Not Even A Mouse Read online

  Ronnie had found out just how bad it could get.

  Business as usual

  Thirteen years later

  “What the hell are you doing in here, brother?” A sharp kick to the leg of his chair finished jarring Myron awake, and he lifted his head to glare up at the man looming over him. Slate, president of the Rebel Wayfarers MC Fort Wayne chapter, was standing beside the desk, a grin Myron decided to interpret as fond stretched across his face.

  He blinked away the remnants of his dream. That’s right, I’m in the Fort. Ronnie Lyons, known in the club as Myron for reasons he’d kept close to the chest for years, yawned and stretched, rolling his neck.

  Slate hadn’t been around all day. Myron had ridden in from Chicago mid-morning and immediately started work helping Jase, the club’s business manager in the Fort, sort out the end of quarter statements. He had planned to wait for Slate, but gotten engrossed in the minutia of the many businesses. He glanced around. No Jase. Shit. Myron cleared his throat and looked down, fingers reaching to straighten the printouts he’d apparently been using as a pillow. His voice was hoarse when he asked, “What do you want? I’m busy.”

  Slate cackled. “Gettin’ busy? This your version of gettin’ busy? Fuck, man. This office has seen a lotta action over the years, but that might be the first time anyone’s actually slept on that desk. Why didn’t you head upstairs? You got the message about the rooms Ruby gave you, right? She hooked you up.”

  Nodding, Myron folded the pages in half, thumb stroking along the bend to firm the crease. Tidy, just the way he preferred things. “The suite is nice.” It was, too. A set of rooms that had been used by a variety of club and family members over the years, the suite included a living space where he could have done this work just as easily. And without interruptions. “I was waiting. Heard Gunny’s here. I haven’t talked to him for eons, thought it might be nice to chat.”

  “That man is long gone. Headed home to his old lady.”

  Myron grimaced, scrubbing his jaw with one hand. Two days’ worth of stubble made him feel scruffy. “I must have dozed off.”

  “Fuckin’ passed out, you mean.” Slate gripped the arms of Myron’s chair and scooted it away from the table. “Go to bed, brother. I’m headed home. We can sort everything tomorrow. Ain’t nothing so urgent it needs to keep you from your bed, or me from my woman.” He walked behind and shoved on the back of the chair, tipping it forwards, and Myron stood in self-defense, stumbling as he found his feet.

  “Yeah.” As much as Myron hated to leave anything undone, Slate was right. “It can wait.” Walking ahead of Slate, he made his way out of the office and through the main room, glancing around to see it full of men, most of which he knew. He slowed with a sigh. He wouldn’t mind getting a beer if it were just members, but there was also a plethora of the kind of scantily dressed women who were always hanging around the clubhouse, waiting to be noticed. Not old ladies, but party dolls. Shit. “I should—”

  A hand landed in the center of his back and steered him firmly towards the stairs. “What you should do is hit the hay, brother. You’re dead on your feet, and every man knows it’s because you’ve been working your ass off for the club. No one’s gonna fault you for ducking out of Friday night clubhouse drinking. Ain’t a party or anything. Sure ain’t fuckin’ mandatory.” Slate’s voice was as determined as his grip. “Get some shuteye. We’ll finish working the books tomorrow.” The hand at his back faltered, and he glanced around to see Slate looking uncertain. His voice was quiet when he continued, “Look, Myron. I know you’re fussy about things, but if you want me to send one of the girls up, I can find one to suit you.”

  Myron scoffed, too tired to stifle the response. Fussy. He’d worked damned hard to let it be known he was picky. Oh, yeah. I’m particular all right. Aloud, he said, “Nah. I’ll just sleep.” And dream. Each footstep feeling like it was weighted down with cement, he made his way up the stairs.

  What he wanted wasn’t a party doll. No, what I’d like to warm my bed is far different.

  He reached the top of the stairs and turned to look around the room again, seeing Slate standing and staring up at him. Myron lifted a hand, a gesture Slate returned before turning towards the bar. But not before Myron saw a look of uncertainty had returned to his friend’s face, which for him, was a concerning expression.

  Sleep now. Worry later.

  ***

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Myron sat up and stared across the room. He was in the larger of the two bedrooms, situated directly across the living area from the hallway door. “What the hell?”

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  A giggle.

  His gut dropped. Fuck.

  He stood and yanked on his jeans, fastened two buttons and stalked to the door to yank it open. One of the Fort Wayne members stood there, arm wrapped around a woman. She’d lost her top somewhere along the way, bare breasts pressed to the man’s chest. Myron spared her a glance then glared at the man’s face. Channeling every ounce of intimidation he’d learned from Mason and Slate, he clipped out, “What. The. Fuck?”

  “Brute called.” Thank God, it’s something to do with the club. Not a pity fuck to be deflected. He’d sidestepped a lot of well-intentioned efforts through the years. Still listening, Myron walked back and snagged his shirt from the foot of the bed he’d occupied for only a couple of hours. “His woman’s at that bar.” He grabbed his vest, settling the black leather into place on his shoulders, already knowing where this would end. “You’re sober.”

  “That I am.” Myron grabbed his boots and sat on the foot of the bed, watching as the man moved out of view, thankfully taking the woman with him. “Always am.” He slid his boots on over his socks and stood, checking his pockets to ensure he had everything he’d need.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d answered this particular call. There wasn’t much hardship in going to a bar and sitting for a couple of hours, especially not if it ensured a brother’s woman got home safely.

  Downstairs, he lifted a hand and waved at the few remaining members gathered around the bar. “Ride safe,” he heard and lifted his chin in mute response.

  Always do that, too.

  Take me on a ride

  Andy

  Andrus Kasmouski paused at the back door and leaned his ass against the crashbar, hands filled with trash bags for the dumpster. “Last load,” he yelled into the kitchen, “go ahead and leave. I’m finished locking up.” He heard an answering call that dwindled down to nothing and knew the cook was already headed out the side door. Grinning, Andy pushed through the door and turned only to stop in surprise. Leaning against the nearby wall, arms folded across his chest, was the biker from inside. Damn, he looks good.

  After an evening of heated looks and flirty exchanges, Andy had issued the invitation without any real expectation the man would take him up on it. Two hours ago, he’d handed over a drink paired with a scribbled-on napkin featuring a number and time, whispering only, “I get off at two.” From the nervous way the guy’s gaze had swept the nearby tables, Andy had immediately chalked it up to a nonstarter. The guy was just a curious lookie-loo who wasn’t as interested as Andy had initially read him.

  Now, even though the biker was the one waiting in the alley, Andy felt something was off. Far from looking relaxed, the man seemed frozen in place. The uncomfortable look on his face suggested his pose was too-casual, a studied posture shouting uncertainty. The silence stretched on while Andy looked him up and down. Finally, as if compelled to speak, the guy blurted, “Hey.”

  Andy nearly rolled his eyes at the lame greeting. He disposed of the trash and made his way towards the biker. He took his time, moving slowly because he expected the man to bolt at any moment. Hand on one hip, Andy asked, “You waiting on me?” Please, God, let him be down for this. Not normally the type to pray for a hookup, but Andy wanted this guy. He’d seemed intelligent and opinionated, willing to debate his points on sports and politics, listening closely when A
ndy spoke but ready with a rebuttal. Strong and confident, something that was in short supply in Andy’s life these days. He found he wanted the kind of release that came from being with someone who might be able to take him outside of his own head for a few minutes.

  The where had been up in the air at first. Finances restricted going the hotel route, and Andy didn’t normally take his hookups to his home. Not that there were a lot of hookups, but there was too much uncertainty in the world these days to let just anyone know where he lived. But Andy figured the biker wouldn’t have any trouble finding out his address if he’d wanted, and something about this guy seemed different.

  Trustworthy. Andy focused on that, not the fact the man was in a motorcycle gang.

  The tall, quiet man had seemed steady, less frantic to prove himself than so many of the queers who came into the bar. A lot of them were baby gays, expecting if a man like Andy was behind the bar then it would be more LGBTQ welcoming than some of the more redneck places in town. Andy worked hard to make sure the place was safe for those who were trying their freedom, some of them taking their closet-bound training wheels off for the first time. Like this guy?

  Andy’s maybe-date nodded jerkily and reached out, resting one hand palm-first against Andy’s chest. He looked surprised at the contact, almost as if his body had acted without his permission. Andy covered the hand, tucking his fingers around to hold it in place, liking the heat and firmness of the touch. Oh, yeah. I can work with this guy.

  The temperature was unexpectedly balmy, shirt-sleeve comfortable for a late fall night, the air warm as bathwater around them. Andy looked around and found the angular shadow he’d expected, up near the building where the motorcycle club members normally parked their bikes. In for a penny, he thought. “Since we’re headed to the same place”—please God—“can I hitch a ride? My car’s in the shop.” He’d been planning on bussing it, but this would at least give the guy a solid excuse to make it all the way to Andy’s house, and with the car’s brakes being worked on, it wasn’t a lie.

  “You wanna ride with me?” Something of wonder rumbled through the sweet-sounding baritone voice, accompanied by what sounded very much like a dark thread of desire. “I never…” His breath sounded shaky, and Andy pressed harder against his hand, willing the man to feel how his heart beat faster at the idea, too. You’re not alone, promise. “Sure. I can do that. Okay.” The biker nodded, seeming to convince himself. “Okay.” That repeat of the word was stronger, filled with conviction, and Andy pulled in a breath, encouraging the man with his gaze. Keep going. “You ever ride a bike?” Andy shook his head. “Okay.” Andy got a quick lesson in what to do and more importantly, what not to, and then they were off.

  Once on the road, Andy grinned as the air rushed past his ears, filling his head with white noise. He held tightly to the man’s waistband on either side, keeping a few inches of space between their bodies. The biker had seemed to tense when Andy snugged up close at first, but relaxed as soon as he’d slipped farther back on the seat.

  The turn to his house was coming up, so Andy leaned forwards and put his mouth near the guy’s ear, half shouting, “Next right.” The man nodded and turned his head slightly, and his mouth was right there, so close Andy couldn’t help himself, angling his head to graze the corner of the biker’s lips with a kiss. The man’s eyes widened, and then he turned to face ahead, the bike leaning as they rounded the corner. He shifted slightly after they had straightened after the turn, and heat brushed Andy’s chest from the guy’s leather vest as the biker sagged backwards into him.

  He took that as an invitation and shifted forwards, tucking his chin over the guy’s shoulder, grinning at both the thrill of the solid form between his legs and the adventure of speeding down the street with nothing between him and disaster, except this man and his clearly evident skill with the machine. Filled with sudden confidence, Andy let one hand slip down the man’s hip and curve around, fingertips grazing the front of his jeans. He sucked in a breath, surprised when he found a hard cock just waiting for his caress. The engine of the bike stuttered when he palmed the erection, evening back out when he kept a steady pressure instead of the teasing touch he’d begun with.

  “Next left,” he said, lips once again against the curve of the man’s ear as he shifted his hand back up.

  With the swiftly moving bike under him and the warm and solid presence of the man in front of him, Andy felt intoxicated by the moment, poised on the cusp of anything and everything.

  Mister man

  Myron

  “Where are you going, mister man?” Light and sweet, the lilting voice of a child came from behind him, and Myron turned with a jerk, surprised into dropping one of his boots. It hit the hallway floor with a thud, bouncing off the leg of the entryway table and tumbling to come to rest at the feet of the cutest little girl Myron had ever seen.

  “I have to go to work.” A harmless excuse, and one even a child would likely accept at face value. She’d wave him away, and he’d walk out the door, safely escaped with no one the wiser.

  “Papa says I can’t get up until a grownup is awake.” Her lips pulled to the side as she chewed on a thought. “You’re awake.” She tipped her head towards a shoulder, the motion endearing. Her features were all seriousness when she said, “Grownups make breakfast in the morning. Can you help me? Can you make pancakes? I want pancakes.”

  Myron shook his head, and her bottom lip had started trembling before he even got the refusal out. “I can’t, sweetness. I have to go.”

  Lip still quivering, she stared at him.

  He stared at her. Shhhh, he thought. I just wanna get out of here.

  When her nose scrunched up—which was adorable, but also telegraphed an audible version of the unsteady lip—he winked and then stuck out his tongue. It was instinctive and silly, something he remembered doing with his baby sister back when times were better, but it had the desired response. She giggled, and Myron was lost. He could no more deny this tiny princess her demand for pancakes than he could stop the world from turning, and he suddenly realized he didn’t want to.

  “Pancakes it is.”

  This little princess was named Natalya. He knew because the plaque on her door announced it. On the way to the kitchen, he glanced inside and saw an explosion of pinks and purples, décor clearly organized by a little girl who had a love of unicorns and hippos, mostly clad in tutus, because that was reflected in her plushie collection. Adorable. Myron smiled as he followed Natalya to the kitchen. That expression died as he thought about the discovery of a master bedroom last night, all the way down at the end of the hall.

  Andy had told him to make himself at home. That had been right before the man had fallen asleep, worn out and boneless from an orgasm he’d drunkenly declared “the best I’ve ever had.” Myron had taken him at his word and explored the house a little after he’d cleaned up, finding things he knew his brain would puzzle over for weeks to come.

  That bedroom was huge, decorated with a tasteful mix of grays and browns. The headboard of dark wood paired with dressers, plural, were offset with more muted accents tucked in amidst artwork and bedding. Plush bedding on a huge king-size bed in a room that looked entirely unused. He’d studied the space for a long time, turning over all reasons he could think of why Andy would choose to sleep in what was clearly a guest room.

  Maybe he just takes his hookups there. Myron’s nose wrinkled like Natalya’s at the thought, not liking how that felt.

  He’d curtailed his explorations there with a headful of questions, showering quickly before returning to the double bed in Andy’s room. It had been a rare moment of selfishness, but instead of leaving like he should have, Myron had granted himself permission to slide back between the sheets, tucked close along Andy’s back and wrapped his arms around the sturdy body in front of him. He’d echoed Andy’s contented, sleepy sigh, dropped a kiss on the back of his neck, and burrowed his nose underneath curly hair as he breathed in deeply.

&nb
sp; When he’d woken, it was disoriented and wary, because sleepovers were not something Myron did. Hell, none of this, not a bit of it jibed with his normal routine. He didn’t date, didn’t hook up, didn’t dare aim at so lofty a goal as a boyfriend. He had the club, and Mason, and his goal was making sure he lived up to the trust the man had put in him so long ago.

  As he and Natalya—who preened every time he said her name—worked to mix up a batch of pancakes, Myron kept most of his attention on her, but his mind often drifted back over the previous night.

  After the call came in, he’d gotten to the bar in record time to find Brute’s girl, Bexley, already settled at the bar, but thankfully embedded in a group of regulars. She’d been roofied here once, which explained why Brute was so wary. The guy had been someone traveling through, and once the incident was brought to the attention of the bar’s employees and regulars, they’d joined forces with the Rebels in keeping Bex safe. Knowing there were always eyes looking out for her didn’t change their brother’s concern, so any Rebel available to take the call was more than willing. Family first.

  Myron had tucked into a corner, settled himself at a table and waited. Behind the bar had been empty, which wasn’t unusual if the bartender was working alone. On his previous trip, he’d seen her disappearing into the backroom to quickly change out kegs or find a replacement bottle of booze, so Myron expected his wait for an unwanted beer wouldn’t be long. He’d been distracted by his phone, responding to a series of text questions from a member when he’d heard someone clear their throat nearby.

  Myron had looked up into the clearest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen. An ice-blue that should have looked cold, but didn’t, the tanned skin surrounding them lending warmth. Circled by ridiculously long lashes those eyes stared back at him, and Myron felt heat curl in his chest, climbing his neck to his cheeks.