Hoss (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 7) Read online

  Hoss

  Rebel Wayfarers MC

  Book #7

  MariaLisa deMora

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Front cover image by Michael Meadows Studios

  Model: Benjamin J. McKee

  Cover design: Melissa Gill @ MGBookcovers and Designs

  Copyright © 2015 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 Printing 2015

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9904473-9-9

  DEDICATION

  The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for. – Bob Marley

  For the mothers and fathers who hold their children first in their hearts. Your babies are truly blessed. They will never wonder if they are loved, and that is the greatest gift of all.

  Contents

  Crashing

  Tripping and not falling

  Our complicated story

  Proud of you

  What do you want?

  Nothing works for long

  Anticipation

  Put tonight behind you

  Beautiful

  Humor me

  All my waiting

  Running

  Let me bring you home

  Can’t catch me

  You bring danger to my door

  I will protect you

  I need beauty in my life

  Responsibilities weigh heavy

  Gone

  Spider monkey

  My song for you

  Both hands

  You want me, you got me

  Our family

  Love, tripled

  What she showed me

  Inspired

  Epilogue

  Thank you

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  So many folks have asked where the ideas about the characters come from. The way Mason and Mica invaded my dreams should be a known component by now, but for this book, the idea for the characters began as short descriptive notes in my phone. I wasn’t certain where we were going, and the jotted bits and pieces were more tentative ideas than a story, or even an outline. Then, one night, I was attending a local professional hockey game in Fort Wayne and found my Hope.

  During the first period of the game, just before intermission, the good folks in the media room flashed a picture up on the overhead scoreboard screens. It was the 'Oblivious Cam,' where they target someone who's not paying attention, and then put a timer on them until either they look up and see they're on the big screen, or someone around them brings it to their attention. Laughter and embarrassed blushes typically follow as they wave at the camera before the next hapless victim splashes across the wide screens.

  This time it was a chick, a younger yet mature woman. Definitely not a kid, this gal was studiously bent over her phone, which isn't an uncommon sight when you’re out and about, or hell, at some family dinners these days...but this was a public display of what looked to be a troubling moment in her life. The lines her body drew in the stadium seat were taut, stressed, and when she finally glanced up into the camera, her features were pale and she appeared deeply shaken. Something profound was going on with her; we were witness to a moment that might define her life, and it struck a chord inside me.

  For the next fifteen minutes, in my mind, she became Hope, Mercy's sister. From what I saw with the chick on the screen, I knew Hope had to have a secondary reason to show up in Fort Wayne. She wouldn’t uproot her little family just to find Mercy and introduce herself. Now, I just had to find out what that reason was.

  Frantic tapping on my phone ensued and I wrote the opening for the first scene from the book sitting in my seat behind the home bench, patiently waiting for play to resume. In my head, I was sitting rinkside at hockey practice alongside a single mom and her beloved son, their lives teetering on the edge of disaster.

  My Hope and Sammy edged their way into life that night, winding their way into my heart, and eventually finding their way into Hoss’ as well. So there you go, now you are in the know! That, my friends, is how Hope and Sammy came to be.

  I want to throw out a loud ‘thank you’ to photographer Michael Meadows for helping me find the perfect image for the cover. I believe Benjamin McKee, the model you see in the picture, makes an absolutely phenomenal Hoss, and meeting the man was such a pleasant surprise! So sweet and kind, he was quite patient with the star struck author taking up so much time in the middle of an event in Nashville. Thank you, Ben. Mattered more than you know.

  To my alpha readers: Thank you for not killing me. I thought I needed to just throw that out there. I know I’m demanding and hard to please, but with every story I nervously hand off, the connection we build is more resilient, stronger, and you help make me better. Hollie, Kristen, LeeAnn, Kay, Kori, Shay, and my own MirandaPanda – thank you for this, too.

  Dyana, for the late night (or early morning, however you look at it) chats about all the important bits, you have my endless thanks. It helps to have a skilled and compassionate nurse in my back pocket, yeah?

  Becky, Kayla, and the HTE betas, thank you for your work and feedback, and to Melissa Gill for helping bring my cover idea to life.

  As ever, I want to thank my personal motorcycle men, members of MC, RC, and LE clubs in Michigan, Indiana, Ohio, Texas, Nevada, New Mexico, and Chihuahua. As much as a woman and a citizen can, I get it. That brotherhood piece that you all hold so close. The way you are brothers underneath the patch, and even when you disagree, it is with the knowledge that every man who put in prospect time has your back. Never alone, even if life ain’t no fairytale. I hope I did that bond justice with this story. I’m sure you’ll let me know if I messed up, just be patient with me, yeah? Love you all so hard. You can always count on my affection erection! Muuwah. <3

  ~ML

  Crashing

  Distracted, Hope noted Sammy's coach shouting at the kids and how his tone registered as encouraging rather than derogatory, which was good. It hadn’t been long since she pulled Sam from his old coach, because he did nothing but scream at the kids about how bad they were. Evidently, the man hadn’t gotten the memo that negative reinforcement went out of favor decades ago because it simply didn’t work with eight-year-olds. Or twenty-eight-year-olds. Plus, his brother had been a total douchecanoe. Her fingers plucked nervously at the fraying seam of her hoodie, and she scrunched up her nose when she saw she had unthreaded another four inches. One more thing to repair. She checked her phone again, nearly six o’clock. Surely, it would be there by six.

  There was a thud on the Plexiglas barrier in front of her and she looked up, startled out of her thoughts. Sammy stood there by the boards, frowning at her, and then reached down below the level she could see to help his teammate up from the ice and they skated away, side-by-side. He had evidently gotten in a good hit and she had missed it. Again.

  Back to the phone. Three minutes after six. Unlocking the screen, with now-shaking fingers, she tapped the app for her bank, quickly logged in and then felt her shoulders sag. Still a negative balance. If her deposit didn’t hit the account soon, overdraft fees would eat up most of it, and she would have reentered the destructive cycle she had vowed never to have to deal with again. When the local college semester had ended, as usual, students scooped up most of her part-time and cash-paying jobs. T
hat left her with only her single primary job as receptionist for the trucking company, which meant digging out of the money hole would be nearly impossible this time, and if her rent check bounced again, she knew they were toast.

  If only Gibson hadn’t been such a jackhole, she thought, flicking her gaze up in time to see Sam deke around a slower kid, driving towards the goal. She tensed, waiting and ready to burst to her feet in applause, when the goalie shifted to the side of the crease and blocked his shot. Around the curve of the rink, she heard another mother applauding her own son and briefly smiled at the support the small pad-covered goalie enjoyed. Easing back into her seat, she looked down at her phone again and tapped the update button. No change.

  Gibson had been Sammy’s and her roommate, but moved out last week with his share of the back-rent still in his checking account. “Why would I pay for something when I’m not even going to be here?” had been his answer when she dared to ask for the money. Even when she pointed out he had lived there during the rent portion she was asking for, from that moment on, he studiously ignored her. Arrogantly walking around and past her, he loaded his car and was driving away within two hours of their non-conversation.

  Why does my life have to suck so hard? she wondered, locking the phone and shoving it deep into the pocket of her jeans. Bleakly, she watched Sammy as he skated up and down the sheet of ice, executing all the drill demands of the coach. No apartment would mean they would be back in the car for a minimum of two months while she saved for the deposits needed to rent again. He deserves better, she thought, looking at the grimly determined expression on his face as he bent over for a quick breather, head up, eyes on the coach, absorbing every word about this game he loved.

  He was the one thing in her life she would never wish to change, the only good decision she ever made. She smiled and gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up when he looked her way, and this time, she saw a glint of a smile behind the faceguard on his helmet. She watched as he set his hands, enclosed in those ridiculously oversized, stinky gloves, even more doggedly on the stick, waiting for the puck to drop in the faceoff. God, I love him so much.

  Pulling her phone out, she went through the routine of unlocking and logging in and found her balance had fallen further into the negative range. Clicking on the notice for more details, her mouth dropped open in shock. The bank had taken out twenty more dollars, and the information said her deposit—her paycheck—had been returned as Insufficient Funds. Her paycheck had bounced.

  Scrambling to dial her boss, she found herself squeezing her eyes shut tightly, muttering under her breath, “Please, please, please, please.” Hearing tones instead of ringing, while not entirely unexpected, still shattered her remaining composure. “No. No. No no, nono, nonono,” she panted. “This can’t be happening.” She hadn’t worked for the trucking company long, but they seemed solvent. In funds. In the black. Seemed to know what they were doing. She disconnected and dialed the other number she had for the office. After waiting for what seemed an interminable amount of time, she again heard the tones. “We’re sorry, but the number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

  The barrier in front of her boomed again and she looked up to see Sammy, head down, elbows flying as he dug for the puck at his feet, trying to keep the other two boys from getting it. His face was rounded, and he wore glasses, but in his case, looks were entirely deceiving, because he was the toughest kid she knew. Sure enough, he came out of the scrum with the puck, agilely dodging around the net and neatly tucking it underneath the goalie’s leg pads.

  He glanced her way and she knew the disaster in the works must have shown on her face, because his gaze stuck on her. Instead of celebrating his goal, the grin faded from his face and he frowned, his chin slowly tucking down into his chest. He glanced up at the clock by the press box and mouthed, Ten minutes? She nodded and he skated towards the coach, leaving her chewing on her lip as she waited for practice to be over so she could let her son down. Again.

  She stood and walked to the entryway, waiting for him so they could walk out to the car together, heading to what was still home. For now.

  “What are we going to do, Mom?” Seven words. All it took to break her heart. Those words uttered in her sweet boy’s voice, asking her if she could make this right, if she could fix it, keep them together. She knew it was his greatest fear, because they had seen it happen to families. Kids got farmed out to grandparents or aunts and uncles as parents traveled out of state for work, and before you knew it, all ties were broken.

  Even in the shelters, she and Sammy worried that somehow, through some unknown rule or law, they would be separated, because they didn’t have the safety net of family. She had worked hard as heck over the past eight years to make sure it never happened. Yet here they were, standing right back at the mouth of the drain, watching the slow, inevitable failure come closer.

  “I got this,” she said with a grin, wrinkling her nose at him. In the apartment, they were sitting in their regular places for dinner, side-by-side on the floor, plates on the coffee table, faces turned towards the dark TV. After dinner, she would put in a DVD for him, but during the meal, she insisted on conversation, even if Gibson—the jackhole—had sold their dining room table.

  “But if your paycheck was bad, it means there’s no money. Are we gonna hafta move?” His voice didn’t quaver, didn’t give any sign of the distress she knew he must’ve been feeling. He is way too old for his years, she thought, leaning over to pat his knee reassuringly.

  “It’s probably just a mistake. I’ll drive over tomorrow while you’re at the library for story time and talk to my bossman. He’ll get it all straightened out,” she said, but he didn’t look convinced.

  “You could call Dad.” He offered this solution quietly, gaze fixed firmly on his bowl.

  She knew his belief that his dad would be willing to save them was her fault. She had determined long ago to never be the kind of woman who laid the entire blame at the feet of the absent parent, especially since, while he was also a jackhole, it wasn’t entirely voluntary. That meant she bit her tongue more often than not when Sammy brought up his paternal parental unit, as she referred to him in her head. Although, sometimes that reference was sperm donor, whichever fit her mood at the time.

  Only a few years ago, Calhoun Suiter had seemed to be the answer to her prayers. After an entire childhood spent in a stifling religious household, she had simply wanted to escape her hometown, find her way out from under her mother’s thumb and away from her father’s influence. She was fresh out of high school while Cal was several years older, and he promised her everything.

  She had watched out the window of the car as the curtains in her parents’ bedroom twitched only once as she drove away with him, a suitcase of her clothes in the trunk. A few weeks later that promised ‘everything’ fell apart when his hands sent her to the ER.

  Flowers and fresh promises bought her trust again, but when it happened a second time, and then a third, she knew she couldn’t stay with him. Especially not when she found out the news. Not once she knew she was pregnant. She and Cal didn’t have a relationship worth saving, not at the expense of a child’s welfare.

  Out of options on that front, she did what she felt she had to do. Sharing with her parents about the child was the hardest thing she had ever done. Far harder than telling them she was going to live in sin with Cal. A baby was…permanent. Life-altering. A life-long commitment to love and cherish a little being. Seated on a stool in front of their fireplace, she had watched her mother’s face crumple into tears, saw her father’s grow rigid and foreign as he sat in his chair, looking at her.

  That was the first time she learned she had a sister. A half-sister, it seemed, but still a sibling she had never heard a single word about. Her father didn’t want to discuss the details, but as best she could discern, he and Mom had broken up and he had a one-night fling. Her parents patched things up the next day, and were married and happily pregnant within two months, b
ut his single night of fun had far-reaching ramifications in the form of a daughter.

  Her name was Mercy Harris, raised in Birmingham, not twenty miles from her own family home in Gadsden. Mercy and Hope, one daughter acknowledged, one ignored. It seemed babies didn’t have to be a commitment after all, not in his book. Her respect for her father took a nosedive that day, learning about this side of him. She wondered at his callous attitude, because after hearing him preach over and over about how precious babies were, she couldn’t understand how he could have turned his back on an innocent child.

  When she asked him about Mercy, he sneered and told her, “You should look her up. You evidently have a lot in common.” By that point in the conversation, she had been crying hard, and through her tears, she stupidly asked, “What?” thinking, Other than the obvious, Daddy? He retorted with the harshest words he had ever spoken to her, “You’re both whores, aren’t you?”

  She hadn’t responded, hadn’t been able to, as if from far away, hearing his ultimatum and shaking her head vehemently. Packing her things had not taken long, and within thirty minutes, the entire scene had played out and she was in her car, tears rolling down her face as she drove aimlessly around, trying to escape the memory of his words.

  Stopping at a friendly-looking diner in Birmingham, she sat in a booth alongside the big window in the front. Nursing a glass of sweet tea, she embarrassedly shook her head and turned away every time the waitress approached her. After a couple hours, the owner came out and gently offered to let her clean in exchange for a meal of scrambled eggs and toast, and with trembling lips, she accepted.

  “Call me Mac,” he told her gently when he placed the plate of hot food in front of her.

  She looked up at him through tear-clumped lashes and said, “Hope.” Mac had laughed and told her it was a fitting name for a beautiful young lady. His kindness pulled the first smile from her that she had felt on her face for days.