Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (34 page)

Rocking his head back against the wall of the clubhouse meeting room, Slate asked seriously, “You think she’s into riding on her own now, man? Road trips can be brutal, are you sure you want her first introduction to be not only a thousand-mile trip, but one where she’s learning how to ride? I like the idea of getting her a scoot—she’d look hot on a Sportster—but damn, M
ason. You are hoping for a fuckuva lot from her.”

He paused for a minute, letting that sink in to his brother’s head, then switched gears, saying, “I get you wanting that Road King, man. Denzie has a sweet ride. I didn’t know he was up for selling it, but glad it’s coming up here. We’re still looking for a Fat Boy for Jason
; he’s wanting a pretty bike to impress DeeDee.” Slate yawned;
fuck,
he was tired.

Mason’s head came up. “He sniffing around Winger’s old lady? She okay with that? It’s been a while since Winger passed, man, and about time she moved on, but a hockey guy? I’d hoped she’d find someone and stay in the club; she was a solid old lady.”

Slate nodded. “She seems to be encouraging him, at least what I’ve seen. Jackson’s is the only place I’ve ever seen them interact, and she’s only here for a couple of weeks anyway.”

“Fucking DeeDee, man. I should get Mica introduced to her, especially if she’s moving out of the club. Would give them both something to have—kinda halfway, you know? Plus, if I can get Mica riding, she and DeeDee could run around together.” Mason paused.
“Fuck that; forget I said anything about them riding around. Mica learns how to ride, we’ll need to have escorts lined up.”

“Fuck me,” Slate snarled, “security detail
still
, Mason? Isn’t that taking this too far? The threat has been handled, man…Nelms is neutralized. Why should there still be a security detail?”

Mason thumped his hand on the tabletop, silencing Slate’s argument. “Because she’s our fucking princess, and while that gives her a lot of protection, it also puts a target on her ass. So until we are goddamn certain there’s no blowback from anything associated with Mica, she gets a fucking security detail. You get me, brother?”

Slate rubbed his hands over his face, pushing them through his hair, leaving it standing at all angles from his head. “I get you, Prez. I’m on it.”

***

Standing on Mica’s little back porch, Slate stood with his hands on his hips, watching as the growing crowd helped put the final touches on the party to welcome Mica and Mason home. He felt pretty proud of himself; this was the first party he’d been in charge of, and he knew he’d enlisted the right help. Digger and Daniel’s guy, Carter, had been in charge of the beer. There were several kegs set up and ready go to. Road Runner was handling the food, and that man lived for cooking.

Jess had proven valuable too. She’d opened the phonebook and called a dozen important Chicago businesspeople, who then told another dozen, and so on. It was like a crazy game of telephone, but the result was more than a hundred people milling around the connected backyards of Mason and Mica’s houses. Nearly the whole Mallets hockey team had come, and Slate had seen two of the Rupert siblings earlier, but no Daniel yet.

Most of the Rebel brothers from the three nearest chapters were in attendance, but there was also a welcome, tension-less exchange with outside clubs’ members who’d come. He’d seen Bones, Shades, Joker, VD, Six-Pack, and Ratman wandering around, all from the Skeptics MC. They’d offered nothing but respect to him and his brothers, and were waiting patiently for Mason to show.

Relations were good with the Dominos MC too, and their president Hawk had shown up with his old lady, Houlihan. She was a curvy brunette with a smart mouth. Hot Lips also happened to hold a Master’s Degree in Special Education, and was in high demand at the local schools. Riding behind them were four full-patch members; it was the first time Slate had met any of them, but he shook and exchanged greetings before passing them off to Tug to wrangle.

He muttered to himself, “Fuck me,” looking at the number of bikes parked along the street and alleyway. Tilting his head, he closed his eyes, biting his bottom lip. Straining to see if what he thought he’d heard was real, he became convinced that over the low roar of the crowd, he could hear the welcome, sweet sound of bikes coming from a couple of blocks away.

Jumping up on the railing surrounding the porch, he bellowed at the crowd, “Here they come. Pipe the fuck down, people.” Making sure his message was heard and being passed along, he jumped down and yelled at Tats and Hoss to make a lane in the alley for when the bikes arrived. They moved to the street, shifting people out of the way as Mica came into view. She was riding along in front of Mason—he’d granted her pride of place—and she had the biggest shit-eating grin on her face.

Whispering quietly to himself, he muttered, “Put your feet down, put your feet down, put down your fucking feet…” until he saw her idle in and brake to a stop, putting down her feet to balance her bike. “Thank fuck,” he breathed, seeing Mason pull in beside her and motion her to park up here by the house.

Nodding his head, he watched her roll the bike up to the pad, then back into what was now officially her parking place for the Sportster. She put down the kickstand and killed the bike, slowly taking off her helmet and looking around in what looked like surprise and awe at the people crowding around.

He knew her legs would be weak for a couple minutes after a long ride like today, so he jumped off the porch, coming up beside her and lifting her off the bike with ease. She twisted in his arms, hugging him, and then pulled his face close with both hands, kissing him softly on the lips. Smiling, she pulled back and whispered, “That’s from Essa.” A shock shot straight through to his cock, and he almost moaned at the thought of his girl asking Mica to pass that along.

Slate stepped back as others crowded around her, everyone wanting to touch her and make sure she knew how much she was loved and had been missed.

Watching Prez pad across the yard towards her, he recognized from Mason’s body language that their relationship had shifted in the days since he’d last seen them together in Texas.
Fuck me
, he mouthed, seeing the long-standing, familiar, sexual tension had changed to what looked like a lover’s knowledge of each other’s bodies. Fuck…maybe it was a good thing Daniel wasn’t here yet.

He had given a three-fingered salute to Mason before he turned to walk
through the party, listening as the music went from
Blessed
by Black Water Rising to the favorite
Arms Wide Open
by Creed; the fucking music rocked. He wanted to make sure no one got too rowdy, and that the mix of brothers and citizens remained as friendly as they were right now. Running into Hoss, he thanked him for helping get Mica up to her house safely, clapping him on the back.

Hoss pulled him into a conversation about the benefits of an enforced perimeter around a clubhouse. He’d moved to the new Fort Wayne chapter a few months ago; he had some family down that way. Slate knew Fort Wayne had been having problems with gang activity near them, but this was the first he’d heard that they weren’t enforcing a goddamn neutral zone. Tequila was also a Fort Wayne brother; he was up here with Bingo for a few days, and Slate pulled him into the conversation.

This sounded like sloppy leadership to him, which wasn’t like Bingo. The club needed a secure area around their house, where they could be confident of safety for both members and family, if needed. If the gangs were pushing that badly, Mason needed to be told, so he could manage the situation and expectations.

Slate casually kept pushing on other topics, listening as much to what wasn’t said, as what was. The strip club business was doing well, but they’d saved money by not testing the girls for drugs or disease.

Shooting range business was taking a hit; the lack of ammunition was impacting casual sportsmen’s ability to play with their cock-replacements. On the other hand, local law enforcement officers, otherwise known as LEOs, had arranged private times for the facility, which nearly made up the missing income. Something smelled of kickbacks there, but it was hard to tell without being onsite.

The two bars sounded like business as usual, however he heard undertones of tension with the Highwaymen out of Detroit, which could be problematic. He was coming to the unwelcome conclusion that he needed to make a trip to Indiana soon. He’d have to track the shit there and figure it out.

He was leaning against a tree, chatting with Tequila, when he caught sight of Tucker weaving through the edges of the crowd. Rebels held church about his shit months ago, but the fucker had done a runner, and they hadn’t been able to take things to the final conclusion. Anger boiled in his system and he found his jaw clenched, grinding his teeth together tightly. Stepping away from the tree, he caught Bones’ eye, and the Skeptics’ president strolled over. “Slate, my titanium-balled friend, you look positively enraged. Furious is also a good word.” He eyed Slate’s face closely. “Can I be of assistance, brother?” he offered quietly.

Slate tucked his chin down, and then lifted his face. “Naw, man, club business.” He indicated Tucker with a nod. “We have some old news that just showed up; needa take care of it, is all. Your guys are probably gonna wanna watch, but I’d ask for some privacy, unless you hear otherwise from Mason.”

“You got it, Slate,” Bones agreed readily. Clucking his tongue, he called his members to him, pointing to Tucker. “See that piece of Rebel business? We will assist Rebels as needed, catch and...not release, I think. Just catch, yeah.” He nodded at Slate. “Go get Mason, Brother. This shit’s contained.”

Slate whistled low and then high, calling his own members to him. “Tequila, Wheels, Bingo, Duck—Tucker is here. Snatch him up, take him over to Mason’s backyard, and wait.” He looked around the ring of faces, seeing his own anger reflected there. He tapped his fist to chest, saying softly, “She’s a fucking treasure
,” and heard the echo go around the circle of men. “Do not fucking fail her. We take care of this shit tonight,” he snarled, watching for agreement on every face.

Bones walked with him for a few steps, his words pulling Slate to a slow stop. “It’s for
her
then?” he asked. “The Rebels’ Princess?”

Slate nodded, staying quiet. “I’ve often wondered what it was about her,” Bones mused, “and then I saw her riding in today. I believe you Rebels have the right of it, and trust me when I say I mean no disrespect to her or the club as I say along with you that she is,” he tapped his chest with a closed fist, “
a fucking treasure
. Mason is a goddamn lucky man.” Slate silently nodded again, stalking off to where Mica stood between Mason and Daniel, symbolic of their months-long relationship struggles.

He heard a short struggle behind him, and knew Tucker had been located and detained. He stopped a little ways from where Mason stood, and got his attention with a yell of his name followed by a single word, “Tucker.”

Mason disengaged from Mica and walked towards Slate. “Took him to your yard, Prez,” Slate told him. They angled their steps that way, quietly acknowledging as Rebel members fell into step behind them. Mason nodded at the Skeptics guard standing outside the yard, bumping fists with Bones.

Entering the backyard through the gate, they saw three Rebels standing in the darkness at the back of the open area. Mason nodded at two of the men, and stared at the third for a long moment. He turned back to the larger group, waiting patiently as they gathered and settled into place.

“Rebel Wayfarers forever,” he began, and the crowd took up the saying, finishing with, “forever Rebels.” Mason nodded at them, trailing his gaze across every member present. “Weeks ago, we made a decision in church to remove a member. Has anyone forgotten the charges? Does anyone need a refresher on what the member did?” Mason had already begun the process of stripping Tucker of his place by reducing him to a member, instead of a name.

No one spoke up, and a few heads shook in negation. “Does anyone question the charges?” he asked the group, receiving only head shakes in response. “Do we all stand by our original decision?” he asked, finally receiving head nods this time in agreement. His eyes ripped across the group again. “God forgives; Rebels don’t. Fucking right,” he said, and pulled out his knife.

Opening the lock blade, he approached the group of three. Taking a step behind them and to the side, he waved his arm at Tucker, who was held facing forward by his arms between Wheels and Duck. “No longer Rebel,” he reached out with one hand to steady the leather fabric of the man’s cut; he ran his blade along the edge of one patch, severing the threads holding it in place, “no longer one of us,” he took his time around the larger center patch, treating the club colors with respect and care, “not club,” he said finally, releasing his hold on the leather, stepping back with the three patches held loosely in his hands.

Wheels and Duck turned Tucker loose, stepping away. He rounded on Mason, speaking for the first time. “This is fucking bullshit, Prez. She fucking liked it, man, asked for it all the time by wearing those tight shirts and pants. You know you’ve done the same, Mason. I’ve seen you time and time again with your hands all over her. This is bullshit, man, and you know it. You’re just pussy-whipped by the bitch fucking the hockey star.”

Oh man, Slate did not have a good feeling about the ending to this particular story. He watched Mason grind to a halt, turning slowly to face the former member. “You need to shut the fuck up now, Cut. I’ll give you five seconds, and then I’ll own you. One,” he said softly.