Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 4 Read online

  Rebel Wayfarers MC

  Vol. 10-12

  Bones, #10

  Fury, #11

  Cassie, #12

  MariaLisa deMora

  Copyright © 2018 MariaLisa deMora

  All rights reserved. These books 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 2017-2018

  ISBN 13: 978-1-94738-27-1

  Contents

  Rebel Wayfarers MC Vol. 10-12: Bones, #10; Fury, #11; Cassie, #12

  Bones

  Fury

  Cassie

  Bones

  Rebel Wayfarers MC

  Book #10

  MariaLisa deMora

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Cover image by Eric Battershell Photography

  Model: Stefan Northfield

  Cover design: Debera Kuntz

  Copyright © 2017 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 2017

  DEDICATION

  The intricacies of life are but common to all; it is how we untangle these twists that paints our individuality in the canvas of destiny. – Dodinsky, Labyrinth

  To the readers who never fail to make my days brighter: Thank you. A special thanks to Wendy Ihnat, for her fan-favorite entry in the “Lie To Me” contest. Check out the chapter titled, “Tell me your story.” Hope I did you proud.

  Contents

  What came before

  Life in transition

  Ester

  My beauty

  I wanted to be saved

  Things of value

  Change in progress

  Thirteen

  Vengeance

  Transformation

  A warning

  The coat

  Ruined

  I did that

  Cherished

  Prizes and givesies

  Bonesday

  Gone

  Wake the monster

  Aftermath

  Lost

  Patience

  What you’ve got

  Too damned far

  Needings

  Found

  No doubts

  Dark angel

  For a reason

  More than matters

  Close to hand

  Never enough time

  Apt student

  Settled

  Forged in fire

  Most precious

  Gone to war

  Distractions

  Missing him

  Eye for an eye

  Hey, gorgeous

  Never again

  Come home

  Tell me your story

  My beauty, my love

  Making love

  Rescued

  Our time

  Make a play

  Faded memories

  Beauty and her Bones

  Matching needs

  Brothers

  Catch the fever

  Morgan’s in Arkansas

  My Ronnie

  Forever Rebels

  On the cusp

  Movie mirrors

  Best in the history of ever

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Inspiration comes from all places. We just have to be open enough to receive.

  Out of town for an event, I stopped for breakfast with friends. Several of us were sitting at the kitchen table chatting when a 6-year-old little girl came to me and climbed up into my lap. No words, no fuss, no muss, she simply climbed up and went to sleep. Her father told me he’d never seen her do that, and explained why this tiny person, adopted out of a horrendous situation, had good reason to not trust people. Yet, she trusted me.

  Then he motioned to one of the guys I hadn’t yet met and said, “Only other person she’s like that with is Raven.” I looked at the man patiently flipping eggs at the stove and immediately was struck by how much he looked like Bones in my head. Covered in tattoos, black and grey, hardly any inch of skin left bare, his skin was an oft-painted canvas. He should have been frightening to a girl like her, fearsome to a woman like me. But he wasn’t. He isn’t.

  I'd written scores of words about Bones before I met Raven, but I didn't really understand who Sal Ramos was. Not until I spent time sitting in the kitchen of a biker clubhouse while an abused six-year-old child slept peacefully in my lap, giving me the brilliant opportunity to pick the brain of a man who intentionally self-isolated in a way that is permanent, defining, and hard for many citizens to see past.

  When I look back, it’s interesting to track the transition in my awareness and comfort with Raven over the course of a few hours. By the end of the day, I didn't even see his tattoos anymore.

  No, by then—I just saw Raven. His expressive, dark eyes that crinkled at the corners when he laughed, and he laughed a lot. His hands that patiently folded paper airplanes only to see them crumpled and destroyed. Over and over. His teeth that were white and square, and made his smile so very real. He was imbued with serenity and grace, gifted with a striking intelligence and a sense of deep loyalty. A lover, a brother, a father, a man. Raven transformed Bones in my head, and made me long to write his story.

  I am blessed. (BIG sigh.)

  The list of thank yous for this book is long, so bear with me, yeah?

  I am thrilled to have worked with Eric Battershell, Stefan Northfield, and Debera Kuntz on this cover. I met Eric two years ago, and his smiling approach was so sweetly kind he made quite the impression. Fast forward to spring of 2016 when I was searching for the right model to portray Bones. I had spent hours looking at portfolios from various photographers and models, found nearly a dozen guys who were not quite perfect, but backed away from licensing any of those. I needed this character to seem as powerful, larger than life, enigmatic, and awe inspiring as he was in my mind.

  I did find a model who was perfect, but due to distance, scheduling, or other commitments, not an option. That was until I saw a post from Eric that my perfect guy, Stefan, was making a whirlwind trip from his home in the UK to work a photo shoot in Ohio. Several fast-flying messages and a few hours later, they captured my vision. The result speaks for itself, and is the artistry you see on the cover. Working with Debera Kuntz on the cover design is always amazing, because she is unbelievably talented. We toss ideas around until something gels, and what comes back to me is magic. Thank you all!

  My editor, Becky Johnson, is one of the most patient people I know, and I appreciate her willingness to put up with my insecure demands for updates. She and the gals at Hot Tree Editing have done Bones proud, and I thank you.

  I have the most talented of critique partners in my diverse crew. MirandaPanda, Kori, Megan, Jamey, and Kelsi: Thank you for not being afraid of calling me on my bullshit. Y’all rock.

  The men and women of the RWMC have developed a very loyal following, and that fact is both thrilling and terrifying all in the same breath. For the readers and fans of the series, I hope you enjoy reading this story about Bones and Ester
half as much as I did writing it.

  Beyond Raven, I had occasion to call on the expertise of a select group of men and women. My friends, the folks who roll twos, and chase the sun on the winding backroads of America. Y’all are amazing, and I appreciate the chance to get my knees in the breeze alongside you.

  Shiny side, yeah? Muuwah! <3

  Woofully yours,

  ~ML

  What came before

  1984, Chicago

  Emilio Salvador de Villa Ramos was laughing when his world changed. From the moment that laughter died in his mouth, he remembered how it felt before things descended into madness. Before his life’s path was altered. Before Estrella died. Before.

  He was outside, two blocks from their apartment complex when he heard the noise. He was doing his duty, walking old lady Donella’s terrier mix, waiting for the dog to take a shit so he could use the bag to pick it up and drop it into the dumpster behind the pharmacy. He did this twice a day, and every day he thought the same thing: how insane it was the dog ate enough to shit twice a day when old lady Donella was thin as a rail. Every day he wondered how he could talk her into buying more food for herself, less for the dog. Even Sal didn’t crap twice a day.

  Tomorrow’s my birthday, he thought, tilting his head to one side, shoulder lifting slightly. Maybe she’ll eat more for my birthday. He laughed aloud at the thought because twelve wasn’t a special age, no parties for him, which meant no extra meal to tempt the old lady.

  This meant his laughing focus was on the dog at the end of the cheap, dyed-leather lead, watching so he didn’t trip over the dog when it hunched up to crap. He saw when the dog’s head came up, twisting over its own back like an owl, looking back in the direction they had come from.

  That was when he heard it, a series of pops, which could have been a car backfiring. Could have been a door slapping into place, again and again, pushed around by the steady, hard wind off the lake. Could have been a dozen things, but he knew it wasn’t. Those pops, he knew what they were. Gunfire. Gunfire echoing down the streets, off the corralling building walls, directed and deflected until there was no way he could be certain of the location. Except, in that instant, he absolutely was. He knew in his gut where they came from. Back by the apartments.

  The dog barked once uncertainly, then slowly untwisted itself as it turned to line up with its head, ears slicked back, flush with its skull, caution written in every line of its body, still looking back the way they came. Another noise came, thin and wailing on the air, snaking its way to his ears, bending around the corners of the businesses and houses. Sal uncoiled his own body, turning to face the sound that battered at him. There was no way he could recognize the noise as anything other than pure sound, but somehow he knew. And, he knew he was right.

  “Mama,” he muttered, forcing his legs to move, lengthening his stride until he was running. The dog bounding alongside him, distracted from the noise, curious at this new locomotion Sal demonstrated. They always walked sedately, Sal considerate of the dog’s age, so this, this running, was entirely new to their walking partnership. Bounding and bouncing, the dog bumped against his calf, nearly knocking Sal over, then the dog’s head came up again, ears back, and suddenly the dog wasn’t running with him, but sprinting ahead, barking as it ran up against the end of the lead, choking sounds pouring from its mouth.

  As he ran, listening to the noises from the dog, the sounds still rolling through the air, the punctuating pop, pop, pop one last time, Sal did something he hadn’t done in…ever. He prayed. “Dios. Dios, por favor deje que nada malo suceda. Please, let nothing bad happen. Please, God.”

  He glanced up, seeing most of the sky was still cloud-covered, as it had been for days, winter threatening to come on them in force, keeping any sunshine at bay during the day, deepening midnight so it was thick with shadows. Now it was early evening, nearly night. The clouds broke for a moment, thinning and then opening, exposing the silver shining moon, half-full and dim, brightening as the clouds separated and moved, the moonlight turning the thin clouds brilliant white and silver. Feet slapping on the sidewalk, he ran into the growing noise, knowing it for what it was now, the wailing pain of a woman. His mother.

  Crying, screaming at God to take it back, threatening God with her hatred, her howling agony was on the wind. It crippled him, causing his legs to move more slowly with every step. The whole time, the dog still fought at the end of the lead to get home, to get back to its master, back to old lady Donella. Choking itself with every leap, the dog fell back to the sidewalk, each bound shorter and shorter as Sal slowed, holding back, keeping the dog with him.

  His mother’s screamed words were unintelligible but filled with such pain it took his breath. Urgency boiled in his blood, and his belly cramped with fear. Stride lengthening again, speeding up once more, he took a single step for each long sidewalk rectangle, eyes still on the sky, watching the moonlight turn the clouds brighter and brighter. That circle around the half-circle of the moon was like a spotlight above him, highlighting the dog lunging at the end of the leash, pulling him forwards and taking him into the sound splintering the air around them.

  Rounding the last corner, still running flat out, he took in the scene at a glance, seeing the crumpled piles of fabric in the bleak courtyard. The space more cement than ground and grass, more dirt and trash than a happy place to play, but it was where Estrella and her friends spent their time. Even in the chill of winter you could find them there, because having the sky overhead was infinitely better than being cooped up inside the too-small apartments. Walled boxes that always smelled like someone else’s cooking, smelled like a mélange of dishes, none of them complementary to the other. Sounds traveled between the units, too, ricocheting down the hallways and stairwells, arguments or fights, making up, or worse.

  Four men stood between the street and the onlookers, the women of the apartment unit holding and supporting his mother. Without their hands on her, he knew she would have fallen to her knees, opened hands beseeching the heavens before fisting and shaking in her anger. “Mama,” Sal cried, and every head turned to look at him.

  “Get down,” one of the men shouted, but he didn’t understand the words, couldn’t comprehend what the man needed him to do. The dog still pulled hard at the leash, choked yaps now sounding hoarser than anything he’d ever heard, like the dog had been strangled for days, dangling at the end of a rope like a piñata. So near the apartments now, Sal gave a quiet cry when the leather slipped from between his suddenly numb fingers. The little dog tore away, body gathering into itself with each leap, then stretching and elongating as it soared, then landed and gathered, then soared again. Finally free.

  Pop. Pop.

  Pop.

  The first gunshot took Sal’s legs from under him, and he fell face first into the small strip of bare ground running parallel to the sidewalk splitting the space.

  Eyes open as he plowed the dirt with his hands out to break his fall, he saw the second gunshot without knowing what it was. A blinding white mark appeared in the cement just ahead of him, instant newness in a four-inch strip of otherwise dingy and stained sidewalk.

  He tasted the rancid, oil-filled dirt in his mouth, covering his tongue with dryness. Until that moment, he never realized dryness had a taste, but it was rotten and foul. Unmistakable. Unforgettable. Then the dry went away, and it was wet and metallic tasting, flooding his mouth and flowing over his lips.

  The last gunshot went wildly astray, off and up into the apartments. From his own experience, Sal knew the residents would be cowering in the back rooms, flattened to the floor, praying silently for the trouble to pass. Much as people around the world had done for centuries, they’d be begging their gods to take the suffering from them, to allow them to breathe another day, to let this trouble, this thing happening right now, in the present, to let it slip past without a mark.

  Sal wondered for a moment if the gunfire had taken his hearing, if the loudness of the gunshots had deafened him be
cause it was silent, eerily so. No running footfalls to check on the fallen. No panting and barking dog. No shouts of anger and grief.

  Then he coughed, and there was a thick liquid in the noise he made. He groaned at a tearing pain in his side, and in a rush, it all fell back in on him. The dog whimpered, sounding pained, and Sal turned his head to see the old dog belly-down in the dirt not far from him, head on its paws, lying next to one of the piles of fabric with too-thin old-lady stick legs poking out from under it, the apron unmistakable on the unmoving body. Old lady Donella.

  “Mi hijo.” He heard his mother’s cry just before hard, strong hands hit his back, gripping his thin shirt to lift his torso. The grip adjusted and Sal heard a ripping noise, felt a chill from the air as the fabric of his shirt tore along the shoulder seam, then the hands dragged him roughly across the surface of the sidewalk and behind the short cement block wall. “My son.”

  Gentle hands, no less hard than the previous ones, but their touch was so different they could belong to no one other than his mother. They turned him, lifted his head, neck bent at a painful angle, and Sal coughed again, pain battering at his hold on consciousness, it felt as if his insides were ripping apart. “My baby.”

  Gaze directed down his own body, Sal saw a brilliant red staining the front of his shirt, and noted with astonishment the complexity of the patterns the courtyard dirt made in the wet where they stuck, looking like the incomplete layout of a maze. Anyone walking on that path would be doomed to failure, wandering forever because there were no exits. A design on his body, lines drawn in blood, shapes and forms swirling through his mind in response.

  Beautiful. Stark and terrifying all at once.

  Wailing ripped through the air again, inhuman and harsh, precisely delivered outputs of sound. Bouncing against the walls of the buildings surrounding the courtyard, the siren’s Doppler Effect confused distance, and direction, volume set to intimidate and stupefy. Reflections of alternating red and blue lights rippled across the curtains blowing out of the now-opened windows as residents leaned out to see the aftermath of the events. Red and blue faded to black in the corners, absorbed into the shadows lining the courtyard.