Mica (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Plopping down into the seat, Mica leaned up and looked across at Mike, assessing his face. She saw the deepening bruise along his swollen jaw, and pairing that with the stiff way he was holding himself, she knew he and Daddy had gotten into it again. She grimaced and asked him quietly, “What did he do, Mikey?”

  “Nothing he hasn’t done before, Sis. It’s okay, no worries, no worries. So, Em, it’s the start of our senior year—are you excited yet? I know I am…cannot wait to get out of this hellhole. Oh, yeah, I wanted to ask…which terror of sisterly trained horseflesh are you riding in the Playday this weekend? You plannin’ on doin’ barrels, or poles?” Mike attempted to deflect Mica’s questions by pulling Emily, his unofficial sister, into the conversation.

  Not that he thought of her as a sister any longer, not since she came home from her summer with her grandmother and school started again. Mike had known Em all his life, and she’d always been beautiful, inside and out. But, man…her outsides had caught up with her insides in a big way during her months away. He couldn’t stop looking at her face, memorizing the newly refined lines and angles there.

  Mica knew Daddy had hit Mike again. She knew it, even if he wouldn’t tell her. She hated Daddy when he was like this. It was happening more and more often, and she hated knowing what it would be like when she went home. Before Mamma died, things weren’t nearly as bad. There wasn’t nothin’ the same since that happened, and now she knew full well what it was like to live in fear.

  13 -

  Hat Trick

  Skate blades swooshing across the ice, Daniel Rupert came up alongside his winger, focusing on the puck play in front of the opposing team’s net. Swooping around the goal, his stick deftly accepted a close pass and tapped it in the upper right-hand corner of the goal. The bright lights flashing, an announcer screaming into the PA system, and the driving beat of Guns N’ Roses’ Welcome To The Jungle all told him what he had already known as soon as the puck left the blade of his stick: he’d scored again—a hat trick—in a home game on a Friday night. The arena was packed, and the Chicago Mallets were having a great season.

  Fans were standing and screaming; those close enough to the glass were pounding it in approbation, causing the shatterproof barrier to sway in and out around the perimeter of the rink. He skated into the huddle of players on the ice and was lifted off his feet in a hug. He felt the drubbing of fists and slapping of hands along his helmet, shoulders, and back as his friends and fellow players celebrated the goal. Skating quickly back to the bench, he received a knuckle pound from each player there.

  Looking back at the bench again as he turned to skate back to the center, he saw Coach give a chin flick up towards the scoreboard, and Rupert glanced up to see only four seconds remaining and the four-to-one score in the Mallets’ favor. This game was in the bag, and it was nearly time to celebrate. One faceoff to go, ahead by three and no injuries, this was hockey at its best—at least when you were on the winning team. Skating to his position, he waited for the official to drop the puck, calling an opening to the action once again.

  After the meaningless faceoff, his team took a final victory lap around the ice, waving their sticks at the fans in the stands. A few players split off onto the swatches of carpet laid down on the surface for the on-ice interviews the TV folks loved so much. Coach leveled his gaze at Rupert, silently willing him to submit to an interview, but with a slight shake of his head, Rupert headed to the mats that led down the hall to the locker room. He dropped his stick off with the equipment manager, bypassed the shouting reporters, and ducked his head when camera flashes started blinding him.

  “Oh, man, that was fucking awesome. Did you see David’s face when you flicked that trick in, smooth as shit? It was awesome! He’s a goddamn pussy goalie, so fucking soft. Fuck!” Gary Millson shouted at Rupert from across the locker room as he pulled his jersey off.

  As his head was grasped in a hard forearm clasp, Rupert twisted to look up at his other close friend on the team, Jason Spencer, as he knuckle-rubbed the top of Rupert’s head roughly. “Hat trick, man! You are our fucking lucky charm, baby. Fucking playoffs, I feel it man. Lucky charm! Yeah! Wooo!” Letting Rupert go and flinging his head back, he shouted to the ceiling, “Wooooo!”

  Rupert smiled broadly at his teammates, enjoying the feeling of camaraderie and brotherhood he felt with these men. He loved the game, and still relished every aspect of playing, even if he was rapidly becoming one of the graybeards they mocked over beers. This would probably be one of the last seasons he would play professionally, so he would be doubly glad if the team managed to make it to the playoffs this year. Since he owned the franchise, he would always be involved at some level, but he knew it was coming time to step off the ice competitively before he was injured or his skills degraded too badly.

  The celebration continued, growing louder, and some of the more enterprising reporters braved the waves of emotion rocketing around the locker room. They were getting raw, real reactions to their questions, or in some cases, more roaring than actual words. One of the reporters, Steve Ledbuvar, sidled up to Rupert, leaning his back against the lockers before speaking. “How many more games you got in you, old man?” he asked in a teasing tone, glancing over at Rupert as he grinned to take the sting out of the words.

  “As many as I need to, old man,” Rupert responded, grinning back. He and Ledbuvar had been friends for years, meeting first as freshmen at University of Illinois, bonding over hockey and staying in touch often, especially since both lived in Chicago.

  “Where is the celebration tonight, Daniel?” Steve asked. “I thought I’d tag along, catch up a bit. I haven’t seen you to really talk to for far too long. No interview, just friends.”

  “Yeah, where the fuck we goin’ tonight, Cap’n?” Jason asked. He’d showered and was toweling off, getting ready to go party with the team like they did after ever game.

  Rupert thought for a minute, musing over the choices, and then from a memory of a conversation, said, “How about Jackson’s? I’ve heard it’s nice.”

  Jason and Steve both looked at him in stunned surprise. “You know Davis Mason owns that place, right? That means Rebel Wayfarers members,” Gary said, “so you sure you want to mix bikers and hockey players after a game, dude? Are we looking for fun, or a fight?”

  Rupert returned the look steadily, smiling slightly. Maybe Mica would be there tonight, even though it’d only been a couple of days since Mason said she’d been released from the hospital. Rupert had not been able to get her out of his thoughts or dreams for days, waking with thoughts of her and a hard-on every morning like a testosterone-driven teen. He would really like to see her again, even if it was only from across the room.

  Jason shook his head and shrugged. “Jackson’s it is, man. God save us.” He punched at the ceiling and shouted to the locker room, “PLAYOFF HUNT, BABY! WOOO! Jackson’s tonight, you fuckers, don’t be late!”

  14 -

  Jackson’s

  Mica settled carefully into the seat of the booth, easing back into the comfortable caress of the burgundy leather. She rolled her neck slowly, trying to stretch out some of the kinks in her muscles and wincing a little as her movements pulled the stitches in her back painfully.

  She had left her hair down tonight, and the long, dark strands hanging on either side of her face highlighted the angles of her cheekbones. Mason watched her from his place behind the bar, seeing Jess hang up their coats and nimbly sliding in across from Mica. She threw a nod his way, and Mason relaxed a little, knowing Jess would help him watch out for her tonight.

  He glared without focus around the room at his brothers, all the bikers who wore his colors. They were all members of Rebel Wayfarers Motor Club, and he knew they would never, ever intentionally hurt Mica. Their Princess was like a mascot or little sister to all of them, and they protected her like their own family.

  His hands were somewhat tied tonight, because she didn’t want everyone to know what had happened to her, an
d that made her vulnerable, since everyone was glad to see her. Only a select few members were in the know, and they could only do so much. There was always the chance someone would jostle her, or hug her, or sit next to her, or… He sighed, wishing he could jump on the bar and roar at them to leave her the fuck alone, but knew he would never do that against her wishes. She embarrassed easily, didn’t trust easily, and didn’t have confidence in very many people.

  It had taken him long months to get her comfortable in Jackson’s again after their little set-to about ownership. He had no idea why it mattered that he owned a bar, or more than one bar, or other businesses, but she had freaked out about it. One thing was sure: Mica was an odd duck, but he loved her like that.

  His only waitress tonight, Merry, sauntered back to the bar from their booth. “Mason, I need a Jack and Coke, and a double 1800 on ice, slice of orange, no salt. Same as usual for our gals.”

  “Did you ask if she was on medication, Merry? I can’t serve her if she’s on pain meds,” he asked worriedly.

  Merry snorted sarcastically. “Yes, Mom, I did ask, and she said she hasn’t cracked the bottle of pills yet. So would ya pour the damned medication, please?”

  His brows pulled up in surprise that she hadn’t taken the pain meds since leaving the hospital three days ago. He knew the pain she was in had to be significant from the injuries she took during the attempted mugging…or kidnapping—the police weren’t certain, which it was, since the attackers had a van parked so close by the alley.

  He frowned, thinking about the timing of everything. It really made him wonder about things, since Michael had known she was on her way home right then. He thanked God that Jess called him, and that Daniel Rupert was paying attention, too.

  He and Rupert had some decent discussions that first day at the hospital, both waiting anxiously for Mica to wake up. Most of the time, they had simply watched her sleep. He knew from their exchanges that Rupert was attracted to her, and he wondered when the guy would call her up. She needed someone decent in her life, and he seemed like a good guy.

  Mason looked up as the outside door opened to shouts and raucous noise from the sidewalk, muttering, “What in seven hells is this?” He did a double-take, seeing Daniel Rupert himself saunter through the door. They’d watched the hockey game on TV earlier, and Mason’s face lit up in a smile as he shouted over the noise of the bar, “Speak of the devil, you bastard! Fucking A, Daniel Rupert. Hero, hat trick, and maybe the playoffs.” He shouted louder, “First round is on me, fuckers!”

  Daniel walked to the end of the bar, and Mason met him, grabbing his hand to pull him into a one-armed warrior’s hug, saying quietly in his ear, “Nice timing—Mica is here tonight, in a booth. Be bold, my man.” Pushing him back and letting Daniel go, Mason roared and pounded his shoulders, repeating his shout, “First round is on me, fuckers!” to the Chicago Mallets players still streaming in the door and shucking off their coats in the heated air of the bar.

  Daniel drew in his breath in a rush, letting his wonder and pleasure show on his face for a moment. He had thought about Mica so many times since leaving her to the care of her friends in the hospital. Checking in with his contacts in the police department, he had been reassured she was recovering and safe at home.

  Mason had said the same when he called, and that she was resting and mending. Daniel had wanted to call her, but was unsure of his welcome; after all, she didn’t even know him. He didn’t know what to do, and it was a situation in which he was uncomfortable, so inaction won out in the end—which was extremely unlike him.

  Daniel was more of a ‘I see it; I take it’ kinda guy. In his frustration, he had fantasized about her often, using those thoughts and hungers to enhance his climaxes as he stroked himself off in the shower or in bed.

  Jason and Gary looked at Daniel in surprise at what seemed to be an overly familiar greeting from Mason, while Steve tipped his head to one side in quizzical puzzlement. Shaking their heads, they moved on towards the bar for that promised free first round of drinks, willing to take Mason up on the deal, even if they didn’t quite understand why it was offered.

  Mason turned behind the bar and handed Rupert a small tray with two cocktail glasses and a frosty beer mug. He said, “Tequila is Mica’s, Jack and Coke is for Jess, and the Guinness is for you,” and then winked at him, turning away to pull more draft mugs from the freezer.

  Hearing a shout of laughter behind him, Daniel turned to see Jason slapping his thigh. Eyebrows drawn nearly to his hairline, a stunned Jason said to him after a moment, “I don’t even know you, man.” He was still smiling and slowly shaking his head from side to side in rare delight as Daniel took the tray and carefully turned around, scanning the booths for the one face he most wanted to see.

  Spotting Jess, he thought he must have found the right booth. Heading over, he enjoyed the surprise on her face when she recognized him, and then saw a small, sly smile cross her face. She’d clearly decided not to let her friend know he was walking their way.

  His breath caught in his throat as he grew closer, seeing Mica sitting in the seat. She was dressed in a loosely-fitting blouse, and at his distance, under the table, he could see she wore a pretty skirt and sat with her ankles crossed tidily. Her hands were clasped in her lap, and she was leaning her head back with eyes closed. Her face was calm and composed, her long, dark hair hanging across her shoulders and down to her breasts.

  “I believe the tequila is for the lady, and the Jack and Coke is for the other lady. Did I get that right?” he asked quietly. He set the drinks, including his beer, on the table, placing his in the middle so he could first get a feel for Mica’s reaction without wanting to pressure her.

  Mica opened her eyes at hearing his voice, and looked up with a wide smile. “Mr. Rupert. Oh, Daniel, I mean; how good to see you again. You look really well, Daniel.” The warmth in her voice was not forced; she seemed truly glad to see him again. She reached up and touched his hand. “Please, sit. Talk to me for a few minutes, if you have the time. I feel like I’ve been stuck at home for too long.”

  Scooting around the U-shaped booth a bit, Jess opened up room at the end of the seat beside her. That way, Mica would not have to move, now that she was fairly comfortable. Those kinds of small, thoughtful gestures were some of the reasons Mica loved Jess like a sister, and counted her as a best friend. Mica had a thought as Daniel was settling in, and asked Jess, “Isn’t Brandy coming, Jess?”

  “Not until later, she had a big catering order of cupcakes and cookies to get out. Plus, I figured you’d only last an hour or so, and Mason said he’d take you home when you wanted. So, I told Brandy to hold off a couple hours. That’ll give me time to get a little toasted and visit with you, but Daniel is here now, and I bet he’d take you home so Mason could stay and work the bar, especially since he’s shorthanded tonight—not that I’m offering Daniel to take you home…or that you’d want him to…you know…since he must have a nice pack—. Shutting up now…really…” Jess trailed off to silence, shifting her eyes from Daniel to Mica, watching the reactions of each and grinning.

  “I’d be pleased to take you home when you want to go, Mica.”

  “I’m sure Daniel has lots of things to do. I’m fine Jess, really. No fuss, remember?”

  They spoke at the same time, words overriding each other and leaving a confused silence in their wake. Picking up her glass, Mica took as deep a breath as she could without wincing, gulped at her drink, swallowed hard, and continued, “What brings you to Jackson’s tonight, Daniel? I’m glad to see you; I wanted to thank you again for helping me, but the police wouldn’t give me your number, and unfortunately, there seems to be a lot of people named either Daniel Rupert, or some variation in Chicago proper. Shoot, there were three exact matches in Schaumburg alone, so I couldn’t easily contact you.”

  Daniel looked at her over the rim of his mug, seeing the pain lines in her face loosen slightly as the tequila hit her system. He was pleased she had wanted
to talk to him, but was surprised that Mason hadn’t given her his number. “I live up in Glencoe, and if you would pass me your phone, I’d be happy to add my contact information,” he said smoothly, and accepted her phone as she passed it over.

  Pressing buttons on the cell, he continued, “It’s a celebration, really. I play a little hockey, and we won a good, hard game tonight. I remembered Mason talking about Jackson’s being a good place to let off steam, so I thought we’d come here tonight to have fun. The group of troublemakers over at the bar with Mason is my team.”

  He took his phone out as it buzzed, and added Mica as a contact in his phone too. Handing her phone back, he watched as she took another drink from her glass, her throat working as she swallowed. He shifted, realizing he was beginning to get hard from watching her, thinking about her mouth on him instead of the glass rim. Good God, what is wrong with me? He thought, I haven’t been affected like this by anyone in years.

  Closing her eyes, rolling and stretching her neck again, Mica missed seeing Daniel’s open-mouthed reaction to her moan of pleasure as muscles began to ease for the first time in days. Jess, however, was very aware of his interest, and smiled a little at his discomfort. Grinning, she watched him bring the heel of his hand down on his swelling cock, repositioning it in his jeans.

  He tried to catch his breath, but his simple questions came out in a staccato fashion. “Um, how are you feeling, Mica? Stitches out yet? Where are your crutches? You aren’t walking on that ankle, are you?” He was hoping to regain his slipping control, but his cock had a mind of its own and focused his thoughts on Mica’s mouth again as she responded.

  Picking up her glass and draining it, Mica smiled at him. “Stitches come out in a few days, but I can’t do crutches; my wrist won’t let me. So, I am a hobble-mamma for now, limping and gimping across the floor. Wow, that is good tequila, and it is jus’ what I needed tonight. Jess, darlin’, would you go get me s’more, please?”