Mica (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (6 page)

Mica squinted against the pain, looking at the two men in front of her. A deep voice spoke softly, “Miss, are you okay?” vying with Mason’s much louder, “Mica, babe, where are you hurt?”

She calmly watched with wide-open eyes as Mason moved towards her, watching as he turned again to the stranger and put his hands out in a grappling position. He stayed like that, keeping himself between the unfamiliar person and her. “Oh, Mason. Hurts,” was all she could ground out between her teeth before her eyes closed.

9 -
   
Whatcha need?

Hearing the pain in her voice, Mason had charged at the man in front of Mica, trying to move him back. He wanted to put as much room between her and that man as possible, when the guy shouted at him, “I’m helping here. Let me help; she’s hurt,” even as he stepped agilely out of the way. Mason snagged his arm, pulling the man into a close clinch in front of him, holding him still
as he asked tightly, “Helping?” He turned them to see Mica had fallen against the base of the wall. “Yes, man, she needs help,” was the man’s response.

Mason made a decision and released him, shoving the guy away. He sprinted towards Mica, pausing only to level a kick at one of the men on the ground who was looking to wake up. A sudden shout turned his head, and he saw car keys flying through the air at him; his hand reached up and caught them reflexively. “Open the door; I can get her to the hospital faster than waiting here for an ambulance,” said the man as he scooped Mica effortlessly into his arms and turned towards the car.

Mason hurried in front, grabbing her bag from the ground along the way, unlocking and opening the backdoor of the car. He watched the man lay her gently into the backseat, stretching her out and clearly being careful of her shoulder. “I’m right behind you, man,” Mason shouted as he tossed the keys into the front seat and ran towards his bike. “Daniel Rupert,” came the shout behind him, and he responded, “Whatever, fucker, just get going.”

Sitting at the hospital a little while later, Mason was listening to Rupert deal with the cops and considering everything he had seen during the few minutes they were in the alley together. After the cops left, he asked Rupert, “Lemme get this straight. So you just happened to be driving by, and happened to see something suspicious, and then fucking happened to get involved?”

Rupert touched the side of his jaw, wincing. “Yeah, something was off the way those guys followed her into the alleyway, and it didn’t look like she was paying much attention. I feel like I was too late, though, since she got hurt so bad.”

Mason nodded, understanding. “I’m glad you were there, man, and more glad you weren’t afraid to stick your nose in. Sorry for thinking you were one of those assholes.” He held out a hand. “Davis Mason.”

Mason was in and out of the hospital over the next few hours, taking care of the business Mica had started. He’d called Jess, and rallied the Rebels to watch her house and work. Now, he was back sitting in the uncomfortable chairs, and was surprised that Rupert had hung around the hospital for so long. It didn’t really look like he’d left at all. Rupert seemed to be worried about Mica, and was pretty much interested in her personal life too, more than you’d expect for an accidental hero.

Of course, Mason knew who he was—hometown hero, famous hockey player, owned a team, made a fortune in the trucking industry up in Wisconsin—but what was his deal? What was he doing still sitting here at the hospital, when he had all of that to deal with?

Mason wondered what she’d think about this Rupert guy, with his rough edges and success. He remembered when Mica found out that he was a successful businessman, dealing with the many businesses that kept the motor club going, and snorted at her recalled reaction.

Getting to know the neighbors …

Mica Scott had pulled up from her run at the mouth of the alley holding her side and breathing hard. She started walking back
towards her house with short strides as she eased into her cool-down routine. Mason knew that routine by heart, because like today, he had watched her out his kitchen window nearly every day for the past couple of months.

Today
, however, it looked like she was varying things, and he thought he knew why. Her car hadn’t moved in the past few days, and he thought she might be considering asking for help. She was pacing, walking over and back, and over and back, between her porch and the alley, glancing at his house every time, but keeping a safe distance away. He didn’t know what he had done to earn her long-lived animosity, but it was amusing to watch her when she was trying to decide whether to engage him or not.

She’d lived next door for a while now, and he was still Mr. Mason when she stooped to speak to him
, but speaking between them hadn’t come very often over the weeks and months, even before she found out he was her office landlord in addition to neighbor. She seemed to prefer to use a more masculine chin-lift greeting or a brief palm-up wave if she had to acknowledge his presence, rather than use her voice. He snorted; her wave always looked more like a stop sign.

A couple months after she moved in, he’d had a party for his club brothers and she’d clearly gotten miffed at all the noise. Even as ticked off as she seemed, she’d never complained out loud, just looked at him with a tightly pursed mouth and a brief shake of her head. He had hoped that seeing some of the old ladies and girlfriends hanging out might make her more comfortable around him, but she had simply shut her curtains and stayed behind closed doors that night, and then for all subsequent parties.

God, she was pretty, and he’d tried to make up reasons to talk to her as often as he could. He knew from her faint accent she wasn’t from Chicago originally, and from the Rebels, he knew home was Texas. Watching her lights stay on all night more than once, he wondered if she had trouble sleeping. He had watched several times as the lights bloomed on in the middle of the night, seeing her shadow moving through the house to turn her lamps on one-by-one.

Those actions screamed nightmares to him. He found himself looking hard at her face after those nights, searching for and finding a tightness in her features from exhaustion. That, along with a powerful dose of terror and fear he also saw, made him want to find out what had caused this reaction and fix it somehow.

He’d been daydreaming almost too long; she was walking over and he hadn’t noticed until she was nearly at the edge of his garage. Leaving the kitchen and stepping outside, Mason met her at the gate, slinging it open just as she raised her hand to knock…on the outside gate…like he’d have heard that if he wasn’t already outside. Breathing laughter out soundlessly, he nodded at her. “Mica Scott, how the hell are ya?”

She was chewing on the side of her thumb with a worried look on her face. Looking at him steadily, she finally seemed to make a decision
, because she lowered her hand from her mouth and blurted, “Mr. Mason, do you work on cars? Do you fix them?”

Rubbing the smile off his face with a rough hand, he nodded his head
. “Yeah, I do some work on cars, trucks, and bikes. Whatcha need?”

She looked up into his face
. “Um. Well, see…um—my car won’t start, and I need it to start. Because I have a client meeting tomorrow that I can’t miss. Could you…um…would you mind—?” she stuttered to a stop, looking at him as he smiled widely.

“Lemme have a look, Mica Scott. Got the keys handy?”

She had run on ahead while he grabbed a rag, collecting the keys from inside her kitchen, and then met him at the car. He stood by the open driver’s door looking at her, waiting with his hand out casually at his waist. She walked up and stared at him, clearly puzzled that he wasn’t doing anything more than standing there, so he shook his open hand at her wordlessly. “Oh, keys,” she said and handed them over, then stepped back and away from him. Mason flexed his biceps in irritation, and wondered why the hell she seemed so intimidated all the time. Or
was
it intimidation?

Not trying to fit into the driver’s seat, Mason leaned in and jammed the keys into the ignition. He then turned them, listening with a tilted head to the rapid clicking noise. He popped the hood on the white Nissan Altima, and
walked around to the front of the car to prop it up. “Hey, turn the key again for me, just for a second.” He was looking at the engine, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw her startle and jump. Climbing into the seat, she turned the key on, and he heard the clicking noise again. “Okay, thanks. That’s good; you can stop.”

“Starter solenoid went out,” he said, closing the hood by dropping it down and then pushing evenly on both sides with his hands to latch it tightly. He rubbed his fingerprints away with the rag in his hand and took out his phone, hitting a speed dial number.

“Well, crap,” she said, “I’ll call a tow service to take it to a—” and stopped as he responded curtly into the phone, “Yeah, it’s me. Need a starter solenoid, 2008 Nissan Altima; anytime starting right now is good.” He nodded with the phone to his ear. “Sounds good, man. Bring it to the house,” and he hung up. Turning to look at her face, he told her, “I’ll have you fixed by dinnertime, Mica Scott.”

She looked at him in surprise, her green eyes dark with some emotion he didn’t recognize
. “I didn’t mean for you to work on my car, Mr. Mason. Just knowing what the problem is will be a big help. Thank you.”

He turned down the corners of his lips dismissively, shaking his head and turning back to walk to his garage
. “Nah, won’t take me fifteen minutes to fix it up once Tug gets the part here. I’ll be back after a while with my tools. Can you leave the car keys in the seat?”

He left and she was standing awkwardly, halfway between the car and her house. She was still standing there
about twenty minutes later when he returned, and she watched him walk back with a small box of his tools. Mason thought to himself that the emotion he hadn’t been able to recognize might be a near panic, much stronger than simple fear. She seemed frozen in place, so he slowed his steps and stopped several feet away, giving her plenty of space.

They both heard the rumble of a motorcycle and turned to see a Rebel Wayfarers full-patch member turn into her driveway, aiming his bike
towards Mason. He raised his hand in a casual three-fingered wave at the rider, turning to Mica when the bike was turned off.

Jerking his head
towards the white-haired biker, he told her reassuringly, “This is Tug; he’s all right. You’re safe with us. You’re okay.” He shook his head at Tug, saying tightly, “Tug, this is Mica Scott; she’s with me.” He watched Tug’s eyes widen slightly as he recognized that Mason was extending his protection as motor club president to her with those few words. She had started in with an argument, “Um, no, I’m—” and Mason turned to her with a fierce look, willing an understanding that she needed to shut the fuck up, because she was under his protection, and she stuttered to a stop again.

Tug swung his leg o
ver the bike, taking an object out of his pannier bag. The item was wrapped in a grimy paper bag, and he handed it to Mason. “Solenoid, Prez. Need help?”

Mason shook his head
. “Naw, I got this. Hang a minute though to make sure it works,” he said as he opened the car hood again.

Mica pulled two chairs off the back porch and urged Tug to sit down while he waited. He was easy with her, and amazingly
, she seemed comfortable with him. Mason remembered he’d had Tug over to parties since she moved in, but didn’t know if they had ever met. Looking down at the engine, he smiled, not really paying attention, simply glad to hear the light and happy laughter coming from behind him mixing with the deeper tones from Tug.

Then he heard her say sharply,
“Wait, what?”

Tug responded, “Yeah, Jackson’s.”

“Mr. Mason owns Jackson’s?” she asked, and this was said with a note of panic in her voice Mason really didn’t understand.

“
Oh, yeah, Jackson’s, plus other places, like a dozen or so,” Tug continued casually.

Mason turned, cutting him off
with, “Crank it, Tug,” pulling the man away from Mica to try her new starter. He looked at her face; she had shut down again, and he realized something bad was going on in her head.

Mica kept her eyes on the back of Tug’s vest, studiously not looking at Mason. He nodded his head as the car started
. “There you go, Mica Scott.” Watching her in that moment, he was treated to the sight of her wide, wide smile and those green eyes lighting up with pleasure.

She said, “Oh
, wonderful! That’s great, Mr. Mason, thank you so much.” He was happy he’d gotten to see that smile, and continued to be glad for about another half-second until she continued, “What do I owe you?”

Mason’s face tightened a
s he said curtly, “Nothing. Friends don’t get charged for easy shit,” and Tug nodded his agreement.

She looked down at the ground for a minute, then at his shoulder, then back at the ground, and then finally back up into Mason’s face
. “Thank you, Mr. Mason. That’s very kind, but we—”

Here he cut her off roughly, turning away and speaking to Tug with balled up fists and a clenched jaw
. “Thanks for the help, man. See ya at the clubhouse later, brother.” Tug looked back and forth between them and nodded slowly, saying goodbye and halfheartedly punching Mason’s shoulder on his way past.