Mica (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  She shifted and turned, lying her head on the tops of her knees. She looked out the window into the dark, but was seeing her reflection in the glass more clearly than anything outside. Studying her own face, she saw how tired and drawn she looked. Closing her eyes, she didn’t want to look at herself anymore.

  Instead, she thought about Mason and Daniel; she missed them very much. They’d both been too busy to stop by very often over the past few weeks. For Christmas, she was planning on going to Milwaukee with Daniel to spend a couple of days with his family there.

  She smiled. She’d really liked Darlene, and she was amazed at how comfortable and relaxed Daniel—or Danny, as they called him—was when he was with his family. He was open, warm, and caring.

  She was startled by a touch on her head, and opened her eyes to find Slate standing beside her. His reflection’s eyes met hers, and he reached out to grasp a lock of her hair, sliding it between his finger and thumb. He bent, putting his face near her head, and lifted the hair to take in a deep breath. He was smelling her hair.

  Frozen for a second, Mica then jerked back, sitting straight and reaching up to pull her hair out of his hand. He sneered a grin at her, but there was no humor in his face as he turned to stalk back to the kitchen, and sat down again, turning his chair so he looked full-on at her this time.

  Tug sat straight and laid a hand on the table near Slate’s elbow, speaking low to him. She watched as Slate made a motion with his hand, like sweeping away a distraction, continuing to stare her way intently.

  She scrubbed at her face with both hands, then got to her feet and said, “Blankets for the couch and chair are in the box by the coffee table,” she paused, wondering how blunt to be. “My bedroom is off limits, but the spare bed is up for grabs. Good night.” Turning to walk to her bedroom, she saw a leer on Slate’s face, and thought for about the hundredth time this week that she wished her bedroom door locked.

  Walking into her bedroom, she rolled her eyes when the switch failed to turn on the light. She turned towards the bathroom, since that light would illuminate enough to see by, when hands swiftly grabbed her out of the dark. They snatched her up by the throat, and the palm slapped over her face, effectively stifling any cry she could have made.

  She was lifted off the floor by the hold on her throat, the hands tightening painfully as she kicked wildly. Panicked, she grabbed and pulled at the arms, scratching at anything she could reach in front of her. Twisting wildly, she’d managed to shift the hand that was choking her, and her muffled scream was now barely audible in the room.

  The other hand clamped hard on her face over her mouth and nose, cutting off her air. Her struggles became weaker, and she realized with a jolt of fear that she was about to pass out as everything went gray…

  Mica came to lying on a hard surface. It was hard to breathe, and it felt like a horse had stepped in her middle. She gave a little cry as the horse stepped on her again sharply, realizing she heard a voice talking to her. “Told you I’d find you, Michaela.” Step. “Told you that you were mine.” Step. ”Told you.” Step. Her sweatpants were being pulled down, when the gray swam back up to meet her as she spiraled down again…

  She came to for a second time as noises filled the room. She was tossed to one side like a ragdoll, flung to the side of what she now realized was a bed. Terrified, she clawed her way under the bedframe towards darkness, and hopefully safety, since it sounded like a war was breaking lose around her. “Fuck,” came a grunt as someone was thrown heavily into the wall. She heard running, retreating footsteps, and then the slamming of a door and there were other voices in the room. Pulling herself into a small ball, she folded both hands over her mouth to keep her cries inside, and tried to still her shaking limbs so she’d make no noises with her body.

  A slumping sound, like feedbags, then quick rustling back and forth. “Slate, where’s Mica?” That was Tug; she knew that voice. There was a skittering at the end of the bed, and something snaked around her ankle and pulled her roughly towards the light. The sudden assault freed her screams finally as she kicked hard to get loose and scrabbled back up underneath the bedframe where it was dark, cupping her hands back over her mouth.

  A starkly surprised, “She’s naked under the fucking bed,” caused Tug’s face to pop into view, and she looked into his eyes for a long minute. He reached a slow hand out towards her, waiting patiently for her to reach out to him in return.

  He shifted his head and ordered, “Call Mason, Pros.” Turning back to Mica, he waited, holding out his hand. She peeled one hand off her mouth, reaching out to place her fingers into his. He held her hand for a long moment, and then folded it up inside his, covering her hand with warmth. She held her body stiffly and let him pull her slowly out from under the bed.

  She heard Tucker muttering into the phone, and then it was handed down to Tug, who took it without taking his eyes off Mica’s face. “Got her,” he paused, “don’t know.” Pulling her further out from under the bed, his eyes flickered to her neck. “Mason, get here,” he urged, and he hung up on his president.

  When he tossed the phone towards the wall, her eyes were pulled that way and she saw Slate, who was collapsed against the wall. He was holding his hand to the side of his face, where he was bleeding heavily. Mica took a breath, and then another, wincing hard as it scraped inside her throat. She swallowed and spoke, her voice rasping painfully through the swelling, “Tucker, get the first aid kit from the kitchen.” She reluctantly let go of Tug’s hand and crawled slowly across the floor towards Slate.

  Her shirt was torn down the middle, so she casually took it off and held it to Slate’s face. Her fingers pulled his away from the split in his skin that went the length of his cheek and up his temple into his hair. Mica nodded to herself, saying to Slate, “He kicked you, didn’t he?” Pulling his hand up, she had him hold the shirt to his face and saw him wince. At the sound of her voice, his eyes met hers in acknowledgement.

  She thought absentmindedly that his eyes skimmed down her body with what seemed like nervousness. How odd. Without turning around, she whisper-asked the room, “Did he leave anything behind?” There was silence for a moment, and then she screamed soundlessly, but painfully, scrambling backwards, crab walking across the floor on her heels and her hands as a dark shape flew over her shoulder to hit against the wall. It fell to the floor not far from where Slate sat slumped, and she recognized it as a big, black, cowboy hat.

  Before Mason had even arrived, she had moved them to the kitchen and was patching up Slate, using nearly all her steri-strips on him. Mica was ignoring her own pain, perversely glad that someone else was hurt, because it let her focus on something other than herself. She was also secretly glad it was Slate, because she thought she knew why he was the one who came into her room.

  Looking into his face, she believed she saw the truth of her intuition, and made a quick decision not to tell Mason her suspicions. She whispered to Slate, “Did you hear something? Is that why you came into my bedroom?” giving him an out if he wanted to take it.

  He shook his head. “I came in to look at you, but something seemed off all night. There was movement outside a couple of times that I saw through the bay window. Then, I didn’t see a light in the hallway when you went into your room, and you always turn on the light.”

  Mason’s truck roared into the driveway, and then he ran up the steps and in through the backdoor. He pulled to a stop at the sight of her in her kitchen, but she was unconscious of her nudity. Dressed only in a bra, she was leaning closely over Slate’s upper body to apply antibiotic cream to the slash.

  Mica looked up at Mason, and at the sight of the fear and shock on his face, she felt herself begin to fall apart. He must have recognized what was happening, because he opened his arms and tenderly wrapped her up in them, covering her with his body as she finally began to shake and tremble in reaction to what had happened. “Living room,” he growled at the men, and carried her to the chair, settling her in his lap and
snapping his fingers at Tucker for a blanket.

  “Talk,” he ordered, looking at Tug and Slate. “Water,” he demanded Tucker, who moved quickly back to the kitchen, bringing back beers for the men and water for Mica.

  Slate started talking. “He was in the house, Mason. We cleared it, but then he was in the house. He unscrewed the lights in the bedroom, and ambushed her on her way to bed.”

  Tug offered somberly, “He was quiet about everything; it wasn’t until he kicked Slate into the wall that Tuck or me even knew anything was happening.” Mica saw in his face that he seemed to think they had failed in Mason’s trust tonight. Mason was so terse, like he had only a few words to use and was afraid of running out of them too soon. He was holding her so carefully, and as always, she felt safe with him.

  Slate jerked his head at Tucker. “Go check the windows in the guest bedroom.” She could see he’d had a thought, remembering he’d said a movement outside had drawn him to the bay window earlier in the evening.

  Tucker came back in, nodding his head. “Unlocked.”

  Slate jerked his head again. “Get the hat,” he told him. To Mason, he clarified, “At least we know how he got in after we cleared it. I’ll get our guy out tomorrow to work on all the entrances. We need alarms on shit.”

  Mason nodded, looking towards Tucker as he brought in an object that caused Mica to tremble in his arms. She recognized it for sure now; the colorful hatband was familiar, even after all these years. Mason seemed to know what it was and asked, “Nelm’s hat?” She nodded, and Tucker sat it down on the box at the end of the couch.

  Mason took a deep breath, sat up, and started unwrapping Mica from where she was finally warming up, bundled in the blanket in his lap. “Tucker, get her a shirt; grab the fuzzy purple one with polar bears from the top drawer next to the bathroom,” he said absently.

  She smiled. He knew so much about her; she loved that fleece sleep shirt. He reached out and touched Mica’s face, which seemed like it came through this relatively unmarked. There were only fingertip points of pain on both cheeks, where she suspected she was bruised.

  He then trailed his fingers down the column of her neck, and oh, that area was a lot more painful to the touch. She flinched away from his hands. “Do these hurt, babe?” he asked, peeling the blanket back a little further. “Nope,” she lied hoarsely, “not really. Not yet, only a little tender.”

  Mason closed his eyes; it was like the sound of her rasping voice caused him physical pain. “Babe, it’s already turning purple; gonna get worse before it’s better.” He moved down to her body, frowning hard at the dark bruising on her stomach and ribs. He held himself still. “I know what it looks like when someone has been gone after with feet wearing boots, and those are the bruises you are wearing now.” She noticed with surprise that his hands were trembling, but it wasn’t cold in her house. Why was he shaky?

  The corners of his mouth turned down. “Babe, don’t speak, just nod. If it hurts to nod, then hold up one finger for yes, and two fingers for no. Okay?” She smiled and held up one finger. He grinned at her proudly, and started asking his questions. She answered as best she could, understanding it was important to get the details while they were still clear and painfully fresh.

  “Do you think this was Nelms?” One finger. “Did you see him?” Two fingers. “Did he say anything?” One finger. “Do you remember what he said?” One finger. She looked around, making a writing motion. Over his shoulder, he said, “Get her something to write on, Tuck.”

  Turning back to her, he kept asking questions. “Do you think he was alone?” One finger. “Are you sick to your stomach?” Two fingers. “Are you dizzy?” Two fingers. “Did you pass out?” One finger. “Did you hit your head?” One finger wavering, two fingers, one finger. She shrugged painfully—she thought so, but wasn’t sure.

  “Be sure, babe. You had a concussion not long ago; another one could be trouble.” Two fingers, firmly. “Does your belly hurt?” One finger. “Do your ribs hurt?” One finger. “Are you having problems catching your breath?” Two fingers. “Does it hurt to breathe?” One finger, pointing to her throat, and then to her ribs and middle.

  “Do you hurt between your legs?” One finger and downturned eyes. She thought Ray had probably kicked her there too; it really hurt. He took a breath, asking softly, “Do you think you were raped?” Two fingers. “Do you want to go to the hospital?” Two fingers bouncing up and down. No hospital, she simply wanted to stay home. When she looked up, Tucker was standing beside them; he had her favorite oversized, purple shirt and a pad of paper with a pencil.

  “Babe, I’m going to feel along your ribs before we put this on you. I want to see if I can find any obviously broken ones.” She nodded, holding up one finger and pointing towards a low spot on her right side. Mason started there, wincing as he felt the clearly fractured bone under her skin, while she sat stoically; thinking about how these weren’t the first broken ribs she’d had.

  He found two more that felt suspicious, all on her right side. The left seemed okay, and she knew her belly wasn’t distended or too terribly tender, which meant the beating probably hadn’t hurt her insides too much. He handed her the pencil and paper, wrapping her back up in the blanket for a minute as she wrote out what Ray had said.

  Told you I’d find you, Michaela. Told you that you were mine.

  Handing the paper to Mason, she reached out for the shirt, wincing at the pain as she carefully pulled it over her head. She was snuggling back into Mason’s chest as he absently tugged the blanket up around her shoulders. “Tuck, bring me the clothes she had on when she went to bed.”

  Slate tilted his head, looking at Mason. “Thinkin’ trophy, Prez? Her shirt was torn to shit, but she still had it on. She took it off to use it on my face.” Tucker came back into the room with her sweatpants and the bloody, torn shirt, but that was it.

  Mason nodded, confirming, “Trophy. Tuck, get her something for pain and another water.” Mica hadn’t even noticed Mason had been encouraging her to drink until he said that, and she realized she’d drained the first bottle. Tug and Slate each took a deep drink from their beers, and she thought they were awfully anxious and upset about what had happened tonight.

  Mason must have seen it too. “I’ll kick your asses later. Right now, focus on the reason, brothers,” he said slowly, catching the eyes of all three men. They nodded, and she saw Slate and Tug both mouth, fucking treasure, as they touched their closed fist to their chests.

  “Babe, want panties or need anything before we go to my house?”

  She looked at him, whispering, “Why can’t I stay here? I want to stay home.”

  “We can’t keep you safe here. You aren’t set-up for this kind of fucking shit. Now, I don’t think you want Tucker to go digging through your under britches, so if you want some, you better tell me now.” He climbed to his feet, carrying her still wrapped in the blanket.

  “Panties, and some other stuff,” she muttered.

  He walked down the hallway into her darkened bedroom. As they entered that darkened room, she felt her heart start pounding hard, where her chest lay against his. It felt like she couldn’t catch her breath. Mason walked steadily into the bathroom and flipped on the light. He set her down on the floor in front of her dresser, and steadied her underneath the bright light until she was stable on her feet as he whispered, “Babe, get what you need.” Then walking back to the doorway, he stood with his back to her.

  Dropping the blanket to the ground, she grabbed her brush. Pulling out a pair of panties, she slipped them on, followed by a clean pair of sweatpants. She picked out another pair of panties and a clean shirt, jeans and socks, and then stepped into her sneakers. Walking around to Mason, she lifted her arms and he picked her up again, cradling her against his chest.

  “Did you call Daniel and tell him?” she asked.

  Mason shook his head. “Not yet. Soon as we’re safe at home, we’ll call him for you.”

  ***

&n
bsp; Daniel leaned back in the chair behind his desk, sighing deeply as he rubbed his palms over his face. He’d been playing catch-up with paperwork all day, but he intended on taking Mica out for dinner tomorrow, and wanted to have a clean desk and nothing work-related on his mind.

  Since returning from Milwaukee, they’d gone out several times—always with Rebel chaperones per Mason’s orders. It didn’t give him the intimate setting he wanted with her, but it was at least an opportunity to spend time together and get to know Mica. He found himself looking forward to hearing her laughter, watching her face light up with humor and joy as outrageous stories passed around the table from the Rebels, each story more improbable than the next, until it was clear they were spinning tales to make her laugh.

  Reaching across the desk to grab his phone, he saw he’d missed a call from Mason. Hitting redial, he leaned back again, waiting for the call to connect. “Daniel,” he heard Mason say, “need you to come to my house, man, right the fuck now. When can you be here?”

  “What’s up, Mason?” he asked, thinking it was late for a grill party. “I can be there in thirty minutes, if the traffic isn’t bad.”

  “Then get here, fucker,” Mason growled. “Ray was in Mica’s house.”

  Daniel slowly sat up straight in the chair, placing the hand that wasn’t holding his phone palm-down on the desk, absently noticing it was trembling. “What happened?” he choked out. “Is she okay?” It felt like time stretched and elongated, turning seconds into minutes or hours before Mason responded.

  “She’ll be okay,” he said, “but she’s asking for you. Come see her, man. My house, back door is unlocked.” The call terminated abruptly without a conversational sign-off, but Daniel was already on his feet, moving quickly to the door.