Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (33 page)

They manhandled Nelms’ limp body into the trailer, which rocked and creaked as they moved inside to lay their burden down. Stepping out, Slate closed the gate and locked the ramp into place. Mica asked, “Okay now?” and Slate responded with, “Yeah.”

The men all stood near Mica, except for Tug, who watched quietly from his place near the trailer. Mica looked at them a little frantically, finally whispering, “What do y’all want from me? You are all looking at me, and I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Slate laughed without humor. “I think we’re checking to see if you are gonna freak, princess.” She shook her head at that, muttering, “No freakage, Slate. It feels…I dunno…final—like it’s over, after so many years of looking over my shoulder and not sleeping. It’s over, finally. My face hurts, though.”

He looked at Daniel, thinking that one of his tattoos was pretty appropriate right now, ‘Three can keep a secret if two are dead’, because Daniel looked like the weak fucking link here. He wasn’t aware of the lengths to which the club had gone over the years to keep Mica safe. This was simply an extension of what they’d already done, but one word from the hockey player to the wrong ears and everything could go to shit. “Are you with us, man?” he asked, and watched as Daniel had a physical reaction to the question, shivering and folding his arms tightly across his chest as he nodded.

Mason stepped away, calling Blackie to extend his thanks, and Slate edged over towards the trailer, wanting to make sure no one saw anything. He remembered the mess in the living quarters, and moved up to start sorting through the girls’ clothes, putting the few clean things on a bunk, and separating the rest into a wash pile.

Slate’s phone rang, and he answered it, seeing Blackie’s name on the screen, “Row fifteen, space three-oh-one,” and waited on confirmation before hanging up. About a half-hour later, a dark van drove up, with three members of Blackie’s club inside. Slate stood, walking over to greet them. “You Slate?” came the question from the leader of the group.

“Yeah, Slate, Chicago Rebel Wayfarers. This is my president, Mason, and our
Sergeant at Arms, Tug.”

The leader introduced himself, “JD,” and then gestured with a thumb at the two men at his back, “Mouse and Devil. Y’all are a long way from Chicago, man. Welcome to fucking Texas.”

Getting straight to business, Mouse spoke up from where he stood behind JD, “Blackie said you had some baggage we’d be happy to take care of for you. He didn’t specify the condition, though. Got any preferences?”

“Yeah, end of the line would be good, man.” Mason stepped up beside Slate and continued, “Not particular on the method of arrival, long as the destination is the same.” The three men nodded, glancing at each other.

“You got it,” said JD. “Devil, situate the van, please, sir. Let’s get our baggage and get gone.”

Slate moved one of the horses to block the view from across the way, while Nelms was retrieved from inside the trailer and bundled into the van. Mouse raised a finger to his brow, nodded at Mason, and then Devil drove the van away into the night.

16 -
            
Out of mind

Days later, Slate was back in Chicago, trying to settle into some kind of routine. He’d been crashing in his room at the clubhouse, not wanting to face the quiet in his house. One of the club mammas had gone over and straightened up, chucking food from the fridge, tidying and getting a layer of dust off everything, so it was clean. But, he found that the house was too damn big after weeks of living squeezed into the tiny quarters at the front of Essa’s trailer.

She was constantly on his mind, and it didn’t help she sent him texts and pictures all the time. She sent pictures of Mason and Mica, her and Mica, her and Molly, and finally, one of only her he saved onto his phone. Someone else had taken the picture, and her hair was a little wild, curling out from underneath her hat, which was shoved tightly down on her head. Her brown eyes were sparkling, and she had the widest smile on her face. Slate reached out a finger, trailing it down the screen as he closed his eyes.

He wouldn’t do this, shouldn’t want her…couldn’t need her like this. He was not the right kind of guy for her, and he wouldn’t be the reason for her getting hurt, but he kept the picture on his phone, and he sent her one of him clowning for the camera.

Sitting behind the bar in Jackson’s, he looked up as the outside door opened, letting in a blustery wind. It was early spring in Chicago, and the Windy City was living up to its name. Slate grinned as he recognized the men walking in, Jason Spencer and Gary Millson; they were from Daniel’s hockey team, and were just rowdy enough to be fun without needing too much intervention.

“Hey, man,” he called to Jason, watching as they altered their direction to come to where he was sitting. Slate held out a hand, stood, and shook with them as they all settled onto barstools.

“What y’all doin’ in Jackson’s on a weekday?” he asked. “Isn’t today normally practice?”

“Motherfucker, we made the playoffs; we don’t have practice for four days, and so life...is...gooood,” Jason drawled, laughing.

“Fucking playoffs, that’s great, man,” Slate said, nodding. “How’s Daniel doin’ these days?”

There was silence from the two men, then, “Not good, Slate, not good at all. He’s still crawling out of a bottle every morning, and his skating has gone to complete shit. He’s gonna get himself killed if he keeps it up. Do you know when Mica is coming back?”

He shook his head. “She might not come back, from what I hear. Mason said she’s pretty entrenched back home now. She’s making up for lost time with her family, spending lots of time with her sister and cousin.” He stood and stretched, stepping behind the bar, asking, “Draft?” and saw the men nod.

Grabbing three chilled mugs, he pulled the beer expertly, leaving barely an inch of head on each. He continued, “I get the feeling Mason will be coming back soon; maybe if she’s down there alone, she can get her head together. I don’t think she ever got a chance to tell Daniel what happened, you know—what really happened and why she left him the way she did? I thought they were getting back together for about a minute in Houston, but then he turned and walked away from her.”

Jason looked at him, canting his head a little sideways. “What the fuck happened in Texas, man? Daniel didn’t only walk away from Mica, he didn’t even stay for the exhibition game, and he’s been rocky since. For that matter, what happened with Mica? Why the hell did she leave him like that? We’re his friends, and we...I’m worried about him.”

Slate blew out a heavy breath. “Man, Mica had some shitty stuff in her life before she came to Chicago. A motherfucker of a father, a brother whose contact info is in her phone as ‘BastardSon’, and an ex-boyfriend who fucking defined the word evil. That ex made credible threats against Daniel’s family, unless she agreed to leave him. So, because she liked him—liked his mom and brothers—she left him.” Slate shrugged. “There’s more to it, of course, but that’s the general notion. She kept it to herself for weeks, and tried to keep us Rebels at arm’s length too, but we were all used to fighting that fucking shit with her, so it just didn’t work as well on us.

“Daniel, on the other hand, fucking let her walk away,” he shrugged again. “He should have picked her up and carried her back, but he gave her space. That shit made it look like she didn’t matter, or as if she wasn’t worth fighting for. So now, we have a clusterfuck, and it’s his loss…and it’s her loss. Mason’s loss too, because he’s caught in the fucking middle of it. Fuck,
my
loss, because I have to keep shit going here without Mason’s help. Fucking everyone’s loss, I guess.”

A few regulars drifted in, and soon, Jason and Gary were deep in conversation with some of the Rebel members they’d come to know from frequenting the bar. Jackson’s had become the unofficial bar for the Mallets hockey team, and the big athletes and hardass bikers mixed surprisingly well together.

Jason was interested in getting a bike, and Digger was trying to broker him a deal for a Fat Boy. Slate’s ears perked up; he’d had to retire the Indian several years ago, now a Fat Boy was his current ride, and he liked it. “Jason, a Fat Boy is a good bike, man. Go around back and check out mine.” He tossed his keys over, ignoring the silence that fell over the bar. “Don’t dump it, motherfucker, or I’ll kill you.”

Jason caught the keys and looked from his hand holding them, up to Slate’s face, and then back down. Slate was aware everyone knew him to be very particular who he allowed to touch his scoot, and he’d never let anyone else ride it. “Fucking first time for everything,” Slate muttered under his breath.

His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket to see Essa’s name on the caller ID. He stepped into the storeroom behind the bar, and answered, “Hey, you, what’s up?”

T
here was some static on the line, and then he heard her voice, low and husky. “Slate, how’s Chicago?”

He caught an edge in her voice, and knew this wasn’t a social, chatty kind of call. “What’s up, little girl? Something got you wired?”

She gave a half-sob, laughing wildly. “Mason is leaving, Slate. He’s leaving, and she’s staying. She doesn’t even seem to care, but I know that she should care. She should give a crap about what’s happening, but she doesn’t.” Essa took in a whooshing breath. “She’s even shutting Molly out, and I know from talking to Mason that she’s ignoring her business, too. Is she going to be okay? Tell me she’s going to be okay, Slate. I couldn’t stand it if me coming to Chicago was the cause of all this. It feels like it’s all falling apart and it’s my fault.”

“Shhhhh, baby girl,” he murmured into the phone, “shhhh now, none of this is your fault. You did nothing wrong; in fact, you are the main reason that things can now begin moving forward again. Mica is simply...stuck, I think. She’d been held tight in the same place for so long, because she had to protect everyone she loved, and now that pressure is gone. So now, there’s nothing holding her back, except her own fear. You have to remember—she’s lived with the fear for a long, long time, and even though we all know how strong and gutsy she is, in the mirror, she only sees the girl she was after Ray got his hands on her.”

He heard Essa sniffling, and then she asked, “Will she ever be okay again, Slate?”

He smiled, knowing she’d hear it in his voice. “Yeah, she will be. Once she gets past this little hump, she’ll be good to go again.”

Essa sniffled again, and then her voice changed, and got tense instead of emotional. “Did you know Uncle Trent is missing?”

Trent Scott was Mica’s father; Slate knew the fucker’s name. “No, I didn’t know that. What happened?” He held his breath, because he had a good idea of what was going on. It was one of two reasons he thought Mason had stayed in Texas so long, and the other was simply being there to support Mica.

“No one knows; he was just gone from the ranch one day. Michael is there, and is keeping things going, but he won’t be able to for long; he’s never clicked with the life,” she said casually.

“How’s Mica seem about her dad being missing?” he queried, wondering if Mica had any inkling.

“Oh, she’s fine about that. She’s
fine
about everything, but she’s not
okay
. That doesn’t make sense, but it’s the best way I can explain.”

He heard frustration in her words, and soothed her again, “Shhhh, little girl.” Taking a breath, he asked softly, “Do you think you’d ever visit Mica again, if she comes back up here?” He waited on her answer, not sure which one he wanted. He wanted her, but couldn’t see her fitting into the club, and he didn’t want to get into the same kind of situation Mason had with Mica. He needed to cut ties, let this gal go find herself someone who fit her life, someone her own age, who wanted the same things she did.

“Yeah, I’d come visit,” she said softly on a breath, nearly inaudible. In the same breathy tone, she said, “Slate, I gotta go. Thanks for talking to me. I think you’re right; she’ll sort herself out eventually.”

“Okay, little girl…be safe,” he told her, and he waited for her to hang up, putting his phone into his pocket slowly once they’d been disconnected. She’d wound her way around his heart, and he feared the emotional toll, since he knew he had to let go of the idea of her. He wasn’t the kind of man she needed; there was nothing soft about him anymore.

***

Several weeks later, Slate was sitting and listening to Mason talk about his plans, which had arisen from a recent confrontation he had with Daniel. Mason said, “I told him how much she’d taken on herself, made sure he knew the entire fucking history and why she felt she had to leave. Asshat couldn’t see past his own hurt, even when I told him plainly enough that if I go down alone, I’m not gonna be looking out for his best interests anymore.” Mason took a breath, looking over at Slate, “I love her, man. I want her back up here…in my life.” Slate sighed and told him, “Yeah, but she loves Daniel.”

“She doesn’t think there’s anything here for her anymore, not with him at least. He pretty much broke that shit in Houston, so I’m gonna do my damnedest to convince her that there’s enough here to make her come back, that what we have is enough. Tug said she wants to learn to ride, I’ll buy her a fucking bike and teach her myself. Denzie has a Road King that I want, and he’s got a Sportster he’ll throw in for a couple hundred since it’s for Mica. I’ll argue her back, bribe her back…any way I can get her, Slate,” Mason groaned and looked away.