Hoss (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 7)

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Kiddo, cool it,” the man muttered, hands shoving under Sam’s armpits and pulling him from the car. “I heard ya, man. Chill. Right in my fucking ear, I heard ya. You belong to Hossman. I get you. Fam, dig it.” Swinging him high, the man said, “Arms around my neck, kiddo.”

  There was a shout from beside them, and Sam turned to see a bunch of the men had gotten Suiter out of the car. He was yelling, his face red and ugly, angry-looking as he shoved at the chest of one of the men surrounding him, only managing to propel himself backwards when the man didn’t move. Suiter nearly lost his footing, stumbling into the grass at the side of the road.

  “Kiddo, eyes on me, dig? I’m Retro, and I guess you already get I’m a friend of Hossman’s. He called, asked me to pick you up. Said you might be needing a ride.”

  Turning to look up at the man, Retro, Sam nodded. He wasn’t afraid, not exactly. Certainly not as afraid as he had been for the past two days, but these men were strangers—stranger danger, his brain hissed—so hearing Hoss’ name helped to settle the bit of fear he did have. “Is my mommy okay?” His throat had tightened so much he could hardly force the words out. “He said…” He pulled in a breath then another. “He said he would hurt her.”

  “Your mom’s fine, Sam. I was told to make sure you knew she was fine. Your mom said you have a word, right? I’m supposed to say ‘Samboni.’ Now I don’t understand what the hell it means,” he grinned at Sam, and then winced along with Sam when the answering grin hurt his face, “but clearly you do, and that’s good. Samboni, got it?”

  Sam nodded, eyes fixed on Retro’s face, thinking he looked like someone he knew. “See, your mom and Hoss, they figured out it had to be something like that. Something like that kind of lie would be the only reason you’d go with this ballsac. Lemme see that face, kiddo.” Retro sounded angry at the end, and Sam obediently lifted his chin, letting the man scrutinize his cheek. “Fuck, little man, you need some ice. Little dude, that’s not cool, him hitting you like that.”

  Sam shook his head, and then said, “His mommy hit me once. I bet she hit him a lot.”

  “Fuck,” Retro hissed then continued walking towards a group of parked bikes, still carrying Sam. “I ain’t got a lid for you, Sam, so we’re going to have to ride super safe to get you home to your mommy. I bet she never hits you, does she?” Sammy shook his head, and then looked down at the necklace Retro wore. The necklace had a heavy silver ring threaded onto the chain, which swung back and forth as he walked, keeping time like a heartbeat.

  He tipped sideways so far Sammy clutched at the shirt under his vest. Then Retro straddled one of the bikes that had really tall handlebars, turning Sam in front of him so he was sitting on the tank, but facing away from the car, where—

  “Tell me what else hurts, little dude.”

  There was a high, wavering scream from by the car, but when Sam tried to turn and look, Retro held him in place and told him, “Eyes on me, yeah? Remember that.”

  Retro’s mouth moved sideways when there was another scream, this one cut short and he muttered, “Change of plans. We’re gonna assess at the clubhouse. Right. Okay, kiddo.” He reached down and pulled a jacket from one of the bags hanging down beside the back wheel. “Put this one on.” Retro helped him into the jacket and pushed the sleeves up until he could see Sam’s hands, and then he turned Sam to face him, pulling his legs up around Retro’s waist. “Pretend I’m the monkeybars at the playground, hold on like the ground’s pouring red hot lava and you can’t drop or you’ll burn right up. Hold on tight.”

  Sam blinked at him a couple of times, because it actually sounded like a fun game, and he made mental notes to talk to Jonny about it when he got home. Home, he thought, and saw Hoss and Mom’s faces.

  “Yes, sir. Okay. I can do that,” he said softly, knowing Retro couldn’t hear him over the sound of the motorcycle. As they pulled out onto the road, followed by a dozen of the men on bikes, he wrapped his arms around the man’s neck and held on tight, the chain of the necklace pressing a pattern into the skin on the unbruised side of Sam’s face.

  As they rode, Retro sang songs, off-key and with no regard for rhythm, but the singing was fun and easy, and Sam gradually relaxed into him, falling into a deep sleep, soothed by the rumble of the bike and the pleasure heard in the man’s voice.

  “Little dude’s a spider monkey,” he heard Retro say, and then there were other voices dancing at the edges of his senses. Voices he knew and should be able to recognize. “Wrapped around and held on tight, even after he fell asleep. He’s been snoozing since we pulled in, probably ‘bout four hours, Hoss. I had Mudd’s old lady ice his cheek. It’s already lookin’ a lot better.”

  Hoss. Sam sat straight up and looked around the room, frantic to see if it was real, but scared to death it was a dream. Retro was standing by the doorway of what looked like a bedroom, and Hoss and Mom were walk-running to where he was on the bed. He watched their faces as they got close, Mommy dissolving into tears, and Sam knew when Hoss cataloged the damage done to his face by the way his features tightened. Home.

  My song for you

  “No. You don’t fucking understand, brother.” Hoss put slight emphasis on the last word, making sure Slate knew he was serious. “I either deal with him here, or I bring him home. Ain’t gonna be no waiting around to make sure the fucking law is gonna do their shit.” He pulled in a hard breath then blew it out slowly, trying to calm himself. “Slate, man. You don’t know wha—”

  “Oh, yes, I fucking do, brother. Yeah, I do fucking know.” Slate cut him off hard. “You misplace the knowledge of what you saw in the Sins clubhouse two years past, Hoss? She fucking died there, but before she died there and was brought back to life by Goose, she was taken from my fucking side. My goddamned, fucking side.” Hoss heard a noise and knew Slate had just thrown something in the office. Fuck.

  “My goddammed. Fucking. Side. Taken. For hours, I didn’t know who. Then I knew who, but I didn’t know where. Then I did know fucking where, but had to wait. Couldn’t go off halfcocked, because that wouldn’t do anyone any fucking good. That’s where you are right now, brother. But you’re a fucking step ahead of me, because you got your boy back already and he’s still breathin’ air. He ain’t laid out in no hospital bed, with you wondering for fucking hours if he’s gonna remember you when he wakes the fuck up. He’s upright, able to tell you if he’s fucking hungry, or hurting, or scared, because you got him the fuck back.”

  Slate was silent on the phone for a moment then huffed out a breath. “You got him back, and we, by God, got Suiter’s shit on lockdown there. We give Deke’s brother a day to sort shit with LEO up here, and if he can’t, then you talk to me. I hear you wanting to clear your trash there. Retro said the Bastards’d assist with removal, so you will give it one fucking day. One day, knowing if that fuckstick goes downstate for interstate kidnapping then he’s doing some hard time, in a hard place, walking side-by-fucking-side with people who we can convince to be incredibly unhappy with the shit he’s pulled on your boy and your woman.

  “His life is done, brother. Today, tomorrow, a year from now…his life is done. You got Sam back. You got Hope with you. Do you fucking get how fucking precious that is, brother? You got them both, man. Fucking amazing shit right there. So you will get your shit under fucking control and you will lock your own shit down until I give you the fucking green light to go one goddamned direction or the other. You get me?”

  Hoss tilted his head, not answering, just looking down at the scuffed toes of his boots and listening to the laughter of his woman and boy in the next room as they argued over who was the best goalie in the league, of all absurd things. Fucking hockey, but it made Sam laugh, so his Hope was all over that, using it to bring laughter back to their boy.

  Every time either of them looked at Sam’s face, it brought the harm suffered at his father’s hands back home. The black and blue echoes of that man’s touch on their son was a lasting reminder of how fragile their world was
, when hands could reach six hundred miles and spread their hate underneath the skin of a child so precious and good.

  Every time Sam tracked Hope moving across the room with his gaze, face tight, a sense of panic hiding right below the surface, they knew he was remembering the cruel promises Suiter had given him as surety against his behavior. The conceited bastard uncaring of the soul scarring and fear left behind on someone he saw as a thing. Nothing more than a pawn. The boy a moving piece in a scheme to regain a legacy he had been cut out of.

  Now, as the silence on the phone stretched for minutes, Hoss listened to a quiet beyond the miles separating them, a stillness telling of shared experiences, and a belief in the other to do what was right. Some people would have been put off by that space of time empty of words, but both he and Slate were comfortable within it until it passed. Once it had, Hoss sighed and said, “I got you, brother,” because he did.

  Disconnecting the call a few minutes later, he stepped into the doorway separating the two hotel rooms, seeing Hope sitting on the small loveseat with Sam. He was leaning across her lap, twisted into pretzel knots, seeming to try and touch her with as much of his body as he could and still see the screen. Hope, for her part, was also staring at the TV with an arm tucked underneath him, holding him tight against her, elbow bent, hand cupping his side across his belly, her other hand threading through his hair again and again, tracing the features of his face and then returning to thread through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead.

  Hoss glanced to the TV set, and then did a double-take, staring. He saw Retro front and center on the steps of what looked like the county courthouse, a microphone held to his face by a petite brunette news reporter. The segment title on screen gave his name as Jeremiah Rogers, and Jerry, better known as Retro and president of the Bama Bastards, was talking about how great it felt to rescue what amounted to his eight-year-old nephew from danger.

  He took a picture of the TV with his phone and texted it to Slate, saying only, Lookit this shit. In a couple minutes, he received, Clinched it 4 ya. Damn ur brother’s a fucktard. Knowing Jerry’s little stunt would mean the courts would now be fully invested in nailing this fucker, as he walked over to slide behind Hope and Sammy, pulling them both against him on the loveseat, he found he agreed with his president’s assessment.

  Next morning, he woke from sleep to the buzz of an incoming text on his phone, laid to one side on the nightstand. Hope was curled into him, and Sammy had wormed under the covers on his other side, plastering himself over Hoss’ chest, his hand laying softly on his mother’s cheek in his sleep. When they went to bed the night before, it was with silent acknowledgement of their need to be together, even if they had three beds total between the two rooms, they all piled into the king and started the night with his big spoon wrapped around her smaller one, both of them again cradling their baby spoon.

  Groggily, Hoss reached out and picked up the phone, angling his head so he could see the screen. “Oh, fuck,” he said softly. Typing a two-word response of, Got it, he placed the phone back on the table, tightening his arms around his family, letting their warm bodies and the sounds of them softly breathing soothe him. In his mind, he repeatedly returned to the message, the pain not yet fading of reading the words, Bingo passed.

  ***

  Sammy’s interview with his caseworker and the assigned officer went well. They honestly didn’t need anything from him, because not only did Suiter have a history of violence against Hope, but had also rather eagerly confessed to kidnapping and then beating the boy. Hoss had every expectation his cooperation tied tightly to the discussion the Bama Bastards had with him the previous day.

  Standing outside the Bastards’ clubhouse next to Jerry, Hoss held out his hand, unresisting when his brother grabbed it to pull him into a tight hold. “Love you, brother,” he heard the rough whisper.

  With a grin, he responded, “Love you too, man.” Stepping backwards, he looked up into his brother’s face. “No words, man. I called and, without me even putting words to it, you fucking dropped everything to answer that ask. Gave me my boy back, safe. Let his momma keep her place on this side of sane. Which is sayin’ somethin’, because in the time he was gone, it was a near thing, Jerry. Fucking appreciate what you did for me.”

  “Isaiah.” With a headshake, his brother moved in again, wrapping him up in a hard hug. “Family, yeah? It’s what we do.” Hoss heard the whisper and nodded. “Your woman’s a beauty, brother. Gorgeous gooey goodness, inside and out.” He released him and stepped backwards again, asking Hoss, “You paint her yet, brother?”

  “I have a…few…pieces with her influence,” he said with a wry grin.

  “I bet,” came the quick rejoinder. “I just fucking bet. Y’all look good together, and look good with that pogo stick you call a boy. Fucking spider monkey on speed, he’s unstoppable.” He glanced around, asking, “Hope still pukin’?”

  Hoss frowned. “She sick again?”

  “Mudd’s old lady said she puked on and off all morning. She gave her some crackers to settle her stomach. Said it worked great when she was carrying her kids.” Jerry twisted to look into the kitchen area of the open main floor.

  “Where’s she at?” Hoss asked, closing his eyes for a moment. Clenching his teeth, he was trying not to react to what Jerry had said.

  “Bathroom, pukin’, I’d guess.” Jerry laughed.

  “Fucktard. Mudd’s woman…where is she?” He opened one eye, squinting at his brother. “Mudd’s woman got a name?”

  “Name’s Rhonda, and she’s right here,” he heard an amused voice from behind him.

  Swinging around, he looked down at the rounded woman grinning up at him. “Need you to make a quick run, Rhonda. If you don’t mind,” he said, and she nodded.

  ***

  “Baby, open up,” he called through the closed door, hearing the toilet flush and then water splashing in the sink. A second later, the handle moved, and Hope pulled the door open, a wan smile on her features, hair scraped back from her pale face into a tight ponytail.

  “I’m sorry I’m still sick,” she said quietly, wincing when a shout came from downstairs in the clubhouse. Sounded like Jerry’s kids were hitting it off with Sammy, if the happy yelling was any indication.

  He reached out a hand, curling his palm around her waist, pushing her gently back into the bathroom, and kicking the door closed behind him. Bringing his other hand out in front of him, he showed her the box he held. Keeping his eyes on her face, he watched as she cut her gaze from the pregnancy test box back to his face, back to the box.

  “It’s not a stomach bug, baby. Let’s see if we can rule in one of the better options.” At his wording, her eyes grew large and her head gave an involuntary shake. “Oh, Hope. Don’t do that. Don’t be afraid, baby. This time? If you are, things will be so different for you this time around. But let’s first see if we can rule it in”—he gave the box a shake—“or if we have to rule it out, for now.” Her eyes widened even more at his plainly spoken expectation, but she stretched out her hand and took the box from him.

  Five minutes later, he held her as she sobbed against his chest, and filled with wonder, his eyes kept going to the screen on the test, where the large pink plus sign showed. Now they had to figure out how far along she was, because while she was a little thicker around her hips and belly, he didn’t have any idea about what to expect. If it was a failed condom, could have been anytime over the last three months.

  Hands smoothing up and down her back, he said, “Tell me what you’re afraid of, baby. Share those fears. Let’s shine some lights on them and tame ‘em back, yeah? Let me help you carry that worry.”

  “Hoss,” she breathed his name, and he bent his head to nip at her neck, hearing her suck in a quick breath. “Babies change things.”

  “Yes, they do,” he agreed immediately. “Diapers, all the flippin’ time. Clothing sizes, frequently. Hearts and emotions, most definitely.”

  “I mean in a rela
tionship.” She pushed at his chest, and he helped her sit up, noting how pale she still was.

  “Not to be harsh, but were you in a relationship when you were pregnant before?” Gazing at her steadily, he watched her lids dip closed then open, giving him the full, potent force of her scrutiny.

  “Well, no. But—”

  He interrupted, “State secret? I’ve never been in a relationship with a woman who’s pregnant, either. Good news? We’ll figure it out, because we’re both committed to making this work. We’re committed to Sammy and each other.” Leaning in, he brushed his lips across hers. “I love you, Hope. This doesn’t mean I love you less. If anything, baby, my heart is so fucking full right now I could crow from the rooftop that you’re mine. Signed, sealed, soon to be delivered…mine.”

  “We didn’t plan on this.” Twisting her neck, she looked down at the floor. “You didn’t…I didn’t expect…”

  “Didn’t plan on a lot of things. Don’t mean they’re gonna turn out to be crap, sweetheart.” He nudged her face up with his chin, and kissed her again. “You’ve had all of three minutes to adjust. Give yourself a little more time, baby. We’ll sort a doc soon as we get back, see if we can set something up after Bingo’s service.”

  At his mention of the old man’s name, her eyes filled with tears again. “He was so sweet,” she said, collapsing against his chest. “So sweet and kind. He read me a bunch of his poetry at Christmas. Some of it I even understood. He tried to explain it to me, how he used something called tercet rhymes in his ballads, but unrhymed in most of his other work. He was good, won some cowboy poet awards, and when he told me that, he laughed and laughed, because he wasn’t a cowboy.”

  He nodded. “Bingo was the best.” Mind filled with memories of the old man, he sorted them, shuffling through to find his favorite. Not surprising, it was one of Bingo with the kids. Reclining in a glider swing Jase and DeeDee put in the backyard for him, so he could watch his tribe run and play.