Hoss (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 7)

by MariaLisa deMora

  He squeezed him tightly then stood, lifting Sammy with him. “Oh crap, I should put you back down, huh?” That got him a quick, hitching laugh and he grinned. Putting Sammy’s feet on the floor, he told him, “Run wash your face, blow your schnozzle, and then let’s hit the road, Samboni.”

  ***

  He knew he had a big, stupid grin on his face, but he couldn’t help it. After talking to Hoss today, hearing him admit he was a bad word—Sammy mentally whispered, Asshole—he felt as if nothing could go wrong.

  Lifting his hand, he pounded his palm against the glass in front of him, gaining the attention of two Tridents players seated on the bench right in front of him. They grinned and gave him a thumbs-up, one of them mouthing his nickname, Samboni, recognizing him from practice when Coach Spence’s friends came to help out. He nodded, and the player raised his hand, putting the knuckles of his glove against the glass. Sammy pressed his fist to his side of the glass, giving him the fist bump, and they both grinned, and then the player turned his attention back to the ice.

  He stood, waving both hands over his head when he saw Jonny across the arena, doing the same from his seats right below the press box. Jonny had been the best friend ever, never trying to lie to Sammy and say things would be okay. He only listened and offered ideas of how to be mean to Hoss when he hurt Mom.

  He jerked guiltily when Hoss poked his shoulder, suddenly afraid he knew what Sammy was thinking, knew the things he and Jonny had dreamed up. Hoss was directing his attention to the screen hanging from the ceiling, and Sam shouted with laughter when he saw himself up there. Jumping up and down, he waved both arms wildly until play resumed and they put the team back on the screen.

  “Holy smokes, Hoss, these are awesome seats,” he crowed, bouncing in place then bending over to make sure for the hundredth, millionth time his skates were safely stowed underneath his seat. They were.

  “They are good,” Mom agreed, and he twisted to see a grin on her face that matched his. “Puts us right here, where we see what the players really think about the game. Will you tell me later which reactions you liked best, and which you liked least?” The game horn blew loud to mark the end of the first period and he saw her face scrunch up, eyes squinting like the sun was shining on her face.

  “Mom, you okay?” He heard Hoss moving behind him, talking through the corner of the glass to Coach Spencer, who was working with the team tonight, filling in for their equipment manager. “Mom?”

  “Yeah, bud,” she said, but he didn’t believe the bright she tried to force into her voice. “Let’s go find the bathroom during intermission.” Standing, she leaned over him, and he turned his head to watch her press her mouth to Hoss’. He liked how Hoss curled his hand around the back of her neck, pulling her forehead down to touch against his, eyes open and staring into hers like he couldn’t look at her long enough to satisfy something inside him. She smiled, and Sammy heard her say, “Not going far, love. We’ll be right back.”

  Then he knew she was grinning at him, and saw Hoss’ mouth curve upward into a smile, too, because those words meant she was giving back some of the ground she had pulled out from underneath their feet when Hoss was gone. She moved to the aisle and he stood, turning to face Hoss.

  Trusting he would understand what it all meant, Sam told him, “Best. Night. Ever.” He closed his eyes when Hoss gave him the same hand curl around the neck, pulling him into a tight hug. Wrapping his arms around Hoss’ neck, he pushed his face into the rough and scratchy but just so-right-for-Hoss beard and said, “Thank you.”

  “You got it, Samboni.” The words were muffled against the side of his head and he took a deep breath, feeling safe for the first time in forever.

  Twisting out of his grip, he skipped to the aisle and then looking up, told his mom, “Race you,” before taking off up the steep, cement steps, leaving her shouted laughter behind.

  After the game, which the Tridents lost, but he knew it was because the refs weren’t playing fair, he was on the ice, skating beside Jonny. Since they moved up here, he and Jonny had become best friends. It felt like they had always known each other, ever since that first day in the Spencers’ backyard.

  Friends for life, they told each other all the time. Brothers, Sammy said in his head. Jonny was talking about something Tyler had done. The oldest of the kids in Coach Spencer’s house, Tyler usually felt it was his responsibility to keep everyone in line, and he was pretty good at it, too. Even now, Jonny wasn’t complaining, just sounding impressed at how Tyler had managed the tantrums of their twin sisters. With ten kids living underneath one roof, all of them having been through some stuff, it would be more surprising if they all got along all the time.

  Caught up in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice Jonny had stopped talking until his friend shifted a half-turn, moving to skate backwards in front of him, intently studying his face. “You mad at me?” From the twist of his mouth, he was worried about Sammy’s answer.

  With a laugh, he shook his head, watching the fear leave Jonny’s face. “Never. I’m glad you told.” He was glad, mega-glad, because he knew Hoss already knowing what his mom had done made it easier for her to tell him the details. If she had to start by telling him they had moved out, it would have been harder. This way, she only had to talk about the why, which was hard enough. “I’m glad you’re my friend.” Pushing hard, he skated past Jonny, yelling over his shoulder, “Can’t catch me!”

  You bring danger to my door

  “I wanna take you out.” He made this announcement after their late dinner, seated at the end of a long table with Hope, watching their friends laughing and talking. Jase and DeeDee hadn’t made it back yet from taking all the kids home after the game, with the plan being Tyler and the next oldest, Megan, would watch and get them all to bed. He and Hope would pick Sammy up the next morning, which meant he had her all night long.

  From her perch on his knee, she twisted to look at him, her smile sitting uncertainly on her face. He hated it, hated he had done this to her. Like he told Sammy today, he was willing to put in the time, because with her back in his house, Sammy in his house, those walls were suddenly becoming a home, and he liked the feeling. “We are out,” she said, tilting her head.

  “I mean I wanna take you out on a date.” This time he nodded, surer of himself. “Some place nice.” Glancing around, he laughed. “Not that this isn’t a nice place, but a biker bar isn’t where I want you to think of when you remember our first date fifty years from now.” There was shouting from the lower bar and he twisted to see. Then, hands to her waist, he lifted and set her on her feet, standing abruptly and turning, finding himself shoulder-to-shoulder with a dozen brothers, their women in a group behind them.

  From across the room, he heard Dixie call, “Nuh-uh, motherfuckers. Not in my fucking bar,” and knew she had recognized the cuts on the men walking in. Stalking to the end of the bar, the bar manager put both hands on the counter, levering her body up to put a knee on the cooler. Now head-and-shoulders above the crowd, she called again, no-nonsense, “Not in my fucking bar. Get your asses out.”

  “Shut the fuck up, bitch.” This was a snarl from the man in front of the group, Rogue, president of the Sins of the Brothers MC.

  “You will not come in here and—” Whatever else she was going to say was lost when her old man came behind the bar and pulled her off the cooler with an arm around her waist. He hustled her to the kitchen door, and then, with her still protesting loudly, pushed her through it, cutting a glance up to where Hoss stood with Slate.

  “Prez, what kind of play you want here?” Hoss asked, his eyes fixed on Rogue, who had stopped and was leaning up against the bar.

  “Want those motherfuckers out of my goddamned fucking space,” Slate bit off the words. “Fuck me,” he gritted out between clenched teeth. “What the hell are they doing here, Hoss?”

  “Women?” Ignoring Slate’s question for now, he knew this would not have been his first concern three months ago. He didn�
��t fucking care if he caught shit later about being pussy whipped; he just needed to know Hope was safe, that she would be covered, no matter what went down.

  “Prospects. Text Tequila and send them to Marie’s.” Slate’s attention never wavered, still locked on the man whose brother had brought so much pain to his woman.

  “Hurley, Worm,” Hoss called the names of two prospects, hearing the shuffle of boot leather on the floor as they came up beside him. “Two cages, don’t fucking care which, as long as you can take all the old ladies with you. Take ‘em to Marie’s. I’ll let Tequila know you’re coming. You fucking text me every time you stop at a light, and you only stop there if you can’t avoid a roll. These women are our lives, so treat them as such.” Hoss pulled his phone out, sliding the lock screen and texting Tequila, then Jase and Deke, then after some consideration, he gave Goose a heads-up, too.

  “Rogue.” This was Gunny, growling out a chilling rendition of the man’s road name. “The fuck you think you’re doing, coming in here with Rebels in the house? I mean, I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing in the Fort at all, but fucking shit, man. You got a death wish?” As he talked, he had walked forward, putting himself between their president and the threat.

  Hoss heard Hope asking questions behind him, and then another woman answered her, their voices receding towards the backdoor. Something was off, though, and he quickly counted the men in the lower bar. There were fewer now than before, and he caught sight of another man in a Sins cut working his way towards the outside door down there.

  “Fuck,” he yelled, turning towards the door and shouting for Hurley just as the door slammed behind the last of the women, pushed so hard from outside the glass cracked, half of it falling to the floor with a crash. Through the broken glass, he saw the women huddled together, a prospect on either side of the group, all of them surrounded by Sins members.

  He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment then called, “Gunny, outside,” as he twisted back to see Rogue and the other men surging in a group up the short flight of stairs separating the upper and lower bars. Slate rushed past him, headed outside too, and he stood firm, knowing his brothers would have the best chance of keeping their women safe out there. With them outside, that meant his job was in here. Reaching under his cut, he pulled out his pistol, calmly leveling it at the rushing men, gratified when they slowed and stopped twenty feet away.

  A woman’s scream, cut short, echoed from outside, and it was all he could do to hold himself still, to not turn and look. Fuck. Feigning calmness, he casually picked up the conversation. “I find myself seconding Gunny’s questions, man. What the fuck did you think you’d gain by coming in here like this?” There was a flicker of movement at the end of the bar, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Bear and PBJ, followed by two more Rebel members, prowling through the appreciably thinner crowd. They were moving quickly between those groups of people who were angling for the front exit of the building, bar patrons intelligently trying to put distance between them and whatever the fuck this was going down here tonight.

  “Not a club bar. Rebels don’t own this shit.” Rogue shook his head slowly, tipping his chin towards the shattered door. “Don’t you want to know what’s going on?” Raised voices came from outside, and another short scream.

  Hoss shrugged easily, lifting one shoulder and dropping it, still feigning casual, even while his mind was racing to figure out what play the Sins were making here tonight. He counted five Sins inside, and knew he had seen about fifteen total, which meant there were now ten out back. He ran scenarios through his head, but still wasn’t sure why they would have split.

  Their entire club could deploy only about a hundred members at any given time, so they had committed a significant percentage of their membership to this run. They would have known how many Rebel members were in the bar based on the bikes in the lot, so they had come inside knowing they were outnumbered. Rogue was president, and he saw two other officer patches on the vests in front of him, so this was their leadership on the line, too.

  What is their fucking play? “My brothers have it in hand, I’m sure.” He saw Bear and PBJ moving up behind the men, but didn’t react. “I can’t figure something out, though. Maybe you can help clarify something for me.”

  Chin lifted, Rogue asked, “What’s that?”

  “How the fuck did your momma raise two sons who turned out to be identical stupid fuckers? She have a gift or somethin’?” Hoss shook his head. “Musta dropped you both, hard. You and your brother, fucked in the head, apparently, if’n you think you can walk in here, threaten our family, and then fucking survive. He found out, hard and bloody, just how fucking wrong he was. Didn’t you learn from the mistakes of the past? Ain’t that what the name of your fucking SOB club’s all about?”

  There were more shouts from outside, these male, and in his peripheral vision, he saw Bear offer a reassuring chin lift. Whatever the man could glimpse through the broken door, it wasn’t enough to warrant Hoss taking his eyes off Rogue, who hadn’t yet risen to the bait. With a chill in his chest, he watched a smile spread across Rogue’s face. “You talk to Mason lately?” Fuck.

  Hoss didn’t give him any reaction, didn’t have to, because Rogue knew his jab had hit hard. Time to surprise the man. “Bear, wanna wrap this motherfucker up?”

  Bear was on him in an instant, hands gripping his arms and pulling him back and away from his men while PBJ stepped between to block their advance. Hoss cleared his throat, drawing eyes back to him, reminding them they were outnumbered and outgunned. Bear didn’t take any chances, locking the man down hard, pulling an arm up between his shoulder blades, and then pushing him to his knees. “Done, boss,” was all his brother said, and Hoss grinned at him over the kneeling man’s head, enjoying the efficiency of movement and language.

  From behind him, he heard Gunny say, “All good outside, Veep.”

  With a nod that didn’t break the eye contact he continued to hold with Rogue, he said, “Call the clubhouse, brother. Make sure Deke got everything locked down. I’m guessing the women are on their way now, after their…slight delay?”

  “Yeah, Tequila’s been informed of their progress.” There was a pause, and then Gunny said, “Deke, all good, brother?” Another pause, and then, with a tone of humor thick in his voice, he said, “Fucking excellent, brother. Save me a piece of that shit, would ya?” A laugh then a surprised grunt. “Huh. Chicago North, yeah? No shit? Outstanding.” A footfall, then another before Gunny spoke softly, words pitched low for him to hear, “All the women are good, Hoss. No worries. You knew we’d have her back.”

  He nodded, waiting silently.

  Louder, Gunny said, “Seems Mason called the clubhouse a little bit ago; our Chicago North chapter happened on an unusual parade happening through our town. Sounds like they efficiently dealt with the shit. Meanwhile, back at the ranch,” he laughed, and Hoss shook his head, “Deke dealt with a dozen Sins who wound up in our clubhouse lot looking for directions. Was a cluster for them, man. They shoulda bought a fucking map.”

  A large hand settled on his shoulder, tugging and gripping the side of his neck, and some of the tension he was carrying fell away. “Deke said he’s holding shit for you and Prez. What say we load these fuckers in the cage we dropped their little friends in and take ‘em back with us? We’ll play a round or two of cat and mouse, have a little bit of game time.”

  ***

  Hope stood, cloth rag in hand, looking around at the women gathered near the end of the bar. They had come to Marie’s, and once inside the bar, she had quickly and gratefully slipped back into her comfortable role as a waitress. It gave her something to do with her hands, which now only shook when she thought about what had happened tonight. Even as hard as she tried to keep her mind blank, the events kept creeping in around the edges, stealing her composure.

  What had happened? She shook her head. Everything moved so quickly. It was all so fast she hadn’t been able to keep up, couldn’t ke
ep things straight. Seated on Hoss’ lap one moment, with him talking sweet to her, and then the next they were hustled out the backdoor, only to find themselves confronted by a large group of men.

  The front door of Marie’s pushed open and she jerked, glancing nervously in that direction, seeing a well-dressed couple pausing before being escorted back outside by Tequila. It seemed the bar was closed to all except the club tonight.

  “They won’t be here for hours yet, hon.” Her gaze flicked to the woman leaning against the bar in front of her. The petite beauty was Coach Spence’s sister, Sharon. She had seen her with Gunny earlier and knew the two were a couple. Beauty to his beast, it seemed like, because Gunny was one of the scarier men in the club. Huge, at least six-foot-five, the tender care he had for Sharon and the love in his face when he looked at her went a long way to dispelling the instinctive fear he evoked.

  Sharon was the only one of the women who hadn’t looked fearful in the back lot of the bar earlier, surrounded by strangers. Even pregnant, her belly softly rounded, she had stepped up beside the two club prospects trying to protect the women, yelling at the other club. Her actions had given them courage, and before long, practically all the women were shouting and gesturing, their attitudes appearing to confuse the men. Then, several Rebel members had come out the shattered door, and the event was effectively over, the rival club members restrained and shoved into a cargo van.

  Hope nodded, swiping at the bar top again, twisting to look at the door again anyway. “Seriously, it’s okay, Hope. The club has it under control.” Sharon’s faith appeared unshakable, and then her face went soft. “If you’re worried about your boy, don’t. I heard from DeeDee earlier there are about twenty members at their house, consuming everything in her refrigerator. The only thing you have to worry about is if he’ll have anything to eat for breakfast.” She briefly returned the smile Sharon had on her face, and then dropped her gaze to the bar.