazines. Not the time to correct him.

  Slate stared at her, expression falling into an impassive mask. “So it’s perfect.”

  I hate when he gets like this. She knew he’d be making his point soon, so she held her peace and nodded.

  The mask fractured, broke, and he lifted his upper lip in a sneer. “Except for it’s what, a thousand miles away?”

  “Nine hundred twenty-seven.” She sucked in an uneven breath, trying to push down the tears. These were numbers she’d run through her head time and time again, no repeat making them less. “Point seven.”

  “Fuck, Silly. You’re stuck between what you want and what you need.” He pushed to his feet and paced around the desk, coming to crouch in front of her. The heat of his hands covering hers were a balm, so comforting and safe it nearly broke her in half. “What’d Jock say?”

  The remembered pain from Jock’s blurted statement washed through her. “Before or after he had a minute to put a muzzle on himself?” She laughed, but it sounded so jagged she shut her lips tight. God, why now?

  Slate’s thumbs slid along her knuckles, dipping between each in a slow up and down that mimicked her rollercoaster emotions. After a moment he tightened his grip, giving her hands a shake. “I get it. Brother like him? Had a dream taken from him and felt the bite of that? Once he got his head wrapped around it, he’d be all about encouraging you.” Slate shook his head, his gaze pained and bright with wet he quickly blinked away. “We all know I’m an asshole. Means my message to you? Always gonna be don’t go. But Jock?”

  He paused long enough she felt compelled to honesty. “He said I’d do great.”

  “And you would, if you were going. Which you aren’t. Don’t go.” He rested his chin on his hand, pointing pouting lips up at her. Clearly his tactic had changed to teasing persistence. “Don’t go.”

  She let her head tip to the side as she stared at him. If only it were that easy. “It’s not decided. I’m headed back to Chicago—”

  His grip tightened into a vise that ground her knuckles together. “It’s Monday.”

  Her head rocked back with the force of his words. She stared at the ceiling, finding no peace in the blameless white texture. “God. I know what day of the week it is.” Looking back at Slate, she saw he’d lost any pretense of humor. “I have to think.”

  “And if you’re doing that anywhere except where you can do it pressed up against Jock to remind yourself why you don’t want to go, then you’ve already decided, Sylvia.” He moved his head back and forth in a slow shake. “You’re lying to yourself, and that ain’t like you.”

  His words cut too close to the bone, and she’d forgotten how his honesty could hurt. “I gotta go.” With a trembling hand, she pushed at her hair, fingers getting tangled in the short mass, and stood. Slate did, too, taking a step backwards to give her some space so he wouldn’t loom over her. She laughed softly before she leaned into him for a hug. After getting used to Jock, he didn’t seem so big anymore, and she’d found she liked how Jock towered over her.

  What do I do?

  ***

  She reached out and smoothed the papers in front of her down the middle, feeling the tiny bumps each line of the contract created. As she would read someone’s skin, she spread her fingers edge to edge, mapping the height of the stack by how it compressed in the center.

  She’d brought everything Ernesto had given her to Fort Wayne with her, all the info, wedging a fat folder into the bottom of her bag like a bad memory.

  Slate’s house had gotten loud during her leave-taking, with Ruby and the kids coming out to chat and tell her goodbye. At one point she had a child swinging from each hand, Kayley and Hayley, Slate’s youngest girls, alternately jabbering at her, when she looked over at Slate. He was watching the scene, taking in Ruby standing close, bending and automatically taking things from Allen that could be turned into weapons. Dani was pretending to hide behind her mother, dipping out to flash smiles at Silly, who met each approach with a crazy face. The happiness on Slate’s face brightened the whole room, face soft, eyes softer, body relaxed. The man loved his wife, adored his kids, and didn’t give a shit who saw it. He also loved her, but she’d watched that brightness dim when he glanced at her, his pain and worry eating at that happiness he’d earned.

  As he walked her to her car, he’d said, “Think on it long and hard. You’ve got a really good thing with Jock. You can throw everything else to the curb, but that stands on its own. Fuck, girl. I’ll miss you, but I’ll come visit and bring the fam. I love you, Silly, but you aren’t my life. What you saw inside just now? That’s what I live and breathe for.” He bent close, brushed his cheek against hers, and whispered pain into her ear. “That’s what you are for Jock, honey.” He stepped away and closed her door, patting the top of the car. “Think on it,” he’d said as she pulled away.

  Instead of turning the wheels towards Chicago, she’d called Ernie and rescheduled. Then she went to Jock’s place, only to have to use her key to get inside, because no matter that he had cleared his Monday like he always did, he wasn’t home now.

  So Silly sat on the floor of his bedroom, dining room chair carried in to act as a desk, and prepared to finally read the agreement, cover to cover.

  Got My Back

  Jock

  “Pisses me right the fuck off.”

  Jock rolled his eyes at the loud declaration from directly behind where he sat on a rolling mechanics stool. It was early yet, and he’d had a cup of coffee, but maybe not enough for whatever conversation this was going to be. He’d flicked all the bolts and fasteners he’d removed from the bike earlier into the pan that sat just above the castors, and was in the process of unwedging the back fender from its longtime home on the back frame. Jock’s job in the garage was to execute Bear’s motorcycle designs, taking what the man drew up in his specifications and recommendations and making them real. Right now, however, his participation wasn’t even necessary in this conversation, because Gunny was wound up tight. So tight, he could talk to himself for now without any contribution from Jock.r />
  “I’m telling you, that woman’s shit better get sorted. Fast.” The last word was hissed, and Jock knew if he turned to look, the expression on his best friend’s face would be fierce.

  After a lengthy pause, Jock asked, “That woman?”

  “My mother-in-law. Shar’s mom has it in her head that she has a right to have goddamned input on my boy’s name.” Fabric shifted, and he imagined Gunny recrossing his legs at the ankle, his normal stance when they were having discussions. “It’s my boy. She doesn’t have a right to squat.”

  “She’s Sharon’s mother.”

  “She’s Canadian.”

  “Hey.” Jock looked up at the annoyed shout from across the bay. Captain stood there, fists on his hips. “I’m Canadian.”

  “Oh, man. You’re fucked.” Jock’s whispered commentary was directed towards the bike, but knew Gunny’d heard him.

  “Who are we talking about? Where’s this Canadian you’re all up in arms about, eh?” A folder flashed in front of Jock’s face, and he jerked backwards, rolling away from the bike and whatever it was Captain was trying to shove in his direction. “Take this, I got a beef with my sister’s beau.”

  “Can’t.” He held up his hands. “Greasy.” The glower Gunny was directing towards Captain wasn’t promising. “Lane, man. Remember yourself here.” Jase Spencer, also known as Captain, was Gunny’s brother-in-law, which could make this little chat even more interesting. “Brothers.”

  “Your mother”—Gunny started with a bang, and Jock groaned—“thinks she’s gonna have a say in the name for my boy.”

  “Last time I checked, your boy already had a name.” Jase drew himself up tall, chin thrust forwards. “And a damn good one, too.” Gunny’s son, Joshua Wade Robinson, had been named using his father’s and uncle’s middle names. “One I heartily approved of. If my mom is looking to change that up, she’s gonna have to talk to me, first. I got dibs on that boy.”

  “Fucking hell, man. I ain’t talkin’ about Josh. Who in their goddamned right mind would change the name of a baby already named and answering to it? Jesus, Jase. I’m talking about the boy Shar’s carryin’ right now.”

  Silence from Captain, and to Jock, he seemed frozen. Apparently he hadn’t known Sharon was pregnant. Jock knew, but only because the last time he took Tank over to visit, the mastiff had zeroed straight into Sharon’s middle, pressing his snout deep into her belly while she cupped the sides of the big dog’s head. When she’d looked away, the tears on her cheeks had scared him until she choked out, “He knows. How does he know?” That woman and dog had a history, a connection that went soul deep, and he couldn’t give her any answer other than the truth. “He’ll always know because he loves you.” Gunny and Sharon had adopted Tank when he’d been lost to Jock and had graciously invited him to share in their lives once Jock had found him again. With Tank came Gunny, and with Gunny had come the Rebels.

  “Brother? Did I break you?” Gunny’s teasing was gentle, something Jock hadn’t heard from him often, unless it was directed at his wife or kids. “Jase, you okay, man?”

  “She nearly died.” At Captain’s quietly intense words, Gunny’s back went ramrod straight, and he made a choked sound. Slowly, Jock stood from the stool, prepared to get between the two men if needed. “I kept my peace, but this.” He groaned, the sound so painful Jock’s hair stood on end. “Jesus, Lane. She nearly fucking died, man. That was with Kitten. You had Cadence and it wasn’t enough. Kitten, you got your little girl, and seeing you in that hospital, I thought you’d understand how precious it was to need to hold tight to what you got. But then you pushed, and you got Josh. You have everything a man could ask for in your hands, and you’re pushing again? She”—he bent at the waist, throat corded, face red as he shouted“—nearly fucking died.”

  “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t understand? Her and me, and it’s worth sayin’ that this is my wife you’re talking about, we know the risks.” The lowered rumble running through his words spoke volumes about how Gunny was restraining himself. “Risks every day, brother. Ridin’, workin’, hell, anything that involves making a life is risky. Doc said what happened with Kitten was a onetime thing. We checked early on with Josh. No problem. Already checked with this one. Again, no problem. I have my hand on her heart every night, and she’s got hers cradled around her belly, because that’s the chain of love we have. I nearly lost her, too, Jase. Love my daughters. Love my son. You’re in our lives, and you know how deep that is. But if it was a choice?”

  Silence hung heavy in the garage, and Jock knew he wasn’t the only one paying close attention to this encounter. Gunny unleashed was a force of nature. He’d been the chapter’s unofficial enforcer for years, often unasked. Jase was a scrapper, too. Born and bred to the hockey rink, he’d fought bare-knuckled battles of his own, too many to count.

  Jase broke the stalemate. Dropping his chin to his chest, he rolled his shoulders as he bowed in the middle, as if with pain. His voice was soft when he answered Gunny’s question. “It wasn’t.” Jase took a step closer, head slowly wagging back and forth. “Praise the saints you didn’t have to make a choice. And I was out of line just now.” He gripped Gunny’s shoulder. “She’s my sister first, and always, but she’s your heart now. I know you wouldn’t risk losing her.” He huffed out a soft laugh. “So Ma knew, too?” He looked at Jock. “And you?” Jock nodded. “Where the fuck have I been in all this?”

  “Workin’ your ass off at the foundation is what I heard. Caught it from DeeDee she hasn’t seen you for supper in nearly two weeks, unless she brought it to your office. What’s up with that, brother?” Gunny angled backwards and leaned against the work surface, long legs stretched out as if there hadn’t nearly been a brawl between two brothers only a moment ago. Jock tried to hide his smirk but knew Gunny caught it when he tossed back a brand of his own.

  “One of the coaches quit on me.” A long, slow expulsion of air spoke to the level of frustration Jase carried. “I came over to see if you’d help.”

  “Me?” Gunny scoffed. “Not a skater, dude. Sorry.”

  “Dammit.” Jase flung out one hand. “What if I said all you had to do was coach from the bench? No drills, no ice time.”

  Now that the confrontation was over, it was time for Jock to step in. “Hoss could help out.” Jock watched both their heads swivel towards him. “He’s put in the time to learn for Samboni.”

  “He’s already picked up assisting one of the other coaches.” Lips pulled thin in a grimace, Jase shook his head. “I tagged him right away when I got wind of stuff going sideways.”

  Jock considered him. “What went sideways?” Brow furrowed, Jase tightened his mouth. Jock pressed him. “Seriously, brother. What went sideways?”

  “I didn’t like how he was with the kids. Took him to the side and discussed, thought I’d made my position plain. Realized a week later I hadn’t, but only when I overheard some parents talking about a game he’d coached. His methods?” Jase shook his head. “Not cool.”

  An idea growing in his head, Jock gestured towards his burns from the day everything had gone to shit, hell raining from the sky, the scars he bore on the outside. “You think the kids’ll give a shit? What I look like?” Jase’s expression turned pained, and Jock persisted, going careful and giving Jase an easy out. “Like I said. Seriously, brother. You think they’d be put off?”

  “You can skate?”

  Jock shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, but the idea of helping out with kids was growing on him. I’ll have all that time to fill on the weekends soon. “It’s been a few years, but yeah, I’ve skated a time or two. I’d be happy to help you out, short term.”

  Suddenly energized, Jase started bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I don’t think the kids will give a shit what you look like, long as you aren’t an ass, and I know you, there’s not a bit of asshole left in there.” He gave a wide grin. “Silly done straightened your act up and filled you full of goodness.”


  The pain that lanced through Jock wasn’t physical, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t leave a mark. He knew he’d let his hit his face when Jase paused, then said cautiously, “Everything okay with Silly? She’s here this weekend, right? I didn’t expect to find you in here.” He gestured around the garage, filling with brothers and customers, the sound level rising to the point it wouldn’t be long before Jock and Gunny fled. That’s why they always came in early, to avoid the crush and noise. “Figured you’d be laid up in bed with your sweetness.”

  “She needed some time.” Gut rolling, Jock turned away to grab a rag off the floor by the bike. He bent to gather up the parts still on the metal pan, folding them into the material. Without looking around, he muttered, “Thought I’d get some work done.”

  “She’s not here but a couple days a month.” Gunny’s voice was as close to incredulous as Jock’d ever heard it, and he glanced up to see the man’s expression matched the tone, comically. I’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. “Why the fuck does she need time away from you while she’s here?”

  “She needed time.” He shrugged. Tools gathered, he slotted them back into place in his boxes, dropping the parts into an oil wash that would keep them ready for his next step. He scrubbed his hands at the sink, working the pumice around his nails. “Said it’s going to be busy and intense, and she needed time. So I gave it to her.”

  “Jock, what the fuck is going on?” Jase had moved closer. “You can talk to us, eh?”

  “She’s got an offer. Ernesto wants her to run one of his shops.”

  “That’s good news, brother. Shop of her own, she’ll have more time and money, be a sweeter deal for you.” Gunny’s hand landed on his shoulder, fingers giving him a squeeze, then dropping away. “Good for both of you.”

  He swallowed hard, clearing the lump from his throat. As hard as it was to think about, saying it out loud made it real. The words would show his brothers what a sad sack he was, a man who couldn’t keep not one, but two women. “In New Orleans.” He stretched the sounds as Silly had, making it come out more like New Awlins. “Not Chicago. Not here.”