Harddrive Holidays (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 14)

Harddrive Holidays

Rebel Wayfarers MC
Story #7.5

MariaLisa deMora

Copyright © 2015 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 2015

ISBN-13: 978-0-9863562-7-8

DEDICATION

Dedicated to those of us who need a reminder that when you love, truly love, it is never too late to reconcile. Be open to possibilities that surround you, always ready to accept blessings, regardless of origin.

HARDDRIVE HOLIDAYS

The holidays can be a joyous time, but when you have experienced a profound loss, they can also be filled with bittersweet memories. Take a trip down memory lane with a colorful, old-school biker, Landon Shoemaker, known throughout an active network of motorcycle shops and clubs as Harddrive. With a long history twisted round with the Rebel Wayfarers, he has known Davis Mason since before there was a RWMC. Catch sight of the world our Rebels inhabit, seen through the filtering lens of an outside perspective, as Landon recognizes that family extends far beyond blood, and learns how well forgiveness can heal when it flows both ways.

Contents

Harddrive Holidays

Thank you

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Ever since we first met Harddrive way back in
Slate
, I’ve been wondering exactly what his role was within the series. We saw his easy way with the customers in his shop, and witnessed his patience with Andy as they worked their way through an afternoon of bike shopping. Both of those things gave me a sense that the man was good, and I believed he was a biker in the way it was intended to be. Hard and unyielding, but passionate about the scoots. He was not a metro-corporate motorcycle riding man who claimed the title of biker, Harddrive just
WAS
one, living the life.

Then in
Gunny
, the man surfaced again, unnamed, but I knew it was him. He’s the one who found the fork for the Vincent that Gunny was working on, only asking for a photo in payment. All about the scoots, man.

Finally, in
Mason
, I learned for certain that the Indian motorcycle Slate was so proud of had indeed once belonged to Mason. Full circle. Kinda like life. Like Erin would tell us, it was “Karma, baby.”

But, it wasn’t until
Hoss
when I for sure knew so much more of his story. When I learned that Dixie, my favorite bartender in the whole world, was his girl. That’s when Harddrive got underneath my skin, and had to work his way out and onto the page to give me peace.

So, here you go. This is Harddrive’s story, filled with so much loss and pain given through complicated misunderstandings, and him owning the decision every single day to not pick up that phone. Owning, and hating it, even as he believed he was doing the right thing.

I hope you enjoy reading the story half as much as I did discovering it. Muuwah. Big kisses to all of you, and a very Merry Christmas. <3

~ML

Harddrive Holidays

Landon Shoemaker sat in his favorite chair, which was positioned the perfect distance between the heat radiating from the hearth’s brightly blazing fire, and that damn chill that always settled nearer the log walls of his house this time of year. Relaxed in a way that working men understood, he had put in a good bit of work today and earned himself a good rest. Lifting the bottle held in his hand to his lips, he drank deeply, the yeasty overtones of the beer not registering as he sat, staring at the flickering flames through watering eyes.

Christmas Eve.

No celebration tonight
, he thought, glancing over to where the Christmas tree had stood in past seasons, his lips twitching sideways in disappointment as he stared at the empty corner for a long minute. Hard to believe the year had slipped away from him again, but here he sat, on his own. The sole surviving member of his generation.

No family in the house.
Back in the early part of the year, he had buried his brother, Rodney. His sister, Isabel…well, she had been gone for a long time. Gone long before she died, even. He had family left, products of his marriage, but his kids and their children were off living on their own in Billings and Fort Wayne. Not that he begrudged them their choices, but on a night like tonight, he would give a lot to see them crowding around the fireplace. To watch the grandkids rip brightly colored paper off boxes, their faces shining as they shouted with laughter.

He turned slightly, cutting a glance towards the matching chair next to his; both still pulled up in the middle of the room and angled so any occupants could easily carry on a conversation. That glance stuck on the empty seat for a long minute, and then he finally turned back to the fire and sighed.
No anything tonight.

No kids meant no reason to decorate, so there was no holiday clutter anywhere in the room. No shine of glitter, no scent of evergreen. Hell, anymore, he did all his shopping online and simply had things shipped directly to his kids and grandkids, so he didn’t even have any presents stacked and ready to distribute.

Lifting the bottle again, he took another drink.
No one to play Santa for
. He grinned crookedly at the rueful memories. Wars had been waged in this very room over who would wear the enormous red and white hat on Christmas Eves in the past, the winner granted rights over distribution of the presents. The expression slowly faded from his face as he thought of the stocking cap folded and still stored securely in the box of decorations up in the attic.

Shifting restlessly in the chair, he rolled his neck, listening to the tendons creak and make snapping noises. Stiff and tired, he was feeling his years tonight after working all day. The day before Christmas in Wyoming, you wouldn’t expect people to be out doing their shopping at a bike store, but regardless of the forecast, the snow held off and shoppers had come in today in droves.

His store in Cheyenne sold bikes, gear, and parts for most of the major domestic brands of motorcycles, and a few foreign ones, too. His salespeople had worked the floor while he watched from his vantage point through the lofted office’s window, grinning as the shirts and jackets fairly flew out the door. They had sold dozens of various chrome accessories, and he smirked now to think about it. One good thing about the brands he sold was seldom dealing with post-holiday returns, unlike some other stores. Enthusiasts enjoyed owning the best, and it was a point of pride for him to cater to that.

He yawned wide, his jaw cracking much as his neck had, and then he snorted a laugh when his belly joined in, growling loudly. Mentally composing a list, he went through the contents of his refrigerator, discarding various supper ideas until he reached the same conclusion he normally did when finally considering eating about this time of night. Pushing on the arms of the chair, he jackknifed to his feet, declaring to the empty room, “Cereal it is.”

When his wife was here, she would have had his head for considering breakfast cereal a meal, but she hadn’t been here for a long time, not for years. He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight, remembering the Christmas Eve dinners she would put on the table. Simple fare, but good, and always accompanied by a mug of her spiced rum, served with a sweet kiss.

It took some effort, but he pushed those thoughts aside.

Walking around the island that divided the kitchen from the rest of the open plan room, he made quick work of preparing his bowl, then leaned a hip against the front of the sink and ate standing, as was his custom these days. Gaze focused outward, staring through the dark panes of glass, he saw the snow the forecasters promised for Christmas had finally started falling. Tomorrow morning would find a fresh coat of white; pristine, it would patiently wait for kids with new winter gear to ski and sled. Their eager and tireless legs creating new tracks through the snow; those tracks plotting lines of experiences they would carry with them for the rest of their lives. Memories built to last.

Rinsing the empty bowl and putting it into the strainer, he turned from the window and his gaze swept the room. Mentally weighing the benefits of sleeping in what would at first be a very chilly bed versus the already warm recliner, he slowly made his way back to the chair, grabbing a hand-knitted afghan off the back of the couch on his way past. Dumping the covering on the seat, he quickly settled a couple of fresh logs on the fire, adjusting the existing fuel before putting the screen in place. Back in the chair, he draped the blanket across his legs, and then pushed the chair back, settling in and getting comfortable. Soon, the only sounds in the room were the crackle of the burning logs and the soft, deep breaths of the man sleeping in the chair.

“Rodney,” he yelled, waiting for his older brother to catch up, nose pressed to the large window overlooking the sidewalk on which he stood. “Come on, slowpoke. Look at this, would ya?” The two brothers stood side-by-side in identical poses of excitement and admiration. “Would ya look at this,” he said again, slowly, hearing the expected noise of approval from beside him.

They were staring into the car dealership where one of the salesmen had just rolled one of the biggest and prettiest motorcycles he had ever seen right in front of the wide picture window. The bike was shiny, so shiny he thought he could comb his hair using the reflection from the gas tank, and the salesman was using a handkerchief to polish the backs of the already gleaming mirrors. “Did you ever see anything like it?” Rodney asked, and he shook his head.

“Boys,” he heard, and both he and Rodney automatically took a half-step back, because this voice belonged to the owner of the dealership. They both knew firsthand that he didn’t like smudges on his windows, but instead of the expected scolding, the man asked them, “Do you boys want to come inside and get a good look at the motorcycle?”

Twisting, Landon looked up at the man whose big belly was doing a poor job of hiding behind his buttoned suit coat and nodded, answering for both of them. “You boys can help me out. I need a picture of someone on the bike for my newspaper advertisement. Let us see if you boys will fit the bill.”

For the next thirty minutes, he and Rodney were in second Heaven after the man lifted and placed them astraddle the bike’s seat, leaving them there while the photographer fiddled with his camera and lights. Landon even got to lean far forward, putting his hands on the straight handlebars, making vroom noises and pretending to drive the big bike. He had reverently touched the logo attached to the side of the gas tank, the headdress on the Indian man’s head bumpy underneath the pad of his finger. Rodney played with the fringe on the bottom of the seat and the photographer took several pictures of them, the bright flash attached to his camera momentarily blinding the boys each time.

Landon shifted in the chair and looked owlishly around, blinking as if startled by something. With a sigh, he settled back into the chair, drifting back into sleep.

Delores stood in the space between the motorcycle and the porch of her parent’s house, looking back at him with her fingers resting on her lips. She lifted and held them in front of her mouth, pretending to blow him a kiss. He reached up, catching it from the air and pressed his hand to his heart. Watching her walk inside he sat for another moment, waiting for the front porch light to be extinguished. Once the light was off and darkness had crept in around the small house, he kicked the bike to life, carefully walking the vehicle backwards out of the gravel driveway.

Riding back to Cheyenne in the dark, he thought back over the songs she had chosen to play on the jukebox at the diner tonight. Keeping his eyes on the cone of light stretching out in front of the bike, the headlight illuminated the lonely road as he sang his favorites loud and long. Pulling up behind the garage where he worked, he parked the bike underneath the stairs that led to his apartment. Stepping off the machine, he stretched with a groan and then trotted up those stairs, still humming under his breath. He had decided tonight, with her sitting beside him, hand in his, he was going to marry her. She was it for him and being with her gave him every feeling he had ever wanted.

Opening the door, he saw the envelope that had been pushed underneath onto the floor and stooped to pick it up. There was an official looking seal in the corner, but no postage stamp. He ripped the letter open, letting the envelope flutter to the floor as he read the words that would change the course of his life. “You are hereby directed to present yourself for Armed Forces Physical Examination…”

Dropping slowly into the upright chair near the door, he ran his hand across his face. Drafted. He had been drafted. He wasn’t opposed to serving his country, not at all. This was exciting, and he wanted to share this moment with Delores. He knew her parents wouldn’t look kindly on him roaring back into their driveway at this time of night, but he just couldn’t hold it in until morning.

Rodney was already overseas, an enlisted soldier in the Army. Their parents had passed away several years ago, and Isabel…well, she was wherever she was, which wasn’t here.

That left only one person he could think of that he could talk to, one person he could count on no matter what. Back straight, he jerked to his feet and looked around the apartment, thinking that everything now looked different, changed. Or at least it should. He had been drafted. A soldier.

Slamming the door shut behind him as he ran back outside, he shoved the letter into the pocket of his jacket, started the bike and recklessly pulled back out onto the road. Driving fast and hard back to his hometown, he slid the bike to a stop in front of his best friend’s home a little after two in the morning.

There were still lights on in Mike’s house, and he suddenly wondered if he was the only one who had gotten news. Running up the back steps as he had a million times over the years, Landon burst into the kitchen to find Mike and his parents gathered around their kitchen table. They were all three somber-faced, sitting with what looked like a copy of the same letter he had received resting on the table between them.

Breathlessly, his voice filled with equal parts fear and excitement, he asked, “LeRoy, you too?” Mike nodded, and Landon sank into one of the chairs at the table.

No one spoke for a long time, and then lifting his chin, the senior LeRoy said, “Proud of both of you. This is not a small thing; it is a life-altering moment. Our boys, going over to the hellhole that is Vietnam. You gotta make sure you come back whole, come back to us. That means you’ll need to watch each other’s backs, become brothers in every way that matters.”

A dog barking in the distance woke him, and he sat up, throwing the afghan to one side as he rose to tend the fire. Standing in front of the window again, he drank a glass of cold water, watching the snow falling outside. The wind had picked up and was pushing the white stuff around, drifts beginning to build around the bases of the trees in the yard. He tried to remember how much they were supposed to get, but couldn’t put a figure on it. Six inches or two feet, the depth didn’t matter since the store was closed tomorrow.

Vietnam
. He hadn’t thought about those years in a long time. After basic training, he and Mike had wound up in the same Navy unit and as Mike’s father had requested, the already good friends became inseparable. He had come back from overseas after four long years to find Delores had married the local pharmacist, a man who hadn’t been drafted because his skills were needed back home. They had three kids, and by all accounts, lived happy lives together still.

He grinned because Delores hadn’t been the one for him after all. He should have realized that when one of his first thoughts upon being drafted was to talk to Mike, not caring enough to brave her parents and their potential wrath. No, the woman for him wasn’t Delores, and he was damn glad he had figured it out. It had been Erin who knocked him for a loop, stole his heart. He sighed, thinking,
Holds it still to this day
.

Erin had walked into his life not long after he had gotten home and he fell for her in a big way. Strolling into the shop beside her big brother, she had walked around, fingertips grazing across the sleeves of the shirts on the rack. He was close enough to hear her soft hum when she touched the leather jackets, and that sound did it for him. He was a goner. He grinned again, thinking,
A goner with a boner
, because hearing the sound she made in the back of her throat gave him a stiffy every time.

Daily, for about a year, he asked her to be his wife. He would show up at the lunch counter where she worked, buying sodas he didn’t drink just so he could talk to her. Every day her reason to refuse was different, some of them downright hilarious, saying things like she couldn’t accept on any day that ended in a “Y.” As the days and weeks crept onwards, he finally realized she was enjoying the wooing as much as he did, the sweetly-worded rejections her way of stretching things out. He grinned now, thinking about how she made him work for that yes, but it was work he had been happy to do; Erin out in front of him, a worthy prize at the end of the path showing him every day that she was worth it.