“My sissy.”
My Ronnie
Ester
Myron. I tried the name in my head before I let it trickle out over my tongue. I wouldn’t have thought the removal of a space would make something seem foreign, but it did. I didn’t want to make him think I wasn’t accepting of the man he’d put on like a coat, even if I could see bits and bobs of my Ronnie underneath everything. Myron was a man I didn’t know, but Ronnie just was. Everything I remembered of my brother, he was.
The court lady had tried to make me believe I didn’t remember anything, that I was making it up out of stories and movies and tales told by people who were lucky enough to have a real family, but I never believed her. My first memory was of Ronnie singing to me.
“Do you still sing?” Bones had left hours before, and Ronnie and I had sat up in the kitchen swapping puzzle pieces of our lives apart, trying to fill in the gaps for each other. Since coming to live with Bones, I found there were more things in my head, but not in a confusing way, in an ordered progression. Red, the man who had helped me get well, had told me nutrition and sleep and safety were setting things right for me, and his words had made me think. What if all the people who needed them had food and shelter? Without the fear and rules of the shelters, just shelter when they needed it. No strings, no owing for what you were given, just something to make a difference.
Now, with my question out of the blue pulling a confused smile to Ronnie’s face, I quickly figured out he hadn’t followed the path to my question. I grinned at him, and reached out, dragging a fingertip across the back of his hand. “I would kiss you here, and you would sing to me.” I traced a half circle there, then told him a truth. “I missed the singing a lot, but missed you most of all.”
“I’m so glad you remember me, Sissy.” He hadn’t hesitated a moment, slipping me back into that name as if there’d been no years between the sayings. I liked it, and had told him so, which meant when I grinned at him now, he knew why. “My Sissy.”
“My Ronnie.” Something in his eyes gave it away, a darkening instead of a twinkling, and I knew my name for him held pain as well as happiness. Because of that, I decided to let his real name out, give it a trial run, see how it felt on the air. “Myron.”
One corner of his mouth tipped up, and he shook his head. “I’m your Ronnie, Ester. I like how you held onto that.”
“Did you know Mason has a tiny human?” An abrupt topic change, and I knew it, but couldn’t help wondering. Bones had looked so sweet cradling little Dolly, and he was good friends with Ronnie, so maybe Ronnie would know this next question. When he nodded, I said, “Bones held her. The baby, I mean. Tiny Dolly.” Head tipping to the side again, he lifted his cup of coffee to his lips, making a humming noise that said keep going. He’d done it a lot today, and it worked now like it had a dozen times before. “He liked her.” His head tipped the other way, and he made the sound again. “Do you know if he likes tiny humans? Babies? Little people?”
“Do you like babies, Ester?” At his question, I ducked my chin, looking at the table between us, Ronnie’s fingertips resting casually on the wood grains, tracing tiny lines of growth and maturity. “Do you want a baby, maybe?”
“How scary it must be, to be willing to take that on. Bring a little person into the world.” I glanced up at his face, then back down, watching his fingertips make another circuit. “What if life goes sideways? Look at us, what happened. Parents can be there one day, and not the next.”
“Look at us.” When he agreed with me, I lifted my eyes, staring into his face. This was when I saw he didn’t actually agree with me, because when he looked at us, he saw something different. “Against all odds, we found each other again. You’ve got a man who loves you, who would level mountains to bring you joy. Isn’t adding to that joy something worth risking?”
“I don’t have to decide today.” Shaking off the thought, I rattled the chair with the movement of my body and Ronnie laughed. “I’m glad you’re still my Ronnie.”
His voice soft, he said, “If you had a baby, I could sing to it.” That pulled my attention, and I stared at him, shocked. Then I smiled.
Forever Rebels
Bones
“Appreciate y’all comin’ by,” Mason told another group of men who had just ridden up to the Little Rock clubhouse. It had been like this all day, one group after another, coming by to pay respects to the club for their fallen members.
There was some little amount of small talk, and then as had happened in some form with every visit, the leader of the group asked, “Rebels gonna keep a house here?”
Bones sighed as Mason cut a glance over to him. They had disagreed on this topic, with Bones giving way because Mason was national president, but it bothered both men that they were so far apart on this subject. Mason nodded, giving a version of the same response he’d handed out all day. “Fuck, yeah. Of course, we are. We’ve been part of Little Rock for a long time. This is our place, our house, and if anyone thinks we can be run off, they got a hell of a surprise coming.”
A few minutes later, bikes roared in the lot, and the visitors rode off, leaving an uneasy silence between the two men left standing behind. Bones stretched, rolling his shoulders, feeling the unaccustomed heat beating at his skin. They would be leaving early in the morning, headed north, where Chicago was still caught in the chill of late spring. Abruptly, Mason started talking. “We both know we’re going to keep arguing until I can make you understand. You willin’ to fuckin’ listen to me this time, Bones?”
“I have been listening to you. For two days, I have done nothing but listen to you. What you say does not make sense to me, Mason. I support you, and so I support your decision, but I do not have to believe in it.” Bones shook his head, squaring up with Mason, staring into his friend’s eyes. “I do not have to believe in your idea to believe in you.”
“Jesus.” The word seemed dragged out of Mason, and he tipped his chin upwards, rolling his eyes. “Just fuckin’ listen to me, would ya?”
Wordless, Bones stared at him and slowly nodded.
“We lost Watcher.” Bones couldn’t help himself, the bald statement made him flinch. “Yeah, hits me just as fuckin’ hard, every goddamned time I think about it. We lost Watcher. Same goddamned day, we lost seven men. Watcher’s path was his own, and fucking impossible to understand, but still an action he chose. Those seven men, though? They were taken by a brother, someone they trusted. Doesn’t matter he regretted it in the end, deed was still done. Families without closure, fuck, most of our rank and file don’t know what the hell happened yet, because we haven’t been able to bring our brothers home yet. That cut our Las Cruces chapter to the bone, man. Lost seven, and lost a princess. Sure, we found her, got her back, but uncovered every bit of the shit we didn’t want in the process. Since then we’ve lost another eight men. That’s fourteen in only a few months. Fucking funerals and wakes and memorial rides where those of us who are left behind have to look at each other, have to look at all their old ladies and families, and our brothers. Brothers looking sideways at brothers wondering if there’s another traitor behind the mask. Not a fucking one of us believed Diamond woulda done that. Not a fucking one of us.” Mason sucked in a harsh breath.
“Spider? Fuck, I remember thinking he was probably behind every fucking thing that had gone wrong. Diamond? Oh, fuck, no. Thought the man was loyal to the bone. Didn’t know his bloodline.” He scoffed, the sound hard and dark. “Bloodline.” Taking a half step forwards, Mason spread the fingers of one hand, lifting his palm towards Bones. “You ever look in the mirror at yourself and think, I don’t know who the fuck that man is?”
Bones shook his head.
“I do. And I can tell you, I don’t like it.” That admission was as close as a regret as anything Bones had ever heard from Mason. “Don’t like looking at the men around me and wondering, who’s next. I got three kids.” Mason leaned close, fists on his hips. “Our brother who died in this parking lot? Stan? Stan
had three kids. Three kids and two grandkids. We’re in a fucking war for our lives, Bones. We can’t give an inch. We give anything at all, and Morgan will find something to push into the breach. We can’t let him. Have to hold, fucking hold. Make it so Watcher didn’t die for nothing. None of those men died so we could back off and lick our fucking wounds. We can’t give Morgan anything, man.”
Mason raised a hand to Bones’ shoulder, gripped tightly, his hard fingers clamped down on the black leather. “This is our goddamned house. In Las Cruces, that’s our goddamned house, too. Chicago. Fort Wayne.” Swiveling them so they both turned towards the clubhouse, Mason pointed a finger to the rectangle above the porch bearing the Rebel Wayfarers MC logo. “That’s my goddamned house. I’m keeping my house, Bones. If I don’t, then everything we have will go the same way. We can’t give an inch.”
Staring at the black and white sign, Bones took in everything Mason said. Times like this were what wore the fabric of a club thin. When things were unsettled, uncertainty often led men to drop their patch, citing all kinds of excuses. Every action weakening the club further. Holding the line, keeping the chapter open, this would deliver a message not only to their enemies, but also to their members.
Speaking carefully, Bones responded, hoping Mason would understand all the words spoken, and the ones left unsaid. “I hear you. I hear what you say. I do not disagree. But”—he turned to look at Mason, needing him to take in everything—“the clubhouse here is compromised. We can move members in, but that is at the risk of weakening their current chapter. Where do you propose we find the numbers to keep every line in the sand sharply drawn?”
Mason grinned and heaved a heavy sigh, visibly relieved Bones would no longer be fighting him on this. “I got something in mind, brother. I got something in mind.”
***
Bones was bent over the bed in his loaned room upstairs when it happened. Looking around at the empty, pulled askew dresser drawers, he absently rolled a shirt, hands smoothing out the wrinkles, getting ready to put it in his bag. They were set to move out in about ten minutes. The clubhouse was packed because all the members in the region were in Little Rock. About half the men planned to ride with him and Mason up to the Missouri state line. That would leave about a hundred at the clubhouse to continue the wake and party that had begun after the funerals yesterday.
Bones had called home last night, talked to Myron to find out Ester had settled in quickly. When he spoke to her, the pleasure in her voice was plain. Happiness bubbled over in her words and tone, and she hadn’t hesitated to share her pique that he would be away a day longer than expected, but accepted it with good grace. Having Myron stay at their home had been the right call.
Shirt in hand, he was turning to place it in the bag when the noise registered. There had been a steady rumble of bikes in and out all day. Coming in groups of five or six, the sound had been constant, the men joking it was like being at a bike rally. Joking how Stan the Man would have liked this, grieving in their way, acknowledging the men who were gone.
So, when the noise level increased suddenly, without warning, Bones dropped the shirt and took the two steps to the window, looking out to see a massive group of bikes and bikers rolling up the hill to where the clubhouse sat. A hundred bikes that were not expected. Not Rebel. “Fuck.”
Shouting in the house now, he remained where he was, torn between wanting to be one of the men who greeted whoever these arrivals were, and wanting to have the advantage of high ground. Without looking, he reached back, pulling the bag on the bed closer, digging around for his spare magazine.
As the bikes drew closer, he focused on the lead riders, not believing what he saw. “Fuck!” Whirling, he ran to the stairs, managing to be right behind Mason as he led every member out the door and into the clubhouse lot. Positioning himself slightly ahead of Mason, he didn’t wait for the bikes to park before he was shouting at the man sitting arrogantly on his motorcycle. “What the fuck do you think you do, coming here? Now. You of all men have no place at our club, on our lot, at our fucking house. No place, never have.”
Shooter shook his head, tugging the bandana off his face. Without speaking, he climbed off the bike and stepped close to offer a still-gloved hand to Mason. Bones lashed out, striking it away, not even acknowledging the insult just offered his national president. “You have no place here, Shooter.”
“Mason, I wanted to extend my sympathies.” Shooter swept one arm out, indicating the men at his back. Even without them turning around, Bones could tell from the mixed colors of the nameplates and officer patches that this was no cohesive club come out en masse to support Shooter. “We wanted to say how sorry we were for all the Rebels’ troubles.” He glared at Mason over Bones’ shoulder. “Figured you’d be here. Wanted to get a look at you. See how you’re holding up with all the recent setbacks.”
“Message delivered.” That was Opie, speaking from the other side of where Mason stood. “On your way, John.”
“Brother,”—Shooter ignored Opie as he had Bones—“not a word of greeting for your blood?”
“Get the fuck out—” Bones was cut off by Mason’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him to the side.
“You know what I found?” Mason asked, his voice nearly conversational. “John, do you know who I found?”
“Boss,” Opie began, but Mason made a gesture, and he stopped speaking.
“Tell me how she died. Our mama. Tell me the story again.” There was an edge to his voice now, and Bones angled his head so he could see Mason’s face, keeping Shooter in view. “You told me once, and I wanna make sure I got it right.”
Shooter blanched, his already jail-pallor face going even whiter. Bones watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed, knew it was him swallowing nervously. “Told you how it happened. That’s nothing to do with why I’m here today.”
“No, you’re here today to cause shit, because it’s what you always do. What you’ve always done.” Mason's fingers dug into Bones’ muscles, gripping so tightly he knew it was involuntary. “Always.” Mason sighed, and said, “Tell me again. How’d she die?”
“Mexicans shot her. They torched her car and fucking shot her in the face. Shot her so many times, there wasn’t anything left of her. Between the burning and the bullets, you couldn’t even recognize her.” Shooter’s words came staccato, he moved sideways, shuffling his feet. “Torched her and killed her.”
“Who sold you that line of shit?” Mason’s fingers gripped hard, then released slightly. “Somebody fed you a line, man.”
“I saw her.” Shooter shook his head. “Not something I’d ever forget.”
“You recognized her? Thought you said she was shot to shit?”
“I saw her,” Shooter said this insistently, and it was evident he believed what he was saying. “Saw her body.”
“But not her face. You didn’t see her. Did that action, her death, did it start a war?”
“Fuck, yeah, it started war. You don’t get to kill the president’s old lady and not pay.” Shooter shuffled again, seeming unable to stand still. “They had to pay.”
“And that war, took out the club in Mexico? Was it the Machos?”
“Fuck, no. We worked with them to end their competition. Gave us a straight line to Central America.” Shooter shook himself, and then clearly tried to get back on script, saying, “Rebels took a setback this week, wanted to see you, see how you’re holding up with all the shit happening.”
Mason didn’t follow the verbal diversion, staying on topic. “Partnered with Machos, based on the evidence of a faceless female body?”
“Based on seeing my mother’s body lying bloody in the clubhouse. Burned and bloody. What the fuck are you going on about, Mason?” Two steps towards the clubhouse turned into three steps backwards as Shooter tried to keep himself under control. He leaned his ass on the bike he’d ridden in, trying to affect an ease he clearly didn’t feel.
“She didn’t die.” Mason dropped this bomb, and waited,
apparently expecting a reaction.
He got one.
“Fuck, yeah, she died. Torched and shot up on the freeway.” Shooter came off the bike and was standing stiff legged, fists balled at the ends of his arms. “Daddy saw it, wasn’t in time to save her. Ran ‘em off, pulled her out. Too late. She was dead.”
“No, she’s not.”
“The fuck you say!” Shooter lifted an arm, finger pointed at Mason, stabbing the air with each sharp exhalation. “She’s fucking dead.”
“I saw her. Talked to her. She ain’t dead, John.”
“Where do you think you saw her? You so stupid you didn’t know you weren’t talking to her?” Scoffing, Shooter shook his head. “So fucking stupid you don’t know the difference between Mama and some fucking skank you saw on the goddamned street.”
“You know we got another sister?” This was pure speculation on Mason’s part, and Bones knew it. “You know our daddy got a girl on another woman?” If Bones read things right, this was the first time Mason had acknowledged any truth to Morgan’s assertion he was Mason’s father. “Two boys, two girls. Perfect family.”
“Fucking shut up.” Shooter’s head moved back and forth in short, sharp arcs. “Just fucking shut up.”
A bike near the end of the line roared, followed by a dozen more, and Bones watched as the mass of machines started untangling themselves. The first group was followed by another, and another, the sound of their exhausts dwindling down to nothing. Shooter didn’t even notice, his attention focused on Mason.
“Yeah, you, then me and Bethy, and then Justine.” Mason dropped the name into the conversation casually, as if he expected Shooter to already know. “Baby sister.”
The last bike pulled out, turning around and heading back down the road. Bones had counted a dozen different patches, likely clubs where Shooter had held markers. Markers wasted on a call in like this, where there was no good outcome.
Bones (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 10) Page 31