Neither This Nor That Box Set 1 Read online

  Neither This Nor That

  MC Series

  Vol. 1-3

  This is the Route of Twisted Pain, #1

  Treading the Traitor’s Path: Out Bad, #2

  Shelter My Heart, #3

  MariaLisa deMora

  Copyright © 2019 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 or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  First Published 2019

  ISBN 13: 978-1-946738-58-5

  Contents

  Neither This Nor That MC Series Vol. 1-3

  This is the Route of Twisted Pain

  Treading the Traitor’s Path: Out Bad

  Shelter My Heart

  This is the Route of

  Twisted Pain

  Neither This Nor That

  Book #1

  MariaLisa deMora

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Cover design by Debera Kuntz

  Copyright © 2016 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 2016

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9967486-5-0

  DEDICATION

  Heroes get remembered, but legends never die. ~Babe Ruth

  Because we all know every great story has at least some basis in experience: Thank you to those who provided me exceptional adventure opportunities, allowing me to spin these tall tales.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Honestly? I don’t know what possessed me to write this character. The genesis was a submissions call for a short story anthology to support the Semicolon Project, where all contributing authors would be attending the same signing in Mississippi. Since that signing was the Outlaw Author Motorcycle Convention 2016, the theme was bad boys. I’d just finished a great run of three short stories about bad girls, and at first it felt as if this story had started down that path.

  We’ve got Penny Dane, who drives a truck, and even in the dead of night isn’t afraid to invite a stranger into her bunk to get what she wants. But to me it seemed our Penny lacked the swaggering self-confidence needed to make her a bad girl. My muse must have agreed, and since someone had to be in control (clearly I wasn’t) George Bell came into his own, filling my head with so much bad boy, it spilled over the short story length and well into novella. Welcome to the world, Twisted Penny. Booyah! What a pretty little standalone story! Submission complete, movin’ on. Back to other books already on the schedule.

  Yeah, naw.

  Fast forward two weeks, and Bell hadn’t stopped talking.

  Two months later, and we were well on our way to the book you hold in your hands, This Is The Route Of Twisted Pain.

  George, aka Twisted, wasn’t an easy character to write. He is so unabashedly an outlaw; totally upfront about it and completely unapologetic regarding the things he does because everything he is, everything he does, supports his chosen family. His brothers. He has been all about the brotherhood since introduced to the motorcycle club life at sixteen, and even describes his hell-on-earth prospect period as one of the proudest times in his life. So he was totally focused on how to make life better for his brothers and the club.

  That is until he met Penny. Once he met her, all bets were off, and he found his mind consumed by this woman. Obsessed. He calls it addicted, and I suspect that’s how it feels, because I found myself obsessed by Twisted and his life.

  This book is different from all the others I’ve written in another way, too. As it turns out, there are a couple of different ways to write. One is by following an outline, where the plot is known, and the outcome is pretty clear. The story might waver one way or another along the path, but, especially in a series where much of the storyline overlaps, the destination is preordained (except when it’s not /looks sideeye at Gunny/). The other way to write is literally flying by the seat of your pants, affectionately known as pantsing.

  Twisted’s book? Pantsing alla way, baby. To write, I would sit and locate the end of the previous chapter or scene—or sometimes find I’d stopped in the middle of a sentence, wherever exhaustion had overtaken me the previous day—and I would reread. Then, I’d have barely enough time to take a deep breath, put my hands on the keys, and close my eyes before we were off again.

  Twisted directed every word, each movement, all aspects of the story. This is the first one where I have less than 10,000 words of deleted scenes. Shoot, some of my books, I have about half as many words in discarded dialogue and action as remains for publishing. For Twisted? There was only one section of the book where we had two false starts on a scene. Just the one place where I had to circle back around and listen more carefully to what he was telling me, watch for those forks in the path that had led us astray, and avoid them. In the end, I was happy with what we put down, and I doubt you’ll ever know it, but there WERE alligators and pit bulls in the story at one point.

  So here we sit, and there you are, ready to begin to dive into his world, set in the humid swamps and canals of southern Louisiana. I’ll let you go play in the bayou in a minute, got just a few ‘thank yous’ to toss out.

  Big thanks to the readers of these stories I pull outta my head. Y’all are amazing, straight up. For true. Love alla y’all. I do this writing gig for me, but jeebus I really get off on the fact that you like these folks in my head, too. Makes me kinda partial to you, ‘cause I’m already partial to them.

  Thank you to Kristen, Andrea, Jamey, and Jesse for allowing me to experiment on them with this story. Your involvement and perspective was, as it always is, spot on and fulla the goodness.

  Thanks to Becky at Hot Tree Editing for her keen insight and guidance along the way. Love you, woman.

  Thanks to Debera Kuntz for the fantastic cover you see on the front of this book. With very little guidance from me, she took what I had to say and ran with it, nailing it so well, I don’t think I could love a cover more. I am in awe of your talent, woman.

  Shout out to my family and friends, for putting up with me while I dealt with Twisted bein’ all up in my head. You support me in ways you don’t even know, and I love y’all hard.

  To my personal motorcycle men, those who wear patches from so many different nations and clubs, thank you. You not only help keep my head on straight, at times you help me keep my head on my shoulders, period. Thanks for putting up with my bullshit, and you need anything, lemme know. Where y’all are concerned, my door is always open, and the table is always set. I might not wrench but, I’ll fry up some oysters, make us some po boys.

  Woofully yours,

  ~ML

  Chapter One

  George, age seven

  “Georgie, honey. Can you come here a minute?” From where he played with his plastic soldiers in the cool, oily dirt underneath the back porch, seven-year-old George Bell heard his mama call for him. He sighed and rolled onto his back, staring up, and blinking at the strips of sunlight making their way between the boards of the porch.

  Footsteps ranged through the house, back
and forth, telling him the occupants were busily getting ready for the night’s festivities. He could hear bare soles whispering, high heels clipping, and the sedate and solid clunk of Miz Oleander’s cane pacing room-to-room. “Georgie?” Miz Oleander would be chivvying them along, hurrying the girls, few of them women, in their quest to ready themselves before the onslaught poured through the doors. He tipped his head to the side, locking gazes with Teddy’s black ones. “Georgie?” His mother’s voice lifted again, emphasis on the last syllable, the joined sounds of “iieee” calling him from his hiding place.

  “I’ll be back,” he whispered to his friend. “Watch the men and don’t let ’em be stupid. Everybody gets to go home.” He didn’t get anything back, no response, no acknowledgment of his words. He never did. That was okay. He trusted Teddy to do as he was told. “Good man.”

  Flipping to his stomach, he turned in the tight space, his careful feet held over the soldiers’ heads. Threat of a certain doom suspended aloft, but something he would never act on. His men were loyal, and so was he. Squirming, wary of the webbing spun overhead and watching out of habit for snakes and other varmints, he made his way to the tiny passage leading to the backyard. Removing the mesh jammed into the opening, he wiggled through, then leaned back inside to bring the covering back into place. Everyone would be safe and secure, and he’d be back to his friends as soon as he could. After he found out whatever it was Mama wanted him to do.

  Standing at the edge of the porch, noise from up the way caught his attention, and he turned to see men already making their way down the lane and through the gate. A party thrown by Miz Oleander was not something to be missed, and the house would soon be filled to overflowing. From the side-to-side staggering gait of some of the men, they’d already started their own party. Men who’d been to the house before would be careful not to be too many sheets to the wind before arriving, or they knew Miz Oleander would gently turn them away. She took care of her girls; often called them that in public, “my girls” as if they were family. He’d seen and heard it, many a time.

  Georgie knew the private side of things, too. Saw the ice-filled towels lifted to swollen lips, trembling fingers pressed to bruise-darkened cheeks, frightened glances quickly lowered from Miz Oleander’s chilling blue stare. Around here, family time wasn’t always fun and games, like the other kids in school talked about. To those children, a party night was the family gathered around a dining room table playing euchre or cards. Dominos if their parents felt a little racy. Dad with a beer to hand, Mom a creamy mint drink. One for her, maybe two for him. Kids bathed and tucked into clean-sheeted beds not long after the sun went down. Darkness was time for recharging the body, letting the mind sink into slumber. Not at Miz Oleander’s house where there were more beds than you could shake a stick at, whose occupants would enter, leave, and enter again before the clock struck midnight, and where the women weren’t afraid to smoke, drink, and kiss their cares away.

  Noise from inside the house brought him back to himself, and he stepped to the window, clambering easily to the top of the bricks stacked there for just this reason, bringing his eyes high enough to see inside. It looked like a dust devil of color and movement, the speed at which the occupants of the house moved dizzying. Lola, dressed in a tight-fitting costume that covered her armpits to thighs, frilly lace making a tail high on her butt to drape down the backs of her legs. Jeanine, adjusting her knockers in the tight brassiere that matched her underpants, that coordinated effort seen through the swirling splits in the scarves tied to a belt at her waist. Maribelle, youngest of the girls, wore a full uniform like he’d seen the rich girls in Slidell wearing as they marched by rows into their school. His mama stood behind Mari, fingers flying fast in the girl’s hair, creating bouncy braids on either side of her head.

  Mama was still in her dressing robe, cigarette held between her lips, head tilted to keep the smoke from stinging her eyes as she focused on what her hands were doing. He knew as soon as she finished with Mari’s hair, she’d remove the cigarette and call him again, so he jumped from the bricks to the porch, reaching and opening the door, running through the kitchen. Grabbing a sweetmeat from the tray on the table, he dodged the slapping hand halfheartedly aimed his way from Mister Nondall, Miz Oleander’s husband.

  Oleander Nondall ran one of the most expensive and exclusive cathouses in southern Louisiana, right here in Mandeville. Her reputation brought in patrons from as far away as Hattiesburg, Mississippi, and Beaumont, Texas. Her girls were consistently pretty and well-spoken, with educated accents, and were always kept up-to-date on events by Miz Oleander’s frequent quizzing. And Georgie’d heard her say often enough how clean they were. Lord knew they spent enough time in the bathrooms, so he reckoned they should be clean.

  Stuffing the sweetmeat into his mouth, he charged into the parlor, dodging between the dozen women collected there, the strong scents of perfume and cigarette smoke setting up a racket in his head. A pounding headache was always his fate on party nights. The men who wandered down the stairs in the mornings complained of headaches, too, and he reckoned being up close to the perfume was what done it for them.

  “Yes ma’am, Mama,” he greeted when he reached where she stood, hand to Mari’s face, tipping the girl’s head back and forth to study her handiwork. “You called me?”

  Coralie “Coral” Bell looked down with a smile. His mama was the most beautiful woman in the house. Coal-black hair framed a delicate face untouched by the sun. Pale, she was proud of her skin and had him rub lotions and creams into her shoulders and backside, anywhere it was hard for her to reach.

  Her belly was round and firm, his little brother or sister needing another couple of months to cook. Her bun in the oven was the main reason for her lack of preparation this night. Few customers would be interested in a woman like her showing off an ability to breed. It reminded the men of where they were, and where they weren’t, and highlighted how easily they could risk losing what they had at home if they made a misstep. Keeping this baby had been her choice, whispers in the night carrying the story to his ears, unsleeping on his pallet in the corner of her bedroom months ago, back before she was even swollen and showing.

  “Coral, honey. You already have one little brat, and I’m feeding and clothing him. The goodness of my heart only goes so far, honey. Take the drink.” That had been Miz Oleander’s voice, cajoling and stern at the same time.

  “Ollie, I can’t. Not again.” There was the echoing sound of glass sliding across the wooden table. He’d seen this drink before, smelled it up close when it was cooking in the special pot in the kitchen. Reeking of turpentine and castor oil, it smelled most sickening when it rolled hot and boiling in the bottom of the copper pot. That had been back in the early spring, and in the cool air drifting through his mama’s bedroom, the drink smelled more medicinal, like the pharmacy on a busy day. “Last time was bad.”

  “We caught it late, last time.” Miz Oleander had been still cajoling, but the stern had chopped a larger hole for itself. “Nice and early this one.” The glass slid again.

  “I can’t.” Material moving, and a chair pushed back, legs scraping on the wooden floor. “And you know Georgie is my world, Ollie. I’ll do extras, one a week if you need me to, whatever you say.” Knees hit the floor and material moved again. Georgie squirmed to his stomach, hands lifting too late to his ears to block the words. “Let me make you feel good, Ollie. Lean back, darlin’. Leave it all up to me, Ollie. Let your sweet Coralie work some magic.”

  After that night, Miz Oleander hadn’t come back with the drink. She wasn’t happy, but Mama kept up her end of the bargain, working at least one trick a week without taking her percentage. That built up her bank with Miz Oleander, so George knew when it came time for the baby to be born, the midwife would be here and paid for, and his little sister or brother would have a roof over their heads.

  “Georgie,” she cooed, bending her knees to squat gracefully in front of him, fingers working across his
face dusting and brushing. “How in the world do you get so dirty so fast, baby boy?” Not really a question, more of a reminder that he needed to not make her life harder.

  “I’m sorry, Mama.” But Teddy waited, and he knew that sorry or not he’d be back underneath the porch as soon as it was possible. Soldiering didn’t happen without his hands to move the men; their battle suspended during his time away.

  “Oh, baby.” Soft lips brushed his forehead, fingers raking the hair back, her subtle scent enveloped him. Lilies and sweetness. Mama. “The men will be here any minute.”

  He broke in, “Already in the lane.” Eagerly nodding, he was happy to give her good news. “A lot of men, Mama. Some of ‘em already juiced up.”

  “Well now, that’s good news. Thank you for bringing it to me, baby.” Touching her forehead to his, she smiled, her cheeks lifting as tiny crinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes. Crow’s feet, she called those, pressing her fingers firmly into the area every night, massaging in bitty circles. “So the men are nearly here. What does that mean for my baby boy?”

  “Stay out of sight and out of mind. Don’t leave the back rooms of the house.” It didn’t quite work as a sing-song, but he tried, knowing she would laugh. She did.

  “Exactly right, baby boy. My Georgie boy.” With a firm kiss to his forehead, she steadied herself on his shoulders as she stood and he accepted the weight and pressure gladly, happy to help in even such a small way. “Such a good boy.”

  “Coral,” a man’s voice called from the front room, and he watched as Mama’s sweet face changed, a secret smile lifting one corner of her mouth. She stood there, silent and patient, only responding when the voice came again, more frantic at the wait. “Coral, honey. Where are you?”