Hoss (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 7)

by MariaLisa deMora

  In this memory, for which Hoss was already selecting a palette in his mind, Bingo sat in the middle of the seat, arms around Jonny and Sammy, who were leaning into his sides, bracketing him like bookends. Add-ons to his tribe. Kane and his little sisters and brother sprawled in a pile on the grass in front of the swing, faces upturned to their uncle, engrossed in the story he was telling. Tyler and Megan, framed in the background, sat on the picnic table, as was their habit, but were near enough you could tell they were listening as Bingo spun a tale for the little ones. This would be Bingo’s legacy, the sheer capacity of love he had and gave so freely to everyone. A legacy of love.

  “Gonna wait until we’re closer to home to tell Sammy? Or, want to give him time to wrap his head around things, maybe call Jonny and Kane early on, make sure they’re doing okay? He’s that kinda kid. He’s gonna be worried about his friends.”

  “Let’s wait until we’re in the car; this way his reaction can be private, but it gives him time to adjust. And yeah, call his friends if he wants. Thank you.” She whispered this, lips against his neck, arching into him, and at the touch, he felt a tightening in his groin.

  “Baby, if you don’t want me to fuck you in the bathroom, you need to behave,” he warned her, and then grinned when he felt the brush of her lips again, followed by a sharp nip and scrape of her teeth. “Oh-ho. I see.” He laughed, turning his head to capture her mouth, fingers working to release her hair from the tie binding it back. “It’s like that, is it?”

  ***

  As they both expected, Sam’s tears fell hot and fast for the man he proudly claimed as family, calling him Uncle Bingo. No surprise, because when Sam loved, he did it with every fiber of his being. Losing someone he loved would draw lines of pain across his heart as deep as that love.

  They had also anticipated his need to make sure his friends were okay, and at his tentative question, Hoss had immediately handed his phone over the seat of the truck to Sam. He told him to call away, telling him they were about six hours out and would be stopping by the Spencers’ house tonight so he could see his friends, and reassure himself things were good with them.

  What was a surprise was his fluent recitation of some of Bingo’s poetry. Hoss found himself having to clear his throat several times over the half-hour that was Sammy whispering the lines and phrases to himself. Looking in the mirror, he saw the wet shining on his boy’s cheeks, face turned to the window, staring out at the passing scenery, but clearly without seeing anything other than what was in his head. One phrase stuck out, because Sam whispered it several times, intensity broken by moments of silence.

  “Sam,” he started, and his voice broke, so he cleared his throat and began again. “Sammy, do you know what the name of that one was?”

  “Yes, sir. He said it was for Aunt DeeDee, called it ‘My Song For You.’ I think it was a favorite,” Sam said, face not turning from the window. Repeating the phrase again, quietly, he said, “Finding your joy in living, Love too full to hold within.” He sighed. “Was he alone? That was a thing he was afraid of, I think, that he would be alone.” He turned his head, gaze catching on Hoss’ in the mirror. “He never came right out and said so, but you could tell. He wanted to be with family when he got bad.”

  “He was not alone,” Hoss said, trying to infuse certainty in his tone. He knew this for a fact, because he, Jase, and Gunny had all noted the same fear, and before Suiter snatched Sammy, Hoss had worked with Sharon to get a rotation set up for staying with Bingo in hospice. Even if DeeDee and Jase were there with the kids, Bingo’s friends wanted as many folks as they could round up to get a chance to sit with him. There had been offers from a dozen different clubs in the area, because that many people knew and loved the old man. “He was surrounded by people who loved him, and who he loved.”

  “I wish I’d have been there.” His voice was thin and sad, and Hoss glanced in the mirror to see Sam was crying again. “I hate him.”

  At his words, Hope sucked in a shocked breath, because you could mistake and think he was angry at Bingo for dying, but Hoss knew better. He understood who Sam was talking about. “I know, son. I hate him too.” Now Hope was looking at him, and the anger bubbling just under her skin was clear as day. “He made it so neither of us could be there for Bingo. I hate Suiter, too.”

  The way her body jerked meant Hope had finally recognized who they were talking about, and now the emotion simmering under her skin was fear. He wondered what was going through her mind, if she would try and rethink this thing between them, use the baby as a reason to pull away like she had before. What had happened once could happen again, and even if the source this time was from her past, she knew at any time there could be danger from his associations.

  His jaw worked back and forth, teeth clenching so tightly at the thought of losing her again that he knew the muscles would be popping, and then her hand was on his leg, heat and pressure anchoring him. Glancing over, he saw she had twisted to face him, leaning forward. He caught and held her gaze for a moment, and then she said, “I love you. Stop it, Hoss. I’m not going anywhere. What did you tell me this morning? We’ll figure it out?” She gave his thigh a squeeze. “Back atcha.”

  Both hands

  Hoss stood straight and still in a chill that said winter was not totally over, looking out at a sea of color. He was on a slight rise, affording him a view few had borne witness to: several hundred bikers in full club regalia, surrounding a tiny tent with a dozen chairs set next to a yawning hole in the ground. As the preacher spoke words aimed at comforting the family, the only sounds in the field were the creaking of leather and the shuffling of feet on ground still mostly frozen.

  Under the tent were the kids, along with Mason, Jase, and DeeDee, which was to be expected. Also, there were Bingo’s last surviving family members, and that familial connection looked to have surprised practically everyone except Mason and Gunny. Delaying the funeral by two days gave Bingo’s brother, Harddrive, time to ride in from Wyoming, and the shock on Slate’s face when the man walked into the clubhouse had been interesting to see. Hoss knew there was a story in that association, especially the way Mason grinned when the old man asked Slate if he still owned the Indian he had sold him decades before.

  Another surprise surrounded Harddrive’s kids, because his son rode in with him and had folded into the crowd of Rebels as if he had been born there. That ease was bolstered by him knowing far more members from the different chapters represented than many of their own members did. Even Gunny had sought out the man, and Hoss watched bemused as they stood and talked for nearly two hours, ignoring the push and swirl of people around them.

  The last shocker was Harddrive’s daughter, Bingo’s niece, who lived right here in the Fort. Dixie, the bar manager at one of their favorite hangouts, had come to the clubhouse with her old man not long after Harddrive walked in last night.

  Today, the seven adults and nine kids sat under the tent together, younger kids held in comforting laps while Tyler and Megan wedged into seats between Jase and DeeDee.

  Standing stoically, he didn’t turn when he heard footsteps come up beside him. Waiting for the echoes of the twenty-one-gun salute to fade away, he watched attentively as the flag covering the casket was removed, carefully folded, and then presented to DeeDee. Hoss clenched his teeth as he watched her accept it, one arm firmly on either side of tiny Gilda’s body, the little girl sleeping in her lap, exhausted from the confusing emotions of the past few days. Preacher stepped close, leaning in and speaking first to Mason, and then Harddrive, before turning to walk a few steps away.

  Glancing over, Hoss wasn’t surprised to see the red-bearded man standing beside him. “Fury,” he acknowledged the man who was now his brother. “How’s life treating you these days?” Holding out his hand, he clasped wrists with him, noting the reserve in his face. “You got shit, man?”

  Shaking his head, Fury said, “Nothing that can’t wait, Hoss. Today’s for remembering, and my shit can definitely hold off
a day or two to give the men and women who knew Bingo time to grieve.”

  Hoss nodded, turning to look down the hill again. The club’s women had come in cages, driven by prospects from the eight different chapters represented today. As they always did, his eyes locked on Hope, where she stood next to Mercy, Sammy between them, his hands reaching up to clasp theirs, the boy acting as the bridge between the two sisters. He knew Hope was still struggling with the idea of being pregnant, especially after seeing the obstetrician yesterday.

  After poking and prodding her belly, using a measuring tape on her skin as if they were in a tailor’s shop, the doctor had rolled in a machine.

  Hope clearly knew what to expect, but when Hoss heard their child’s heartbeat swelling in the room, the wonder of it nearly took his legs out from under him. The doc laughed as the nurse pushed a chair over towards him. With a shake of his head, he rejected it, bending over Hope from the top of the bed and kissing her lips with bruising force. “That’s our baby,” he whispered, and she nodded, gripping his hand tightly.

  Then the doc started asking questions rapid-fire and Hoss straightened, seeing a panicked look on Hope’s face. Flipping the machine around, the doc pointed one long finger at the screen. Hoss looked on, confused, as images appeared and disappeared before he could make sense of them, black and white flowing across the screen, as fluid as waves on the ocean.

  The moments where he could recognize anything were fleeting, and then the image settled with a dark void in the middle of the screen. Slowly, gradually, a form came into focus, and he saw a tiny profile—forehead, nose, chin—all come clear to him. Once he had that image as a point of reference, he began seeing things like an arm, moving slowly then tucking down to the baby’s chest. “The heart looks good,” he heard the doctor say, and he saw the fluttering movement deep inside the baby’s body.

  Then the image changed, the form going away, and the doc laughed. “We have a runner.”

  Hoss watched as the process was repeated, the void he now understood was Hope’s uterus gradually framing the child’s limbs, head, and torso. There were several times when the doctor froze the screen and took measurements.

  Then he turned to look at Hoss and Hope, asking, “Mom and Dad, it’s not one-hundred percent, but unless this little one is hiding something, I’m pretty confident I could tell you the gender.”

  Hoss looked down at Hope, nodding, and with a tender expression, she nodded too, turning back to the doctor, who grinned. “She’s not cooperating very well, because I’m pretty sure she’s already a princess.”

  Bending down, he whispered against Hope’s lips, “We’re having a little girl.” Pushing the doc’s hand out of the way, careless of where he still held the machine’s wand, he covered her gel-coated belly with his palm. “That’s Sammy’s little sister in there, inside you.” Kissing her again, softly he said, “I fucking love you, Hope Collins.”

  “I love you too, Hossman,” she whispered.

  “So let’s talk due dates,” the doc said, and Hoss looked up at him, annoyed, because he wanted another minute to soak it in. “Hope, I think your dates might not be quite right. Based on what I’m seeing, the pregnancy is about twenty-four weeks along.”

  She sucked in a breath, clamping down on Hoss’ hand as the doctor continued, “It’s not uncommon for a pregnancy to be undetected for several weeks or even a few months, but this means we have to get our ducks in a row fairly quickly. We’re going to need to do some blood work, and I’ll have the girls up front call Alabama, see if we can get a copy of the charts from your OB there. The good news, from your perspective, is you only have about four months to go. Everything I’ve seen today looks great; the baby is active, and you’re healthy. No concerns from my end of things.”

  Fury pulled him out of his reverie with a brief, humorless laugh. Hoss looked up and said, “What?”

  “I’ve asked you three times if you guys needed anything picked up before my boys head back to the clubhouse, but you were staring off into space.” Fury slapped at his chaps, knocking dust off his leathers. “Where were you, Hoss?”

  “Our boys,” he said, eyes trained steadily on Fury’s face. This kind of shit had to be nipped in the bud fast and hard, or they would wind up with a division in the chapter. “Every member is ours, so you sayin’ you got some special boys ain’t gonna fly.”

  “Noted,” Fury said briefly, frowning. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He grinned, twisting to look back down at the mass of people moving to the bikes and cars parked on the roads surrounding the area of cemetery they were in, easily dialing back in on Hope. She was standing, looking back towards the tent, having stepped aside to let the rest of the women flow around her. He saw Sammy trotting back towards her, Jonny and Kane in tow. Breathing deep, he said, “Hope’s pregnant.”

  After a few moments, when the other man still hadn’t said anything, he glanced over to see Fury’s eyes on her, his body posture tense as he watched her walk out to the cars, herding the boys along in front of her. “We found out yesterday morning the doc thinks it’s a girl.”

  Fury drew a noisy breath through his nose and stood, still not saying anything for another minute or two. Then, slowly, as if he were considering the nuance of every syllable, he said, “Both hands. You find sweet and good like that, you hold onto it with both hands. Tight as you can. That is a fucking magnificent woman, and now,” he shifted in place, and then continued, “she’s carrying your babe. Both.” Turning his head, he glared at Hoss. “Hands.” Turning stiffly, he walked away.

  “Fuck,” Hoss breathed, not having expected that kind of reaction, shocked at the depth of anger Fury held for being on the losing end in their long ago concluded tug-of-war with Hope.

  ***

  “Mom, can I see if Jonny and Kane want to come back to our house?” Sam looked up, squeezing the hands that held his securely, looking between Mom and Aunt Mercy. It had been like this since they got back to Fort Wayne, someone always within reach, making him know he was safe and loved.

  “Sure, bud. Ask Miss DeeDee first. Don’t get Kane riled up in case it’s a no, okay?” Mom reached over and ruffled a hand through his hair, scratching gently in that way he loved.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he responded, squeezing her hand before he dropped his hold and ran back towards the tent. Aunt DeeDee was talking to one of the men he didn’t know, and Sam hung back for a minute until she noticed him. “Aunt DeeDee, can Jonny and Kane—”

  She didn’t even let him finish the question before nodding and answering, “Sure thing, Samboni. I’ll call your mom later. We’ll organize the transfer of kids.”

  With a grin, he darted away, his gaze scanning the crowd for his friends. Kane was standing next to Tyler, digging in the grass with the toe of one shoe. He turned his head, looking around again to find Jonny was standing on the pile of dirt next to the box that Uncle Bingo was in, that box looking precariously balanced on top of the yawning hole in the ground.

  His heart lurched for a moment, because he thought Jonny might fall in, but watched him smoothly step up onto the device that held the box, metal and straps holding it in midair. Suspended, Sam thought, kind of like the past couple of days had felt, where everything moved slowly enough you nearly couldn’t see the change.

  He walked over slowly, trying to make a bunch of noises so he didn’t sneak up on Jonny. It looked like he was talking, and Sam knew from his own pain that whatever Jonny was saying to Uncle Bingo had to be important. Too important to interrupt or listen in on. Jonny looked up at him and nodded, tilting his head to call Sam over.

  He stepped up on the metal bars beside Jonny and stared down at the top of the box. There was a wadded pile of wilted yellow flowers in the middle, the dandelions lying right next to the white flowers arranged in the shape of the Rebel emblem. Without missing a beat, Jonny said, “Sammy’s here, Uncle Bingo. So many people came today to tell you goodbye. You’d be laughing your butt off at all the bikes. I saw
a whole bunch of Indians. So pretty.”

  Sam sucked in a breath at Jonny’s words, because this was how they talked to Uncle Bingo all the time. It was like Jonny was having a normal conversation with him, just kinda one-sided.

  Jonny said, “I’m tryin’ not to be sad. You know, like you told me?” His voice lowered, imitating Uncle Bingo’s gruffness, “‘No tears, John boy. Don’t need no salt spread upon my path.’” Pausing for a moment, Jonny swallowed and said in his normal voice, “I want to think of you in a better place, without hurtin’ all the time. I promise to help take care of the tribe. Any way I can, I’m going to be there for Tyler and Kane and Simon, and even all the girls.” He paused and took a breath, and then said softly, “Pinky promise.”

  “Me, too,” Sam said, stretching out his hand and waiting for Jonny to reach out. They crooked their little fingers together, holding the grip for a minute, somberly sealing the promise. Sam rested his hand on the box, one fingertip moving across the smooth surface, mentally tracing the lines and whirls making up Uncle Bingo’s name.

  “Remember when you talked about how beauty was everywhere we looked? We just had to keep lookin’ for it? I liked that poem you told me last week, and I asked Aunt DeeDee to write it out for me.” Jonny dug into his pocket, coming up with a few more crushed flower heads, which he carefully placed on the pile. “Got you some flowers, too.” He patted them into place. “They were pretty.” He reached back into his pocket, pulling out a piece of paper, carefully folded, but wrinkled and smudged. He reverently unfolded it, smoothing the paper across the top of the box.

  Sam caught a glimpse of movement behind them and glanced back, seeing some of the Rebels were standing close as Jonny began to read.

  Beauty lies

  They say

  In the eyes

  Where what we see becomes truth

  Where what we know becomes twisted

  That twist bursting seams with joy wasted