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  Most Rikki-Tik

  Mayhan Bucklers MC Book One

  MariaLisa deMora

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Copyright © 2018 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 2018

  ISBN 13: 978-1-946738-31-8

  DEDICATION

  Make your life a mission—not an intermission.

  ~ Arnold Glasgow

  For my father, who spoke often and with pride about his time in the military, instilling in me a great appreciation for the bravery of those who serve.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I find few things are more humbling than meeting those men and women whose lives have been forever altered because of their service to our country. To learn from them their daily struggles, and to hear how often their cries for help go unanswered.

  We as a country should strive without ceasing to do right by our veterans, until every man or woman coming home does so healthy in every way. We as a people are resilient, and can work together to reduce long-term impacts serving has on those who have taken up the mantle in our stead.

  This story, this series of tales, celebrates those individuals who see this kind of dire need and answer it, because they have hearts larger than most, and a moral compass aimed arrow-straight to what’s right. My guys and gals aren’t afraid to step up and tackle even the most challenging of situations.

  I hope you enjoy this story about Kirby and Dana, a second chance romance with a twist of selfless service, and a heaping serving of love.

  Woofully yours,

  ~ML

  Most Rikki-Tik

  Kirby Westbrook had served his country proudly, coming home to find his life greatly changed. Struggling to recover from his injuries, he embarked on a new mission, to rebuild his grandfather’s Texas-based MC, bringing together men just like him. Those who longed for the brotherhood a club can provide but who weren’t quite ready to reenter the civilian world.

  Everything’s on schedule, the entire operation silk smooth, until a childhood friend strolls out of a thunderstorm and into the picture. Dana Currier throws a monkey wrench into everything, seeming to go out of her way to disrupt his plans right and left, and it’s only after a crisis he realizes...he wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Chapter One

  Mid-August

  Kirby Westbrook heeled the kickstand on his bike down and parked with a sigh. With the engine off, rumbling echoes from the exhaust still rolled through the empty lot when he leaned far back in a stretch. Thunder crashed in the distance, and he frowned. He’d been dodging August storms since Memphis, alternately parking to wait out a squall or riding through the stinging slap of drizzle and light rain periodically throughout the day. Who gives a shit? Since I’m here, let it pour.

  Looking around at the scenery, Kirby snorted a laugh. As he’d remembered, this small town in Northeast Texas was definitely the kind that rolled up the sidewalks at sundown, and except for halos of light underneath the widely spaced security lights, the entirety of Main Street appeared closed.

  He squinted and looked off to his right. Two blocks down and around a corner, something was lit up, because he could see the red and green flashing lights reflecting off the dark windows of the facing insurance office. Too early for Christmas, he thought, shaking his head in dismissal. Up off the bike, he rolled his shoulders to seat his jacket more comfortably, then flashed a glance at the silent house behind him. Just like everything else in the town, the big two-story building looked put to bed, quiet and dark in a way that informed any visitor no one was home.

  Through the window, a dim amber glow of lights from the alarm panel assured him services were still active, which was good. It was what he’d paid his cousin Oscar Mayhan to deal with, and Kirby was glad to see it was money well spent. He angled a glance down the street again, then gathered his bags and walked to the house. It gave him confidence to find the stair treads were firm underfoot, and the porch gave off a solid echo from the pounding of his boot heels. Everything outside was as it should be.

  Key in the lock, he paused a moment to look back as a flash of lightning stroked through the sky, illuminating everything in stark relief. Tall southern pine trees swayed in the wind, the dark green of their needles stripped by the bright bursts of light. As the door opened under his hand, he stopped in place, watching as a figure struggled up the sidewalk on the other side of the street, burdened under a mass of bags. Huh. After years of hearing his family tout the benefits of tiny Mayhan, Texas, he would never have expected to see a homeless person within his first ten minutes of being back in town.

  There was another brilliant strobe of light from the sky, and then it was as if the bottom had dropped out of every cloud on the horizon at once. It rolled over him, a deafening sound of rain pummeling the ground until it almost sounded as if he were under a waterfall. The homeless person was out of sight now, lost in the darkness, and Kirby turned his back on the street and stepped inside the house. The hushed quiet inside was relative, because with the amount of sound going on beyond the walls, a portion of it inevitably bled over. But, in comparison to the unceasing cacophony outside, silence reigned.

  Glad he’d arrived when he did, he dropped his bags just inside the door and felt to the side, palm gliding across the smooth surface of the wall. He found the switch and flipped it, the click preceding the light by the barest of moments, and then the reality of what he’d created began to really sink in. He’d seen pictures, of course. Oscar had provided those along the way, as the contractors worked towards his demands. It’s perfect.

  A lot of the building’s interior walls had been removed from the front of the downstairs, opening up the space to allow for multiple couches and chairs. There was an old beam from a barn mounted across the back wall, at exactly the right height for a man to lean against and place a drink. There was a renovated fireplace with a broad hearth; the contractor had removed an old gas-powered insert to make way for real wood. Above the mantel, he saw the photo frames had already been mounted, and Kirby stalked across to stare up at them.

  Gonna do this right, Pops. His silent promise was directed towards the center image, a picture of his and Oscar’s grandfather sitting on his old Vietnam War-era motorcycle. There was a massive group arrayed behind him, hard men turned to the photographer with scowls on each face, as if war had stripped everything soft from them. That stern appearance wasn’t how Kirby remembered his pops’ expression best. No, his pops had been filled with laughter and joy, pleasure in the success of the men he’d surrounded himself with, and a belief that he was doing right by everyone who depended on him.

  Pops, or Old Man Mayhan as the locals called him, hadn’t just founded the town; he’d also started the Mayhan Bucklers, a motorcycle club filled with men he’d served alongside overseas. Named after the soldiers who led the forward charge in the jungles of Vietnam, the Bucklers were known to be fighters, both overseas and here at home. Rough and tumble, but Kirby’s memories of them were filled with love for the loyalty they’d shown his pops.

  The club had fallen apart following Pops’ death, but there
were still a few old-timers holding on, pockets of men throughout Northeast Texas, and Kirby was determined to honor his grandfather by bringing back the club in a way that would make a positive impact on the town. The MBMC had never been about the drugs or women like some of the westerly clubs had. More than anything, it was something Pops had used to help settle the men so profoundly hurt by the things they’d been required to do at the asking of their country. Exactly what Kirby planned to do. Two years into his rehab, he’d had the idea, but it had taken another two to make this day possible.

  Gonna make the MBMC great again, he thought. “Most rikki-tik.” He quietly echoed something he’d heard his grandfather say a thousand times over. Immediately, if not sooner.

  Kirby lifted his arms, rolling his neck, and felt the pop and click of muscles and tendons stretching as he surveyed the rest of the downstairs. Off to the right, there was a short wall separating the living area from the kitchen. He moved that way, enjoying how the movement brought more and more of the area into view. There was a long countertop that ran the width of that section, and just this side was a dining table that matched in size. Easily seating more than a dozen big men, the table would be put to good use soon, he hoped. Most rikki-tik.

  Idly opening cabinets at random, he saw industrial-sized pots and pans, and found tubs and containers of foodstuffs lined up in a row. There was a waist-high counter by a door with a single padded bench seat at the end, and in nearby cabinets, he found supplements and creams alongside medical supplies.

  The footprint of the house was larger than it appeared outside, his grandparents raising their tribe of kids within these walls, Kirby’s mom one of nine siblings. It had made for crowded tables and built-in playmates during the holidays, and he’d spent more than one Christmas sitting near the fireplace out there, listening to the men talk politics and jobs, life and loves, each of them deferring to Pops as his earned right. Loyalty always, boy. Remember that. Traditions passed down generation to generation, each of them something Kirby missed and was determined to reboot with his men.

  As he circled through the rooms on the main floor, Kirby counted them off in his head. Living area, dining, and kitchen were all open-plan, then the back of the house had been carved into smaller, individual spaces that housed what they’d use for medical, manager’s office, and a media room. He stopped in the doorway that led back to the living room and looked up the stairs. He was tired, and once he made his way up them, he knew he might not reappear until the morning. Better close things up down here, then.

  On his way back to collect the bags he’d dropped earlier, Kirby was startled by a booming knock on the wooden door. Heart racing, he forced himself to straighten from the instinctive crouch into which the loud sound had driven him. Moving slowly, he tried to ignore the clammy sweat that had his shirt sticking to his skin across his shoulders. There was a second light switch next to the one he’d already flipped, so he toggled that one and looked out through the glass window next to the door.

  A figure was visible, facing out with their back to the door, clothing soaked through from the rain. Only one person it could be, and Kirby grinned because his cousin was early by two days, but it meant he wouldn’t be alone in this house of jumbled memories tonight. He flung open the door and shouted, “Oscar,” as he reached out to grip the figure by the shoulder and spin them. He took a quick step backwards when instead of his cousin’s features, a gamine face peered up at him from under a mass of chestnut hair, bundled under a snugged-tight hoodie. She was familiar, the tilt of her eyes making his brain stutter for a moment as it tried to line up whatever memories she’d stirred.

  “Shit,” he muttered, backing up another step to avoid towering over the woman standing on his front porch. “Sorry, ma’am.” Fuck, who is she? He took in a slow breath, heart still racing as he asked, “How can I help you?”

  “I saw the light,” she offered with a smile as she reached up to push the fabric away from her face. “I live just up the block.” She pointed over her shoulder towards where he’d noted the reflected holiday lights. “Just got home from the grocery store. Man, the rain’s pretty crazy tonight, huh?” Standing there, face turned so it shone under the porchlight, the woman waited patiently for him to do or say something. Kirby just didn’t have the first clue what she was expecting. She felt more familiar now, the cadence of her words different from the locals in a way that prompted good memories. Family and close friends around a table, sharing food and breaking bread together, Pops laughing at something Kirby said. Sitting on the local creek bank, fishing lines in the water, head tilted back until the sun dazzled his eyes. He traced the curve of her cheek with his gaze, trying to snare the frustrating memories that felt just out of reach.

  He went for a safely innocuous response. “Yeah. Heavy storm for August.” Kirby frowned. Something about her air of persistent expectation seemed off, and he reached out to grip the edge of the door, not wanting to give her a chance to slip inside around him. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  The grin faded from her lips, and she scrunched up her nose attractively as she sighed. She’s cute.

  He flicked his gaze down and back up, unsatisfied by how her rain-soaked clothing hid everything else about her.

  The woman chuckled and told him, “Well, this is awkward.” The woman paused a beat, then said his name like a question, “Kirby?” He nodded, still puzzled. How the hell does she know me? “Kirby Westbrook.” Less of a question now, but that wasn’t surprising. His ownership of the building was public record, untangled from family finances as he’d bought out each cousin’s stake in the old home originally owned by his grandfather. It had seemed too perfect to get things rolling here, where it had all begun so long ago.

  “Yes, ma’am. At your service.” Service, he scoffed inwardly. He’d done his service to country and man. Done more than. Kirby glanced behind her, seeing his bike still parked at the curb, hard to pick out beyond the shimmering curtain of rain still pelting from the sky.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” Disappointment rode her voice hard, with long tones of hurt at what was clearly a slight in her eyes. She wanted him to remember her, had felt she was important enough for it, and he hated that he’d upset her somehow. Her head tilted to the side, and he watched as her hair shifted with the movement, rich brown shades hidden in the tresses coming to life, gleaming under the porch light. For an instant, she looked so damned familiar, something about the movement tweaking his mind with an out-of-reach moment in time. He again saw flashes of sunshine off a creek, cane pole in hand as he laughed hard, the relief of giving himself over to the hilarity only a child could know. Everything was brighter in the summertime, more real somehow. Kirby gave it a minute, seeing if his brain would be able to follow the trails back to what she needed from him, but there was nothing, just a great void beyond the divide between what he was before and where he was now. With a grimace, he shook his head and she huffed out an audible sigh. Chin down, she muttered, “Yeah, this is way awkward.”

  “I’m sorry.” He paused, then tried to decide how much to give her. Might as well. If she were a local, a townie as they called themselves, she’d know sooner or later anyway. Shit. She was probably part of the home-grown commerce group he and Oscar had corresponded with to get their paperwork into order for what was needed with the house. In that case, she’d have read his medical discharge and might know more about his condition than he did right now. “I was in the army. It’s just…I’ve got some memory issues these days.” Understatement of the year. As part of the coalition force dispatched to Syria, he’d gotten his bell rung on a dark night in Aleppo, thrown by a blast into the wall of a house. Most things he remembered were more entrenched in long-ago experiences than the current day. He’d had more than a few years to get used to his brain’s version of failing muscle memory. Give me a day and I’ll forget, give me a decade and I might remember. With a shrug, he told her, “I’m sorry.” For so many things.

  Lightning flash
ed brightly, followed by a cascade of concussive thunder shocks, and for an instant, he was flat on his back in the sand, red raining down around him as mortars pounded their position. He blinked the after-flashes away, trying to hold on to himself, heart pounding hard. Fuck. Kirby could feel his hold slipping, and knew he was losing the battle when she subtly shifted position. The scuffing of her soles on the boards of the porch helped ground him back in the here and now. Jesus. All it took was a moment and he could be lost. Not the best first impression.

  “Danielle.” She gave him a tiny grin, and when he shrugged at the name, continued to fill in the gaps for him, drawing lines between what he could remember and where they stood now. “Currier. I’m Dana. Dana Currier.”

  Oh my God. Kirby felt a slow smile settle into place on his face and watched a matching one curl Dana’s plump lips. I never thought I’d see her again. He studied her face for a moment, superimposing the memory of her face on the one she wore now, grinning broadly as feature after feature lined up, shifting his perception of her from a stranger into a face he knew as well as the back of his own hand. Someone he’d missed and had hoped to see again someday. That someday is now. “Dana? Holy shit, Dana?”

  “In the flesh, Kirby.” She didn’t duck away when he reached for her, allowed him to wrap his arms around her shoulders and yank her against his chest. He’d needed to be sure she was real, not a ghost or illusion conjured by his head. The way she filled up his arms told him it was true. Dana. God, I’d forgotten how much I missed her. She sagged towards him, and as his senses flooded with the pleasure of holding this woman in his arms, her tight grip around his waist pulled him even closer as if she felt just like he did. In the moment, it was as if he’d never been gone, and she’d been here with him forever. Kirby had been hoping to find something in his hometown to anchor himself to, never expecting it to be her. I’ll take it. All day long. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”