Tarnished Lies
and Dead Ends
Neither This, Nor That
Book #5
MariaLisa deMora
Editing by Hot Tree Editing
Proofreading by Whiskey Jack Editing
Photography: 6:12 Photography by Eric McKinney
Model: Enrico Ravenna
Copyright © 2021 MariaLisa deMora
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
First Published 2021
ISBN 13: 978-1-946738-65-3
DEDICATION
“You can’t really love someone else
unless you really love yourself first”
~Fred Rogers
Shoutout to all of those still waiting on their soulmates. Somewhere, someday. We just gotta make sure we’re ready, yeah?
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I first penned the short story for Wildman as an entry into a holiday anthology, once I had a handle on him it flowed like butter in a hot pan. Smooth and easy, and so sinfully delightful I nearly left him in that short story purgatory.
This book is proof I couldn’t do that to Wild, much less Justine. And if anyone ever deserved a happy ending, it’s those two. But I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? So Wildman, the quack-quack master, the fuck-you shouter, the coulda-been-me advocate for lusting after something you didn’t want, wasn’t happy about just becoming a member of the IMC. He wasn’t happy with his cameos in the other books. And he surely wasn’t happy with his short story. The man wanted a longer tale, even if it took a while.
It took a while.
Big thank yous to my editing and proofreading teams, Hot Tree Editing and Whiskey Jack Editing. Through your nudges and outright shoves, the story came together in a way it wouldn’t have otherwise. You folks rock, and I’m so pleased to have you in my corner. Thanks to to Megan and Kori, because your encouragement helped me keep the faith when I might have faltered.
So that brings me to here, and the story you’re holding in your hands. I’m so proud of this one—okay, I’m proud of all of them, I admit—but once Wildman launched himself full-tilt and dragged me deep into his history I was hooked. I needed to know what happened next, hell, I needed to know what happened first!
As we made our way through the story, him telling his side of things and Justine chiming in about her path, I came to the conclusion that while this is at heart a love story—it’s more truly a story about loving oneself first.
Hard lesson, yeah? We’re conditioned from early on to be conscious of how we behave or look. Holding our outsides up against images we see in magazines, or online. What’s harder for us to understand is that it’s the inside that matters most. We have to love ourselves before we’re anywhere near ready to love someone else.
I’m just glad Wildman and Justine learned that particular lesson early on, so by the time they met, they were ready. I hope you enjoy their story as much as I enjoyed discovering it with them.
Woofully yours,
~ML
Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends
Wildman learned a long time ago that trust in others wasn’t healthy and might not lend itself to a long life. Blind trust gave a man false confidence and could get a man dead. His first experience in a club told him only a twist of fate would determine if that ending came quick—or slow. It took being brought into the Incoherent MC to overcome his beliefs, and he came to learn that his patch brothers of the IMC were his only allies. Then, in an instant, everything changed. A flash of lightning, shadows on a wall, blood on his fists—and a beautiful woman on her knees. His life would never be the same.
Justine LaPorte had been born MC royalty. Daughter of Justice Morgan, sister of Davis Mason, she thought she’d fought free long ago. Justine had focused on carving her own path, becoming the antithesis of everything any MC stood for—including her brother’s beloved Rebel Wayfarers—carrying her federal badge with pride. Then a federal investigation puts her in harm’s way, and she finds herself deeply embroiled in club politics when she’s rescued by an officer from Incoherent. The IMC is a southern club at odds with all of the organizations in her past. Just her luck, that man who did the rescuing? He has the potential to fulfill all her desires, in and out of bed.
Chapter One
Chin dipped to his neck, Ogre stared into the mirror and let his fingertips trace a series of bumps along his hairline, indications of irritated flesh remaining from his freshly removed stitches. He caught the gaze of his reflection and studied himself, marking the age that had crept into his features over the past week.
“Hey, FourQ.” He raised his voice with the call and waited until he heard a grunted response. “Remind me. What time’s the ride supposed to start?”
Boots shuffled in the short hallway between the bathroom and kitchen, and Ogre glanced at the doorway, unsurprised to see the man wasn’t alone.
He couldn’t blame them for running in pairs around him. Not given the events of the previous days.
“Yeah. About that.”
Ogre straightened and turned at the tone, abandoning the reflection of his pain and anger and directing the beam of his rage on a man he’d called brother so recently. Just from the expression on FourQ’s face, Ogre already knew what he would say but wanted to force him to put words to it. FourQ and Puggs stood and stared at him, mouths closed, lips pressed into thin lines of fear.
Yeah, they should fucking fear me.
“What about what? You had a call, right? That’s what you said. Had a call about the ride. So what fuckin’ time is it supposed to start, man?” The man’s phone had rung, pulling him from the living room to the kitchen so he could take it privately.
Private. Away from me.
Ogre snorted in disgust. Until last week he’d been the resolute arm of power for their club. Hell, less than a month ago, he’d been standing on FourQ’s roof, pounding shingles into place to help keep his family dry and safe. And now this man was taking calls away from where he stood, to keep club business private.
“It’s been recommended we postpone the ride.”
Ogre, Lyle Woolsey to the government, kept his muscles loose and easy, limiting his respirations to a quiet and even cadence. He forced peace and calm throughout his body, controlling as much as he was able to, utilizing form, fit, and function beaten into him over the years, standing at his blood brother’s side. Once he was locked down, he blinked, lids scratching across his dry eyes.
“Postpone.” One long breath in. “The ride?”
“Brothers are sayin’ it’s not in the club’s best interest.” FourQ glanced to the man at his side but Puggs kept his mouth shut
, not giving FourQ anything. No support, but also no condemnation, which damned the man in Ogre’s book.
Teeth gritted, Ogre flexed the muscles in his jaw as he forced out, “Not in their best interest?” He knew the word drew a line between him and the rest of the club, but Ogre couldn’t find it in himself to give one single fuck about the unstated difference right now.
“Yeah, brother—”
“Don’t ‘brother’ me. Do not call me your brother.” He thrust a finger out, shoving FourQ back two strides without touching him. “Do not presume. My old lady’s dead. She’s dead because of the club, buried in the woods, because it wasn’t in the club’s best interests to have her declared officially and have a fuckin’ funeral. She’s dead and buried, and this ride was the only thing you motherfuckers offered to speak to her memory.”
“Ogre—”
“No.” Scarred fingers tightening into aching fists, he planted them on his hips and glared at the two men. “Get the fuck outta my house, man.” Lifting his chin, he stared down his nose, taking in the pallor left behind as blood leached out of their faces. “My old lady and my baby, still in her belly, are layin’ in the woods next to fuckin’ snitches and drug dealers. Not even a goddamned marker to tell the world part’a my soul was ripped from my body and laid to rest. All because it was in the best interest of the club for her death to be swept under the rug. What with the bullshit my brother pulled, and the attention he brought to our patch of ground, and all of that—I understood the reason. But now”—he leaned forwards, still keeping his voice under careful control—“there’s no fucking goddamned reason to shove this shit in my face.”
One week ago, Lyle Woolsey’s life had come to an end.
A few people had read an unhealthy ambition into his efforts to fully support his club, and those few—two—had taken steps to sever the relationship.
His half-brother, Powell Durrell, had been vice president of the South Florida MC Keyz Krewz for three years. They weren’t big, but weren’t small, maintaining a club just the right size to make a difference in their community. Keeping the dealers off their turf was a full-time job, but one the members had been driven to continue. For more than two of those years, Lyle had stood at his brother’s shoulder, cleaving strongly to his enforcer role and ensuring the safety of his blood family. Same daddy, different mothers, raised in different homes—but a solid relationship had grown between the two brothers.
Then a hurricane had swept in, wreaking destruction all across the southern tip of the state. The storm had taken the clubhouse roof, and as Lyle had taken the time to check in with the members across the region, each had varying stories of loss and ruin. Without having to think too hard about what was right, Lyle had turned his attention to helping their brothers, while men he’d stood shoulder to shoulder with to face down enemies pooled their resources and abilities at his requests. They worked through a long laundry list of damages, beginning with the president’s, and then his brother’s, house. After, they’d moved to repair the members’ residences if possible, then circled back to fix up the clubhouse, because Lyle knew as long as the building was repaired, they could offer longer-term shelter to members whose homes weren’t salvageable. Fundraisers had brought in money to buy materials individual members couldn’t afford, and all along the way, Lyle’s old lady was at his side doing her part.
That had been a factor in his downfall. Shelly was ambitious, more so than Lyle, and she saw the goodwill he was building with the rank-and-file members of the club. She saw it, recognized it, and wanted to use it to propel him higher in the club. Officers got a bigger percentage of the club’s business earnings, and with a hurricane baby on the way, she’d pushed for the stability.
Powell didn’t appreciate the idea, brought to his ears by his own woman, a club whore turned old lady who was jealous and whispering, telling pillow tales.
In retrospect, Lyle knew he should have seen it coming from a mile away. Should have expected and derailed it somehow.
He hadn’t, and the sudden knowledge had struck deep and hard, piercing the bubble of belief and loyalty inside him.
Saturday night at the clubhouse should have been a loud, rowdy party, with the wilder old ladies mixed in with the sweetbottom girls who liked to play rough. The moment Ogre walked through the door and into the room spanning the width of the house, he’d clocked something was up by the mere fact every face that swung to stare at him was male. There’d been no greeting either, friendly or ill, which factored into a definite heads-up because he’d broken bread at every member’s table over the past couple of months. Even those where he’d held no friendship previous to the storm, needs dictated he’d built a companionship and brotherhood warranting at least a passing hello.
It seemed as if the rumor he’d picked up in a backroom chat was true. The officers were gunning for him for no reason, that attack led by his own blood.
Ogre stopped next to the first member he came to. “Where’s Powell?” He swung his gaze around the room again, still not seeing his brother’s face. “FourQ, you know where he is?”
No words in response, just a tip of a chin to point to the office, door closed tight against the men in the main room.
“Obliged.”
“Ogre, he’s—”
“Lookin’ to oust me, I know.” He shook his head. “I heard but don’t understand. I don’t get it. I wanna get it from his own lips before I make a wrong turn somewhere in my response.”
“It’s more.”
He stopped and swung around, staring at FourQ, a man who’d stood next to him on many a roof since the storm, swinging hammers in sync.
“He’s lookin’ for more.”
“More than just strippin’ the club off my back? Brother, ain’t that enough?” Ogre turned on his heel and strode towards the door, scarcely noticing how the members cleared a path in front of him. Fist raised, he hesitated only a second before he brought his hand like a hammer against the surface. Three booming knocks, then he stepped backwards and waited.
Powell was the first one through the door, coming at him like a freight train, moving fast so his shove had extra momentum, throwing Ogre back three feet before he could dig in his heels. They stood like that, braced and straining, faces close enough Ogre could feel the heat, smell the sweat, and see the fear.
It was fear in his brother’s eyes. Great, heaving amounts of the emotion, constricting his pupils, whites showing all around the edges.
Fear.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Powell’s first question didn’t make sense.
“Where else would I be?” Ogre dropped his hands, letting his brother surge forwards a couple inches so they were chest to chest as he spread his arms wide. “I’m here, in the middle of my brothers, breathin’ in the camaraderie, communin’ in unity.”
“You were meant to be at home.” Powell disengaged abruptly, taking three long steps backwards. A wide circle of space built around Ogre. “With your old lady.”
“My old lady.” Ogre scanned the faces surrounding him. He decided to share his news. They’d learned a month ago, but Shelly had wanted to wait and be sure. “She’s pregnant with my babe, and is probably sleeping, arms wrapped around her belly.” Shocked murmurs filled the air, but not a man came forward with a congratulatory backslap. Oh, yeah, they’re ready to do me ill. Powell’s face drained of blood. “I don’t got no cigars, but I’ll buy a round for any man who wants it.”
Nobody moved. There wasn’t even the shuffle of boots against the floor.
“FourQ.” Powell’s shout broke the stasis, and Ogre felt the room’s heavy pressure bearing in on him. This is it, he thought. This is my beatout. “You’re up.”
“No, brother.” FourQ stepped out of the ring of men towards where Ogre stood. He was still yards away when he paused. Distanced himself from what Powell demanded, but he sure as shit hadn’t come close enough to show support for a man gettin’ unfairly railroaded. Can’t ride middle of the road for long.
“I won’t be your hands in this. You want it, I say you gotta do it. I don’t agree, but I ain’t an officer. Means I got no vote, but I won’t do it.”
“You wanna be treated the same?”
“You do that to every man who argues with you, won’t be no club left for you to try and rule over.”
Ogre looked through the crowd, stunned not to find their president in the ranks around him. He zeroed in on the patch on Powell’s chest, riding just underneath his nameplate. No longer the VP, the new officer plate proclaimed him their leader. The placement for the patch was off, wrong, because the club was meant to come first, with the individual subservient to the position. Powell’s the prez. How the fuck did that happen? His mind reeled with the knowledge of the behind-doors business conducted tonight.
“Bassil.” Powell called out his best friend’s name, someone he’d run with since they were kids. The Keys were the playground for rich tourists—and a mecca for light-fingered kids. Powell Durrell and Curtis Bassil had worked as a pair, fleecing and stealing whenever and from whomever they pleased. Ogre remembered more than one night hearing the phone ring and his daddy getting up and going out, coming back, shaking his head about bailing his oldest son out again. If anyone was going to step up and toe the mark Powell had drawn in the sand today, it’d be Bassil.
“No, brother.” Stepping out from behind Powell, Bassil bored his gaze into Ogre. “It’s got to be you. Makes more of a statement that way. You said you wanted everyone to know.”
“Know what?” Ogre swung his gaze from Powell to Bassil. “What in the fuck are you talking about?”
He had an idea now. Between this scene and the few words spoken in his direction, he had an idea. One of the benefits of having more than thirty brothers believe in you was someone would spill early, asking for confirmation of what was happening. Powell wanted him gone, afraid he’d been angling for the seat Powell had clearly had his eyes on. Ogre just wanted to hear the betrayal from his brother’s lips.
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