Hoss (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 7)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Gone

  Distractedly, Hope pushed the hair out of her face with the back of her wrist and then answered the phone, “Hello?” She was seated on the floor of the bathroom, leaning against the wall, one shaking hand holding the toilet lid open while the other held the phone.

  “Issues, honey?” Hope frowned at Jase’s question, because it didn’t make sense. She thought to herself, How would he know I have the flu?

  “Huh?” Head pounding, more complicated words were beyond her right now. Throw in the way her stomach was roiling, threatening to toss back the ham and cheese omelet she had eaten this morning, and she was not going to hold up her end of any conversation very well.

  “I gots an empty spot in my lineup today where there should be a small, but mighty Samboni. Did you need one of us to pick Sammy up for practice? Tyler is standing in the doorway with keys in hand, totally itching for a reason to drive again today.” His tone was gently joking, but she knew behind that was a disappointment, because one of his boys had deked out of practice.

  “Did the bus not drop him off? It’s Thursday, right? I didn’t get my days mixed up?” That was the regular routine on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when he had practice after school. On Wednesdays, he rode the bus to the Foundation offices too, but it was because she was working, and he would ride home with her from there. Mondays and Fridays she picked him up outside the elementary school building, and they would go shopping, or head to the library for a homework session. If the weather cooperated, sometimes they would hit up a park before going home. Home, she thought with a smile before her stomach rolled again. Tipping her head back against the wall, she blew out a steady stream of air and closed her eyes.

  “Yeppers, Thursday all day, unless it’s snowing, in which case it’s Snowy Thursday. We thought maybe he was sick. Hoss said you had a stomach thing yesterday, so DeeDee and I were watching the kiddos to see if they’d come down with it, too.” Sick kids meant no visiting Bingo in hospice, so she was glad Hoss thought to mention it to them. Jase couldn’t see her, so he didn’t know how his next words hit her, striking like a blow. “Jonny said Sam wasn’t on the bus. Said he hadn’t seen him since lunchtime.”

  The two boys had nearly every class together. In their grade, they didn’t actually change classrooms, except for non-academic things like band and art. Thursday was art, which Sam had, but Jonny didn’t, but that was before lunch. Her voice came out as a broken wheeze as her stomach rolled again, “Since lunchtime?”

  His tone now cautious, Jase asked, “Hope, did you pick Sammy up from school today?”

  Shaking her head, she struggled up off the floor onto her knees, and immediately tossed the phone to the floor as her stomach decided movement was the worst thing ever and she bent double over the toilet bowl, retching again and again.

  By the time she was spent, the call had disconnected and she didn’t blame him, because noisy vomiting wasn’t high on her list of things to listen to, either. Then, with a sense of panic, she remembered his question, the cause of her movement. She had scooped up the phone and was attempting to stagger to her feet just as Hoss called from the front of the house, “Hope, baby? Jase called, said you were pukin’. You okay?”

  Did you pick Sammy up from school today? Shaking her head, she ran water and bent over to slurp up a big mouthful, swished and spit it into the toilet, flushing it again. “Hoss, did you pick Sammy up today?” she called, thinking to herself if he had and hadn’t told her beforehand, if she could summon the energy, she might need to be pissed.

  He was in the doorway when she straightened, shaking his head. “Baby, you know I’d clear that with you first.” And she did, he was that kind of thoughtful. Her gaze locked on his and she whispered, “Jonny told Jase he hasn’t seen Sammy since lunchtime.”

  “Call the school,” Hoss said straightaway, and then repeated himself, “Call the school, baby.”

  ***

  “I don’t know,” she half yelled, half groaned, twisting in Hoss’ arms and lunging back to where she had set the small trashcan down, heaving again.

  “Think, Hope,” Gunny urged, ignoring her illness, thumbs beating out an irritatingly loud rhythm on the edge of the table, even as she gagged miserably. “You drove him to school and dropped him off at the end of the block?”

  Hoss had called him as soon as Hope was off the phone with the school. They were still waiting for a call back from the district superintendent, but records indicated someone had signed Sammy out of school at lunchtime. She hadn’t been able to get ahold of Mercy, but she and DeeDee had called everyone else they could think of. They were expecting to find Mercy had picked him up for something, but Hoss wanted to make sure they covered all their bases, just in case.

  “No, in front of the school, at the end of the main walkway.” She shook her head as she corrected him, face covered with an oily sweat. “I’m sorry,” she stammered before heaving again. Between spasms, she got out, “In front, where the cars pull up.”

  “Good deal,” Gunny said, reaching to hand her a dampened washcloth. “What car did you drive this morning? Were you in an SUV?” Hoss took the cloth from her, lifting the hair off her neck, laying the cool fabric on her skin.

  Frowning at Gunny as she swallowed down another bout of nausea, she finally got out, “No, the sedan, the four-door car. I always drive my car.”

  “That one got ‘Bama plates?” He asked the question and then leaned back and looked over his shoulder, calling, “Baby, grab Hope that bottle of water I put in the freezer, would ya?”

  After a moment, Sharon came into view, pink-swaddled baby tucked into the curve of her arm, and a bottle of vitamin water in her other hand. With a soft smile, she handed it to Gunny. “Open it, big guy. I’m kinda outta hands here.” He lifted his face and she ducked down to place her lips against his, pulling back with an even softer smile on her face. “Love you, Gunny.”

  Still looking at her, he reached up, cradling the baby’s head in his hand. “Love you more, baby. Bring my princess here,” he demanded, grinning and smacking his lips when she bent down to him. Sharon’s eyes fixed on his face as he pressed a gentle, loving kiss on their daughter’s head. “Still say we shoulda named her Kitten. Kitt woulda loved being not only an honorary uncle, but a namesake.”

  “And I still say Cadence Vanessa Robinson is a lot for any kid to learn how to spell, adding Kitten to that would just be cruel.” Sharon was only pretending to scold him, and Hope felt a warm affection in her chest, her fear easing a hairsbreadth as she watched the couple, loving the comfortable and easy way they were together. Not a soul watching them would ever question the love they had for the other. Hope reached to take the now opened bottle of water from Gunny’s hand, and then, in the breathing space afforded by their interaction, remembered his question.

  “Not Alabama. I have Indiana plates, Gunny.” Wiping her face with the cloth, she frowned at the rolling feeling still in her stomach.

  She was focused on cleaning up and missed seeing how still he had gotten until she heard Hoss ask, “Whatcha got, Gunny?”

  “Vid showed a vehicle with Alabama plates at the end of the block by the school this morning,” he said quietly, pulling out his phone and tapping for a moment. She was confused, because his words didn’t make any sense. Placing his phone on the table, when a voice came from the speaker, he said, “Got you on speaker, Myron. Pull up the video again, would ya?”

  An assenting noise, then tapping, then, “Got it. What?” came from the phone.

  Gunny said, “Forward to lunchtime.” He focused on Hope and asked, “What time do they eat, honey?”

  Hoss answered for her, the tension in his voice indicating he clearly understood something she didn’t. “Eleven twenty-five to twelve-oh-five. It’s a forty-minute lunch.”

  “Got it,” came from the phone again, and she looked at Hoss’ face, searching for a clue to what was going on. Then the voice said, “Black late model SUV, Alabama plates, pulls up right before noon, leav
es twenty minutes later. Let me zoom; gimme a sec…”

  There was a pause, and then he said, “Adult, dark hair, age indeterminate, race indeterminate, sex fucking indeterminate, got no height markers, either. It’s a grownup. That’s all I can get with this software. Seriously, the resolution on this video sucks balls.”

  He paused again, and then said, “Gunny, take me off the speaker.”

  Gunny reached out and picked up the phone, pressing the screen and putting the device to his head. He then uttered several unhelpful grunts, followed by a huff of air that nearly sounded like a ‘huh,’ then his eyes locked on Hoss’ face. “You’re sure?” This question was clearly enunciated, barked into the phone.

  He didn’t respond to whatever the man on the phone had said, merely ending the call and shoving the phone into his pocket before saying, “Garage, brother.” His gaze crossed Hope to rest on Sharon, and he said, “Apple slices, baby. See if you can settle her stomach, yeah?”

  Twenty minutes later, Hope was on the couch when Hoss and Gunny came back in. She shifted to her side, giving him room to sit on the edge of the cushions in the bend of her hips, wrapping her knees up behind him when he did, putting her head on his legs. “Tell me what’s going on. Please, honey.”

  “Hope, is there any reason to think Suiter knows where you are?” She shook her head, stopping when pain shot across behind her eyes.

  “Mercy’s car doesn’t have Alabama plates, either.” She shared the knowledge he already held, and he nodded. “You think Cal took him?” He nodded again, eyes on her face. There was a noise at the door, and she looked over to see Fury come in, followed closely by Deke and Mason.

  Looking back at Hoss, she asked, “Are you sure it was Cal?” The fact he was calling in even more of his friends was frightening. And seeing Mason in their home, the man all of these other powerful men looked up to, struck a chord of terror so profound it stole her breath.

  Reaching up one hand, he smoothed hair back from her temple. Gently, he said, “No, baby. We aren’t sure of much except Sammy left the school with a man, about six foot, hundred and eighty pounds, and got in a car with Alabama plates. He smiled and waved back at the school secretary out the window. He didn’t look afraid. He didn’t argue going.”

  Shaking her head, she whispered, “He doesn’t know Cal.”

  “What, Hope—” he started to ask, but Gunny’s voice cut through, brusque and alarmed, “Who does Sam know that he wouldn’t be afraid of, Hope?”

  “Daddy, or Mac. That’s it, really. He doesn’t even know Cal. No way would he go with him. Not without calling me. He admitted a couple months ago he knows what Cal did,” she swallowed, her throat raw and burning. “Knows why his father’s never been allowed in his life.”

  She slowly shook her head again. “Unless Cal used something to scare Sam, he wouldn’t go with him.” She felt the tears begin falling as she looked up at Hoss, seeing the fear in his face. Her breath came in sharp pants as she asked, “Hoss…who has our son?”

  ***

  Hoss was standing on the back deck, eyes to the snow-covered railing, when he heard the sliding door open behind him. Glancing back, he saw Mason and Gunny come out, quietly closing the door behind them. Turning, he asked, “Anything?” Not surprised at their twin head shakes, he turned back to the railing, tilting his head to stare downward again.

  “Sucks,” he said, and Mason made a noise of agreement. “Balls,” he finished and paused. “I want to do something…anything. He’s my boy, and I know what I want to do, but can’t find a direction.”

  “Best thing you can do right now is to see to Hope, brother.” Surprisingly, this came from Gunny, and Hoss tilted his head to look at him. They hadn’t always been friends, and the connection they now shared was something Hoss still felt he had to work at, but Gunny never struck him as the nurturing type. Then again, he had never seen the man like he was with Sharon and their daughter. Gunny continued, “Hoss, man. Any chance she’s caught?”

  Shaking his head, Hoss tried to decipher Gunny’s southern Louisiana saying, but failed. “Caught what? The flu? Yeah, she’s been puking for a couple days.”

  “No, brother. Caught pregnant.”

  Hoss scoffed, but then realized Gunny wasn’t kidding. “Unlikely, man. I’m religious about wrapping my shit up. Especially given her history of running as soon as things roll off dicey. You heard her call it in there; Sammy’s our son. Love that boy like he is my own, but I’m not looking to add to our little family.”

  Even as he said the words, he knew it was a lie. Bald-faced and painful, and a lie. Since nearly the first time he saw her, he had wanted Hope carrying his baby, their baby. But, when he broached the subject with her over the past two months they had been back together, she had shut him down. Every time, shut him down. That hurt too badly to admit, even to these men.

  “Brother—” Gunny started, but Mason cut him off.

  “I’m seeing the same thing he is, brother. Is there any chance she’s expecting?”

  Hoss stared at Mason like he had lost his mind. “One time. In September. Back five fucking months ago, I rode her bare. Woke her up with my mouth and hands; hot, willing…wanting. Softest, sweetest, tightest…best. Been denyin’ myself since, so, yeah…I’m pretty sure, Prez.” He shook his head, fighting down the urge to lash out. “Now, anyone want to tell me why you think we ain’t found anything yet?”

  Spider monkey

  Sam sat in the rear seat of the big car, staring at the back of the head of the man driving. Several times he had tried to come up with something to say, but the words kept running out of his head before he could open his mouth. Lifting his hand, he gingerly used the fingertips to poke and prod at his right cheek and the bone above his eye. He had seen the bruise in the mirror of the motel bathroom this morning, and knew why the man made him sit on this side of the car today, so no one would notice his huge raccoon black eye. I’m half a bandit, he thought bleakly.

  The music snapped off and he tensed, leaning slightly to the right in order to use the mirror on the windshield to see the man’s face. Sam had seen the sign for Alabama about an hour ago, and had begun to wonder obsessively about what would happen when they reached Birmingham. Maybe I’m gonna find out. Maybe he’s gonna tell me, he thought, and then grimaced when the man’s voice filled the car.

  “Nearly home, son,” Calhoun Suiter said, looking at him in the mirror with a grin. Sam didn’t like his smiles, because they were frighteningly fake, his stiff upper lip barely lifting to show part of his teeth, but the rest of his mouth never moved. His eyes never smiled, either, but he had found yesterday that when his father frowned, when he was displeased, then everything about the man got involved. When he scowled, it was as if the anger was pushing out from inside him, drawing everything tight in its wake.

  Without meaning to, Sam responded, heard his voice ringing in the car and immediately wanted to take it back, but was also really glad he said the words. That he told the man he didn’t matter. With everything he and Jonny had talked through about Hoss, the thing Sammy held on to was how good Hoss was. Sam wanted to be good, too. “I’m not your son,” he yelled again, and then was dodging back against the seat and the door when the man’s large hand swung blindly backwards, thrashing back and forth, mindlessly seeking to connect with a target frantically on the move.

  With grunts accompanying his exertion, Suiter ground out, “My fucking kid.” He swung back, missing Sam’s face by bare inches, the breeze from the force of the blow the only thing to touch his skin. Knuckles cracked hard against the window, the sound loud and shocking in the enclosed space.

  “My boy.” Another grunt and a swing, this one finding its mark, snapping Sam’s head to the side as the knuckles on the back of Suiter’s open hand connected right over the existing bruise. Sammy cried out, clapping his hand to his face and pressing back into the seat harder. “Took you.” Swing and another hit, this one on his forearm, less painful, but still enough to knock him si
deways into the door, where his head hit the window hard. “My own mother won’t talk to me, because”—swing and miss—“my boy’s mother fucking took him out of”—swing and hit—“state.”

  Dazed, Sammy didn’t register Suiter had gone quiet, that he had stopped reaching to hit him, didn’t know the car was slowing until he heard Suiter’s disbelieving voice asking the silent interior of the car, “What the fuck is this shit?”

  Looking out the window, Sam’s eyes widened when his gaze caught on the mass of bikers who were surrounding the car on the highway, pressing close to the side of the vehicle, the rumble of the bikes suddenly loud, wrapping around him with familiar comfort. Eyes darting back and forth, relief sprang to life inside him, even when he didn’t recognize any faces. These bikers didn’t hold any fear for him. After living with Hoss for so long—Hoss is my home, his brain supplied—these men didn’t frighten him like Suiter did.

  A big man with long hair pulled back into a ponytail gave him a thumbs up, mouthing the words, You okay? Sam nodded and reflexively touched his cheek. The man stared and then scowled, turning his head and yelling something at the men riding around him. Heart racing as he looked around, Sam saw there were bikes on only three sides of the car. They had left the passenger side open and were forcing them onto the shoulder, the bikes in front steadily slowing down, making Suiter stop the car.

  Before the car even came to a halt, the door beside Sam was yanked open, and the man with the ponytail leaned in, a long necklace dropping out of his vest as he bent forward, and his hands unclipped Sam’s seatbelt. As he worked the latch, Sam looked up, catching Suiter’s eyes in the mirror for a final time. His mouth, again moving without conscious volition, yelled, “I’m not your son. I belong to Hoss. Hoss and Mommy. I belong to Hoss!”