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

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Yeah, place called Trudette’s. Just up the way.” He stepped through the patio doors, turned and secured the lock, then dropped the wooden dowel he’d bought and cut for the bottom track. Better than a lock. If the door couldn’t slide, it couldn’t be opened, period. Thieves would have to break the glass to get in. A small black box rested against the glass, a tiny green light blinking from the backside. He’d bought an impact alarm, too. So if someone broke the glass and Silly missed hearing the noise, the piercing shriek of the alarm would capture her attention and hopefully run the assholes off. She wouldn’t be here long, the place was a temporary stopover, but he’d done the same for every window in the apartment, and bought and installed a security bar on the front door, too. Not that he expected her to have trouble, but Jock was a big fan of planning ahead. “Bar food, but I heard at the hardware store they’ve got the best burger in town.”

  “High praise from this stranger I’ve never met.” Her voice was a teasing lilt, and he rolled his eyes and kept moving through the apartment into the kitchen.

  Silly stood unwrapping the final box of dishes, stacking them in the dishwasher. Which he didn’t understand. She’d washed them after taking them from her old cabinets but before packing them up, and now was washing them before putting them in her new cabinets.

  “Bob’s a good guy. You’d like him. I’ll introduce you. He’s full of local stories and lore.” Jock slipped in behind her and bent to press his lips to her shoulder, dragging the kiss up her neck to the edge of her jaw. She angled her head to flash him a smile, then arched her neck in invitation. “Wanna go have a beer with your man and then come home and get lucky?”

  “I could be convinced.” He waited until she’d finished with the last dish, then lifted the dishwasher door with one toe as he wrapped his arms around her middle, hoisting her at the same time he closed the door. “Jock.”

  “I know you’re hungry.” He adjusted his grip, turning and bringing her higher against his chest so she could give him her mouth. He worked for a whimper, and when he got one, smiled against her lips. “I wanna feed my woman.” She scoffed and he chuckled. “And I wanna do that, then come home with my woman, and get laid.”

  “In that case.” She gave a wiggle, and he stooped and set her feet on the floor. “Lemme wash my face.” He watched her walk away as he dug out his phone. After the last phone call with Gunny, he’d shifted his questions to Mason. Not only was the man intelligent and sympathetic, but he’d founded the Rebels, and Jock knew out of pride for the organization, Mason would not steer him wrong. He also didn’t want to have that same conversation, so he led with a text.

  Protocol question: I’m here in IMC territory. Wear my colors to a bar, not theirs but biker friendly, or not?

  The response was immediate and to the point.

  You do that check-in I told you to do?

  He had not. Jock sighed and started typing, paused and backspaced, started typing again. His phone dinged, and he saw Mason had added to their conversation.

  You didn’t do it. Do it now. Like I told you before, we’re friendly, not allies but close to. You show respect and check in, then wear your patch, and all’s good.

  Jock didn’t hesitate this time, just responded with a simple: Got it

  He scrolled up the thread, found the phone number Mason had texted him three days ago, tapped it, and put the phone to his ear.

  “Ayeap?” Like all the voices down here, even that simple drawn-out word was musical.

  “Pony?” He received an affirmative grunt in response. Pony was the Sargent at Arms for the Incoherent MC and the approach from any outside club. In person or via any other method, if you didn’t know another member personally, and sometimes even if you did, an officer was who you reached out to. Protocol. Just like his next statement. Instead of leading with a name-dropping rendition of who he knew, he told him who he was, leading with the most important information. “I’m a member of the Rebel Wayfarers Fort Wayne chapter. Jock. I’m in town and wanted to pay my respects to the IMC.”

  Proving he knew exactly the club Jock was part of, Pony didn’t waste any time getting to business. “RWMC got official business down here on IMC’s patch of dirt?”

  “Nope. My girl’s moving to Hammond. I brought her down. Wanted to take her out tonight, but wanted to pay respect first.”

  “RWMC got an ole lady movin’ to town, sounds to me like that’s business. You want to revise your original ask?”

  “Not official business. My business. Me and her are going to work things out, but how that works out is yet to be determined.”

  Pony scoffed. “Man, you put a PO in my territory, that makes it official business even if you don’t think it does. Mason shoulda taught you that.”

  He knew the tension and pain bled through his voice now, but he couldn’t stop it. Leaving Silly, even if he’d determined to make it temporary, was still tearing at him. “Mason’s the one who gave me your number. My girl doesn’t have a vest. I was going to petition for one—why am I going into this for you? Jesus, all I want to do is take my girl out for burgers at Trudette’s.” Jock sighed. “I’d be obliged if you’d pass on my respects. I don’t have but a couple more days here with her before I gotta roll back north. Deke’s bought a bike from one of your brothers, and I’m ridin’ it home.”

  “Take your girl to Trudette’s. Get her a burger. Tell ’em Pony sent you.” Jock breathed easier at that, because it meant he’d been heard. That was good, and now he could report back to Mason that he’d checked in and everything was fine. “See you in thirty. Save a couple of seats.”

  Jock froze, heard nothing more, and pulled the phone away to see the call had disconnected. Tension bunched the muscles in his shoulders and back.

  Shit.

  ***

  Jock

  He’d selected a corner booth in the back, one with a direct line of sight to the door—and, through the windows, to the main parking lot. There were a few bikes outside now, but when he’d stood at the doorway under the premise of waiting for a nonexistent hostess, he’d verified none of the patches at the tables were IMC.

  Incoherent MC was the dominant in the region. Their mother chapter was here in Hammond, and he should have known that, according to Mason’s curt follow-up texts. IMC had many close allies, including another dom club just to the east, the Caddo Hobos MC, better known as the CoBos. IMC as a club was strong, with more than a dozen chapters, and vigorously defended its territory against all comers. Mason had repeated that last bit.

  He’d also included that the club had his respect, which said a fuck of a lot. That didn’t stop Jock from sweating whatever meeting this was that Pony had demanded. Twisted was IMC national president, but he was also based here in Hammond, so he could conceivably be here tonight, too. That would be fucked, because as a member, he really shouldn’t talk to officers of another club. But the IMC’s SAA had ordered Jock to hold a couple of seats, and as a guest in their territory, he was. The booth was big, and he’d crowded Silly into the same side as him, backs to the wall, leaving the other bench empty.

  She’d listened carefully as he filled her in on the ten-minute drive. Around clubs more than half her life, she understood everything he said and all the things he didn’t. That meant she hadn’t demanded his arm around her, wasn’t clinging to his hand. She had her hand on his thigh and was pressed close, but not so close he couldn’t get at his pistol if needed. He just hoped like fuck it wouldn’t come to that.

  The waitress had just walked away from the table with their order when he heard it. Heard them coming. It was a rolling wall of sound, so many bike exhausts in a group that the tones overlapped and merged into a single rumble. It died down in fits and starts, small at first, then big chunks of the noise cut out at a time as men backed their bikes into parking spaces and killed the engines. Through the window, he watched a wave of black surge towards the diner, slowly separating into individuals, the black interspersed with color he recognized as w
omen. Some wearing a vest, no doubt POs, but a lot of tank tops and tees, just like Silly.

  Jock blew out a deep breath, then pulled in another, relaxing the smallest amount.

  They’d brought their women. That didn’t say meet; that said night out at a local bar.

  He heard them before the door opened, loud shouts of laughter, rumbling conversations. Then they swept inside and the first eight or so arrowed straight towards his booth, the rest spreading out through the room. Jock patted Silly’s leg in a directive to stay planted, and he shoved out of the booth and unfolded, waiting at the end of the table.

  Nameplates declared Twisted—which was his worst nightmare made flesh, having to deal one-on-one with a national president. He’d read Pony, Busk, and Po’Boy, where a difference in colored nameplates caught his eye, then came to Wrench—heart racing, he racked his memory because that name stood out. As did Ace, standing next to the man. Two women, one definitely pregnant, stood directly behind two of the men, Twisted and Wrench.

  As he’d been instructed, Jock kept his lips sealed, waiting for IMC to break the silence.

  Twisted nodded, flicked the briefest glance behind him at Silly, and did a double take. Gaze back to Jock, he made a show of looking up, exaggerating the angle of his neck, so it wasn’t a surprise that he led with “Jesus, fuck me twice, you are one big dude.” Teeth flashed in the man’s beard, and Jock let his lips twitch in response. There’d been no introduction, so he kept his silence. “Like the addition, man. Old school is appreciated here.” Twisted pointed a finger at the large safety pin fastened just above Jock’s nameplate. As Mason had told it, this was a symbol that a biker wearing colors was just moving through territory. Not a surety to keep confrontations at bay, but a help he’d sworn by. Seemed Mason was right.

  Twisted shoved his hand out and Jock reciprocated, surprised when the man went for his thumb instead of a shake, but he allowed himself to be drawn forwards and took the pounding against his outer shoulder, also reciprocating, careful to not touch the leather of the man’s vest. “Twisted, man. Well met.”

  “Jock. Back atcha.” He tried not to let his relief show and knew he’d failed when Po’Boy flashed him an insolent grin. “Alla y’all.”

  “I’m IMC.” Twisted said this just like Mason had often said the same, claiming the club in a way any man paying attention could not mistake. “That reprobate there is my ride-or-die, Po’Boy, no matter he’s done patched out of IMC.” The statement was puzzling, but Jock watched as, thumb over his shoulder, Twisted didn’t have to turn and look to see where the man was, trusting he’d be at his back. “You talked to Pony, and we nabbed a couple others to sit with us. Busk here sold your boy Deke his latest build, and the man wanted to see who’d be babyin’ that beast to the cold, cold north.” He faked a shiver that made everyone laugh. “But,” he worked to drag this word out long, and Jock braced even as Twisted gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, “we had visitors and couldn’t rightly run out on them. So we let the CoBos tag along with. Wrench is their nat prez, and Ace is the past.” He leaned close and, in a stage-whisper, asked, “You intimidated yet, man?”

  “Not yet. I’m a Rebel.” That came out far cockier than he felt, but it was the right move because Twisted stared up at him, that split in his beard wider, more white showing through. Then the man threw back his head and laughed.

  “Fucking spades, man. I’m gonna like you.” Twisted gave his hand another tug and a squeeze, and yanked him in for a one-armed clinch just like Gunny or Mason would. Jock allowed it, and followed the man’s lead to pound his back twice, on the leather but still well away from the patch. Friendly, not far from being allies, but not brothers. He stepped back and Jock released his hold. “Now shove the fuck over, and we’ll take a load off. I’m hungry, and I’ve recognized your girl there. I got some questions for her.”

  Glancing back at Silly, she gave him a tiny nod as she scooted to the far end of the bench. Fuck. This was going to jack with him. On the inside like that, men he didn’t know pinning him in? He swallowed hard and held her gaze. It didn’t take long, a flash of a second, and she realized what was happening, reversing her course until she shimmied out of the booth and stood beside him. She offered the women a wave first, then lifted her eyes to Twisted before returning her gaze to Jock. “I’ll be back in a minute. I need to visit the facilities. Save me a spot?” That gave him a reason to let the other men slide in first, so he stepped back, taking her with him. He bent deep, touched his mouth to hers and nodded.

  By the time he’d turned back to the table, both benches were full and Twisted had pulled two chairs up at the end. He was sprawled on one, the petite redhead who’d been behind him perched on his thigh. Jock accepted the other chair and sat, only then realizing Twisted had given him the one that allowed him a wall nearly at his back. Just like Gunny had done the first time they’d met, Twisted had somehow read his reluctance, understood it wasn’t disrespect driving it, and given him enough room to be comfortable.

  Po’Boy was to his right, and Jock gave him a nod. Next to him was a blonde, and then Wrench. That seemed backwards, because the national president of the CoBos wouldn’t normally be pinned in like that. Busk, Pony, and Ace sat in the opposite seat, backs to the room.

  Twisted made a noise and Jock swung to look at him. “Your girl.” Twisted paused a beat. “She’s the tattoo chick.” Jock nodded. “She’s good.” He smiled that time as he nodded. “You got any examples to show?”

  “Yeap, she’s working on a big back piece for me.” He smiled, knowing the expression was filled with pride. “Her original, start to finish. We’ve worked in the outline, now gotta pin her down to do the rest for me.” He gestured towards the scars on his throat. “It took some contemplation, but now we’ve started, I find I’m anxious to get it done. Have her on me like she wants.”

  Twisted sighed and gave him a slow nod, head tipping towards Jock. “You served.”

  It wasn’t a question, but he answered anyway. “I did.”

  “Gratitude for your service, brother.” Jock jerked his gaze to Ace, who’d spoken from his seat farthest away. “What branch?”

  “Oorah.” Jock grinned when the man echoed the sound. “Marines. You?”

  “Hooah. Army.” Ace grinned back. “My tours were in a different country, but damn I respect you boys for taking on that sandbox.”

  Jock felt his smile fade. “Thank you for your service,” and then he gave the man back the word that meant the world, “brother.” Silly’s warm hand slipped up his shoulder to the back of his neck, and he wrapped her up, bringing her in to sit crossways in his lap. “Gonna have to eat like this, baby.”

  “I’ll manage.” She pushed up and pressed her lips to the hinge of his jaw. “You good?” she whispered, and he nodded. “Good.” Turning in his arms, she looked between the two women, gauging their standing in the club, and shook her head. “I’m stuck here, ladies. You’re equals. So I’ll go first. I’m Silly.” She paused, and Jock chuckled at the expressions on their faces, clearly waiting for her to continue.

  “That’s her name. She does that shit to everyone.”

  Grinning, the redhead giggled. “I’m Penny.” She pointed to the blonde. “That’s Crissy. I’m Twisted’s, as you can see.” The man in question smacked his hand hard on her ass, and she grinned wider. Then he curled his arm around to cradle her stomach, and her expression gentled. “Crissy belongs to Po’Boy and Wrench.”

  From the intense stare Twisted turned his direction, Jock knew this was a test, just as sure as the heavy firepower of so many officers showing for a meal with him was. He nodded, tipped his head down to catch Silly’s gaze and said loud enough for all to hear, “Sounds like those boys got it goin’ on, baby.”

  “No, Jock. My man’s got it goin’ on.” She thrust her hand between her legs and cupped his crotch, his dick twitching when she gave him a squeeze before turning back to Penny. “Pleased to finally meet you. You’re quite the legend.” She angled
her head to look at Crissy, and he heard the grin in her voice as she said, “And sister, you are someone I’d like to have a chat with sometime. I bet you’re a hoot to party with.”

  “To be clear.” Po’Boy’s voice was low and rough, riding the edge of mean even in this setting. “We’re all three together. Him,” he tipped his head towards Wrench, who Jock saw was rolling his eyes, “me,” Po’Boy jerked a thumb towards his own chest, “and her.” Tipping his body sideways, he crowded against Crissy. “Together.”

  “Pleased you got that, man.” Jock nodded, holding his gaze, not giving an inch. “Takes a solid pairing to withstand the pressure in any conditions, but to hold fast to what you’ve got? Rock. You’ll get nothing but respect from me.”

  “I like him.” Wrench flashed him a lazy grin, then captured one of Po’Boy’s hands and confidently threaded his fingers through. “Not as much as I like you, babe.”

  “You better fuckin’ not,” Po’Boy shot back, then turned to face Jock. “And you better not get any fuckin’ ideas. Don’t matter how much you,” his voice lifted, turning falsetto as he mimicked Silly’s words, “got it goin’ on.”

  “My woman’s all I want or need.” He didn’t miss how Silly melted into him more. “But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Oh, I like him, too.” Twisted was laughing as he banged a fist on the table. “Beer, burgers, and brothers. Ain’t no shit better’n that shit.”

  “Can we talk about pussy for a change? Or bikes? Or fuck, I don’t know. Golf?” Pony tipped his head backwards and spoke to the ceiling. “I’m done talkin’ about cock. And not all of us have an ole lady to go home to.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Po’Boy jumped on the new topic with both feet. “Yours, motherfucker. I set you up with that chick last week.”

  “Fuckin’ RC mama? Were you serious? She’s been passed around half a dozen weekend warrior groups, man. You’re an asshole of a friend.”