Duck (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 8) (35 page)

“Daniel.” He spoke the man’s name quietly. They were not friends, but friendly, having a connection through Mica that was unbreakable. Before Daniel could respond, knowing he would recognize the voice even without a greeting, he continued, “I need to talk to Mica, but need you hanging close because she’s about to get bad news.”

Silence from the phone for a moment, then a soft question. “How bad?”

Right to it, no bullshitting around. Straight at the problem, just as he knew the man would. Taking care of his wife in whatever way she needed. One of the things he liked best about Daniel was the man’s devotion to Mica. In every way. Not many men would be cool with their woman being friends with an old lover, and that was exactly what Mason and Mica were to each other in the days before Daniel laid his claim. But because it was what Mica wanted, Daniel found a way to be okay with it. “Bad.”

“Give me an idea of what I’m going to be dealing with, Mason.” The sounds around Daniel changed and Mason thought he was probably moving through their house, going to wherever Mica was, taking it to her so he could control the situation by staying in her space while Mason talked to her.

“Essa’s dead.” He wasn’t there to see it, but knowing Daniel for this many years, when he heard the man suck in air, he knew the sick look that would be sitting uneasily on the man’s features. “It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t easy, and it was club.”

“Fuck.” Daniel gritted the word out and asked, hesitation in his tone, “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. There’s no doubt about this. She was in a wreck, but that wasn’t what killed her. She was hurt, and hurt bad, but every injury was survivable.” His gaze lowered to the floor, then tracked up to the wall where a picture of Mica was displayed near one of Willa. Next to that was a group picture of Mica, Molly, Essa, and a bunch of the other women associated with the club. Arms around necks and waists, they were all laughing hard, standing in front of a bonfire. DeeDee bent in half with her laughter, carefully holding out her cup of beer so it wouldn’t get spilled. “It won’t be in the official report, but she took one to the head, man. That part was fast, at least.”

“You can’t tell her that.” Daniel sounded so certain, so sure, for a moment Mason’s resolve rocked, but then he remembered how he had underestimated Mica before, so he shook his head.

“I ain’t gonna lie to her. I need her to be vigilant, because the man who did this has a vendetta against not only the Rebels, but Mica, too. She can’t be heedful of the situation without the information, man. I’d rather her be sad, but alert and have that vigilance leading to her stayin’ alive, instead of lost in sadness and not looking over her shoulder.” He shifted, resting both feet on the floor, turning away from the window. “Need her alive.”

“She’s expecting again.” Daniel spoke the words like he thought they’d be a surprise, which meant he didn’t know Mica had called Mason weeks ago, as soon as she knew for sure.

“Molly’s knocked up, too. Both of the Rupert boys got it goin’ on.” Mason knew there was no humor in his voice, but he wanted Daniel to know there were no secrets between him and Mica, and the flow of information went both ways.

“She loves Essa.” The sound coming through the phone changed again, and he knew Daniel was back on the move. He also knew the man had given up the quest to derail the delivery of information when he said, “Break it to her fast. Just the fact Essa’s gone. She’s gonna fall apart, and I’ll be here to help her deal. She can call you back for the details.”

“Agreed,” Mason gave him the promise immediately.

Phone away from his face, Daniel’s voice was muted when he spoke next. Mason heard him say, “Baby, Mason’s on the phone for you.” More noise, Mica’s voice lifted questioningly, because he always called her cell to chat. Then Mica on the phone, his name in her mouth now meaning his heart warmed, but did it in a way which was true friendship. They had found their way to this place a long time ago, and every time he had occasion to see her, he was glad again they had made it. Worth every bit of work it took to get here.

“Mica, got something to tell you.”

Four weeks later

Duck looked up as Brenda walked into the kitchen. She had just come in from the barn, stopping in the mudroom only long enough to toe off her boots, padding gracefully across the room towards him in her sock feet. He took in the gleam of sweat on her face, how her hair was half out of her ponytail, the dust on her jeans, and he shook his head in wonder, thinking she had never looked more beautiful.
I love her so much
, he thought.

“Hey, baby,” she called casually, and just her voice caused him to suck in a breath in amazement. That he had this, her, all of her, with him…
Luckiest fucking man in the entire goddamned world
. Walking past him, she reached out, slipping her palm up his arm and gripping his bicep for a second before he lost the heat of her hand. The thrill of her touch caused his cock to wake up, thickening and fattening behind the buttons of his jeans.

He turned, watching her move, reaching out for the refrigerator door, the muscles of her arm and back shifting, visible through the worn tee she wore. Visible, too, were the long, red, angry scars, and he ignored them, not giving a fuck about what they looked like, except how they troubled her, undermining her confidence. A month out from the accident, she was well physically, but he worried about where her head was.

Gritting his teeth, the muscles in his jaw flexed and popped when she bent over to grab a bottle of water from the bottom drawer. Jeans fabric stretching across her ass, molding to every curve, accenting the sweet roundness of her cheeks. Scars didn’t matter at all, not to him. Like he’d told Slate, he saw them as a mark of her strength. Survival, against all odds. Against the designs of a man who, once upon a time, was a brother. She lived, and that was all that mattered. Her sucking air in and out, lying in his bed at night, loving him, even if she was afraid to say it now.

Mine
.

His own socks slid soundlessly across the slick floor. Her surprised gasp was audible in the quiet house when he gripped her hips—
those fucking gorgeous hips
—and pulled her back against him. The heat of her body hit him, the dip between her cheeks the perfect place to press his rigid cock, the thump and thud of blood pounding in his dick. Not grinding in, just holding her there, and letting his body tell the story of what he wanted to do to her.

“Duck?” That lift at the end of his name gave him an idea of the uncertainty she had, and he knew part was fear the scarring she now bore would be a turnoff for him. That the experience of seeing her hurt and lying in a hospital bed would cause him to pull back.

Any withdrawing he had done wasn’t about the scars, however. It had everything to do with the shit swirling around him, around the club.

Days of working angles with the Soldiers and other clubs, trying to find Tucker. Coming up with nothing, which pushed far beyond frustrating and deep into rage territory. He couldn’t keep his family safe if he couldn’t find the fucker, and there was no satisfaction in knowing he wasn’t the only one looking and coming up blank. He had to believe someone would find a clue soon, and then he could start putting the puzzle together.

First he had to keep his family together.

The first time Gill brought Eli to the hospital, the boy’s anguished face tore at Duck’s heart. Eli had flown across the waiting room and latched on, arms wrapped around Duck’s hips, head pressed against his body. Eli stayed like that for a long time, holding on so tight Duck thought the boy would split in two.

Duck held on in his own way, trying to find a path to help Eli deal with his terror and anger about the accident, even some guilt that with school back in session he hadn’t been with the women. When they went into Brenda’s room, Eli’s fear at seeing his momma helpless in a hospital bed was palpable, waves of it filling the room until Duck wrapped him up in a hug again.

Together with Brenda, they grieved over the loss of Essa, Brenda’s wisdom bringing them through to tears of joy as they told story after story of the spirited young woman. He and Brenda had both held their breath, waiting and watching for a return of the attitude but, thank God, Eli had gotten past that. Duck knew it helped that Eli had Breezy to nurse back to health, and Doc Winters had moved the horse to their barn as fast as he could. Duck and Gill set up cots for Eli and Tony in the next stall and the boys slept there for days, until they were sure Breezy would fully recover.

Then there was her near-hysteria when told she wouldn’t be released in time to travel to East Texas for Essa’s funeral. Driving her across the state, drugging the pain away. Then pushing her to the church in a wheelchair so she wouldn’t pull her stitches trying to walk that far. Finally, hauling her angry ass right back to the hospital, part of his deal with her doctor so she could attend the memorial, which pissed her off because by then, she simply wanted to be home. Home with him and Eli.

While he had been dealing with that, Brenda had been laid up in a bed, wound up in the thoughts in her aching head. Now, no shock, he suspected she was afraid. Lost in sorrow at Essa’s death, her memories of the accident, and a late-blooming fear something could happen to Elias.

And, hell, he couldn’t blame her.

Who the fuck wouldn’t
, he thought,
when you know the pain suffered by someone you love is because of you? A fucking club cut, reaching out across the years to pull shit like this. On my woman.

Without thinking, he said the words aloud, the growl in his voice surprisingly loud in the room. “My woman.” She gasped, and he realized his hands had tightened on her hips to the point of pain, his fingers complaining about the grip he knew would leave bruises on her body. “Mine. Motherfucker hurt
my
woman.”

“Baby,” she whispered, twisting to look over her shoulder at him. “I’m okay. Standing right here in the kitchen. I’m with you, honey.” Leaning backwards, she pressed into him, her arm crossing her chest so she could cup his cheek with her palm. She lifted to her toes, touching her lips to the corner of his mouth and he watched as her eyes fluttered closed, felt the sweep of her tongue as she moved along the edge of his jaw towards his ear. Still in a whisper, she said, “I’m right here with you, baby.”

He bent his head, breath coming quicker as she nipped at his earlobe, her palm still cradling his cheek, holding him in place for a moment. She told him again, “I’m okay.”

Could be it wasn’t her fear holding him back, but his own. She was his, and hurt, because of him. But, she was his.

“Mine,” he said once more and groaned when her lips moved across his skin in a smile before she responded.

“Yes. Yours.”

With that statement, her acknowledgement of what he felt in his bones, he broke from the frozen position, grabbed her hand and pulled her with him as he turned. Every other step up the stairs, he paused to look at her, the unfailing smile aimed up at him catching at his heart every time.
My fear.

In their bedroom, he took his time undressing her, covering every exposed inch with strokes and touches, relishing the heat of her, the slide of skin-on-skin. Standing close, he reached up, teasing the ponytail tie out of her hair and threading his fingers through the heavy fall once freed.

Cupping his palm around the back of her neck, he pulled her in and up, their mouths meeting in a demanding, hot kiss filled with the tangle of his tongue sliding along hers. Eating down the soft gasps she made, he deepened the kiss, feeling her touch on his shoulders and the thrill of that was enough to push him to respond even more, biting and pulling at her bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth with a hard draw, the sting of her nails incentive to continue.

Lifting her, he put a knee to the bed and stretched out with her underneath him, her body cushioning his, legs parting to cradle his hips intimately. “I love you,” he said, voice vibrating with passion, pressing his lips to the side of her neck, hoping she understood everything he tried to convey in those three words.

***

“I love you,” Duck told her, and those three words echoed down to her bones. Those words meant she was his, owned in a way she never expected to want, his guttural claims of ‘
mine’
from earlier echoing through these few syllables.

Instead of responding, she reached up, and gripping the sides of his head brought their mouths into alignment. She allowed her eyes to track back and forth across his face before lifting those last centimeters and kissing him. Eyes open, their gazes locked as they came together, soft and slow, mouths opening and working against the other.

His elbows caged her in and when he transferred his weight, she felt it, gasping against his lips as he pinned her beneath him. He arched his back, breaking the kiss and moved to grip her sides, the heat from his touch scorching against her skin. Arms shifting and changing position, fingers slipping up across her ribs, he palmed her breasts, teasing the nipples of each with the coarse pad of his thumbs, sliding up and across her collarbones, curving over the arch of her shoulders.

He tugged her arms, stretching them up and over her head, his palms stroking the sensitive skin of her inside elbow, tracing along her forearms and then his fingers braceleted her wrists. He gripped tightly there for a moment before he moved again to press their hands together, palm to palm, roughened fingers threading between hers. He neither concentrated on the scars, nor ignored them, instead telling her with each touch that they didn’t matter. They didn’t factor in his desire for her. They were there, inescapable, proof of how fragile life could be, and his gentle hold showed her he wouldn’t allow them to change how he felt for her. The scars were part of her, and she was part of him. Claimed.
His
.

Twining their fingers together, he pulled, bending her arms so their clasped hands were beside her head and he took some of his weight off, pressing into the bed with their combined grip. He moved and she shifted with him, eyes closing as her hips arched up, seeking, and then he came down, the tip of his cock poised at her entrance.

His body locked into place for a moment, every muscle becoming rigid and unyielding. Her eyes flew open as her breath caught in sudden fear; a fear she knew was irrational but still her chest tightened painfully at what felt like rejection. Then she watched, rapt, as his eyes darkened with desire, mouth falling open in a groan as he eased forwards. “Little Bee,” he called softly and she marveled at the intense look on his face. His back rounded, hips stroking slowly, thrusting his length inside inch-by-inch, and as the width of his cock stretched her, he spoke, the ardent tone in his voice a promise, drawing a surprised gasp from her. “I love you.”

Rocking into her, he sustained that same focus, his body moving powerfully over hers, their fluid movements in tune with each other. Present in the moment, concentrating on loving and being loved. The glide of his belly across hers a touch that felt like a caress. Every deep, penetrating stroke inside her ended with the same softly spoken words, until she anticipated each indrawn breath preceding them. “I still love you.”

Every utterance of the words pushed back the fear he wouldn’t want her, didn’t need her any longer. “I love you.” Every touch branding her in a way that let her believe again. “I’ll always love you.”

Later, much later, cradled to his side, her breathing beginning to even out and she reveled in how his arms tightened fiercely, protectively circling around her as she told him, “I love you, too. Always, Duck. Always.”