Jase (3 page)

“Yeah, I talked to him about it again a couple nights ago. His custom Bobber will be ready within a couple of weeks and he’s looking to turn and burn his old one for the cash. You got what he’s asking?” Slate wiped the bar top down, lifting Jase’s mug and frowning while he
cleaned
away the puddle.

“Yeah, yeah. Cash on the barrelhead and all that.” He
trapped
the tip of his tongue between his front
teeth
and cut his eyes over towards Slate. “Now, I just need to line up a trainer.”

“Trainer?” Slate had turned to straighten the bottles on the back bar, and he looked up into the mirror to catch Jase’s eyes. “You don’t fucking know how to ride a bike? You’re going to spend twenty grand on a ride you can’t ride? Did you fucking think it was a good idea when you woke up this morning? Goddamn shit, man. My daddy had a saying that would fit you: ‘More money than sense’.” The thought had him laughing so hard he had to lean on the countertop, the motion setting the bottles in the liquor well shaking and clinking together.

“Shut the fuck up,” was all Jase had to
answer
with,
because he knew
everything Slate said
was true. It was s
tupid
to plan to buy a bike without knowing if you would even be able to use it. But with the
motorcycle
, he knew it would be a built-in topic with DeeDee the next time he saw her.
Never let it be said I can’t plan and plot.
He smiled, thinking about that.

Slate shouted across the bar, "Birdy, get your ass over here." A big man stood from one of the tables, sauntering over. Jase had seen him before; he was a recent addition to the Rebel club, coming to them from Utah or somewhere like that.

Slate indicated Jase with a jerk of his head. "Dude needs a tutor; he's buying Road's Bobber. You got time if I can line up a burner?"

The man grunted and turned to look at Jase. He frowned and cut his gaze back to Slate. "A waxer? We going into the babysitting business next? What the fuck, man?"

"Shut the fuck up," Slate said tersely. "Dude is a friend of Mica's, friend of mine."

Grunting, Birdy looked at him again before he turned back to Slate. He nodded and said, "Lemme know when." Then he turned and walked away without ever speaking to Jase.

Blowing out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, Jase said, "Dude doesn't seem to like me much. What's a 'waxer'?"

Slate barked a laugh. "Someone who doesn't
actually
ride, just gets his bike out and parks it in the driveway so he can shine it up."

Jase wrinkled his nose. "Slate, dude. That doesn't even compare to what I'm going to do. I got plans, man. I got riding
plans
. Gonna ride. Ride my ass off, once I learn how." Slate grinned at him and they both laughed.

She focused, but muted noise was all she could hear; sounds came through as soft, wavering tones, and even loud noises were subdued, seeming to echo from far away. Her knees and breasts were cold. Her skin raised in goose bumps, nipples peaked and hard, but it didn’t matter. Having this swaddling insulation against the world was far more important right now. She needed to remain exactly as she was—just like
this—in
this moment, this instant, for as long as she could. Her chest tightened and hitched, but she forced herself to remain silent and motionless, pushing to a place of peace and calmness.
Fifteen slow ticks of the clock later, the demands of her body for breath overcame the longing to remain submerged in the water and she surfaced, gasping for air and wiping her dripping hair back from her forehead with a flattened palm.

Stretching her legs out the length of the bathtub, she wet a washcloth and draped it across her breasts, protecting them from the chill in the room. The water was warm, but Fort Wayne’s late spring had been unseasonably
cold
and difficult to predict. It wasn’t worth it to heat the big room just for a bath, knowing tomorrow might bring mild temperatures.

With a shiver, she reached out her foot and, using her toes, turned on the hot water faucet. Dropping her head back to the edge of the tub as the warm water swirled around her legs, she slowly relaxed.
Thank God for huge hot water tanks
, she thought, dipping the cloth back into the water and draping it across her chest again. That was one thing the clubhouse had going for
it. S
ince they were nearly always catering to large groups of residents and visitors, everything in the building that needed to
be shared
was super-sized.

This bathroom was one of the common areas, and since she had been in here for a while, she expected one of the members to roust her out any minute. There was a party happening tonight in
Chicago,
and all the men of the club were getting ready to go. She, on the other hand, intended to hole up in her suite with a bottle of wine and a book. Even though she had lived in the Rebel Wayfarers’ clubhouse for the past two years, she stopped attending any club functions that
weren’t absolutely required
. After her last trip, it would take a serious demand
for
the club to get her back to Chicago. That town had become dangerous for her, with some temptations difficult to deny.

Thump. Thump. Thump.
“DeeDee, honey, you okay in there?” That was Bingo, the club’s Fort Wayne chapter president. She briefly contemplated not
responding,
but knew it would have him using his master key to open the door. Then he would be flustered, because she was
naked,
and she didn’t have the patience to deal with that right now.

“Yeah, Bingo. I’ll be out in a minute. You need in here?” She pitched her voice to carry through the door, leaning up to turn off the water and open the drain. Standing and shivering in the chill, she reached
for a towel
laid across the nearby rack, roughly using it to rub dripping water from her long hair, and then wrapped it around herself.

“I need to talk to you when you come out. Come find me. Okay, honey?” His voice sounded like he had scrunched up his face, which was his telltale that the topic wouldn’t be comfortable.
Shit
, she thought,
what did I do now?

Taking a deep breath, she forced a brightness she didn’t feel into her voice, and responded, “Okie
dokie
, Bingo. See you in a couple of minutes.”

Standing at the mirror, she stared at her obscured silhouette for a long
moment
before reaching
out
to swipe at the surface, leaving it streaked. A woman showed in fragmented images in the mirror, and she regarded the small pieces individually, studying them as if they were foreign to her. The reflection on the glass looked as broken as she felt inside.

Dark red
hair,
made darker than
usual
from the water. Deep blue eyes, almost violet, they were nearly black when she became emotional. Freckles scattered across her cheeks, demonstrating a foreshadowing of her penchant for burning instead of tanning. She had always been fine-
featured, but
she knew her face now looked
gaunt
more
than anything else. She reached out one hand and dragged her fingers slowly across the reflection of cheekbone and chin, filled with memories of touching a face
that
looked remarkably like her own.

Smiling sadly, she drew a heart in the condensation on the mirror with a fingertip, tracing the letters MM on one side and DM on the other.
Careful
not to cross lines, she drew LM in the center of the heart. The smile slowly fled her face as she stared at the drawn figures for a minute, and then lowered her head, going about the business of drying off and getting dressed. When finished, she cleaned up after herself by wiping down the bathtub and hanging up her towel.

Giving the mirror a final glance, she opened the door and walked out, leaving the heart and its captured initials on the glass. They stood for Martin Moser, her husband and old man; Lockee Moser, her daughter and heart’s love; and DeeDee Moser, widow and grieving mother.

***

Presenting herself at Bingo’s open office door, she knocked softly on the doorframe, waiting
for acknowledgment
before entering. He stared solemnly at her for a minute, then sighed heavily and glanced down at his hands, fingers laced together in his lap. “Got a favor to ask, DeeDee,” he said, frowning. “You know how you still ride Winger’s bike?”

Puzzled, she nodded. “Yeah, I start it every week and take it out for a turn at least once a month to keep everything working. You know…
so
I can check it out periodically.” Winger had been Martin’s road name, the only name he answered to after joining his first club and being awarded the moniker.
He had risen through the ranks of that original small club to president, the top officer’s position. Eventually, he opted to fold that club into the Rebels in order to provide solidarity and stability for the members, the men he called his brothers.

“Okay, here’s the thing. I need you to come to Chicago, ride up with the boys.
You know about the
party for Mica. Mason specifically asked you attend and ride Winger’s bike, if you wouldn’t mind.” He looked up at her and waited,
apparently
expecting an argument.

She shook her head. “Bingo, I just spent several weeks in Chicago helping out at the bars. I’m ready to stay home for a
while,
if that’s okay.”
Shit, shit, shit
, she thought. She did not want to go back up there anytime soon.

“It’s actually not a request, hon. You’re gonna need to go.” He tipped his chin down then looked up, pinning her with his gaze. “I know it’ll be hard to see everyone, but it
’s been going on
three years now, DeeDee. You’ve got to put things behind you and move forward.”

“It
’s only been
two years,” she whispered, feeling herself beginning to tremble all over, eyes welling with tears.

They stared at each other for a long time, her husband’s best
friend
and his best friend’s widow, silently acknowledging the loss each still felt. “I loved them too, Dee. He was my brother.” Bingo’s voice
broke,
and she dropped her eyes, cutting the connection between them.

“Okay.” She clenched her jaw, viciously digging her fingernails into her palms, slowly managing to regain control. “Will we be staying at the clubhouse?”

“Not you, hon. I wouldn’t ask that of you. Winger would’ve had my balls.” He smiled sadly. “Road Runner got the club some rooms at the hotel where he works, and Myron will have the info when we get there. The party is at Mason’s house, not the clubhouse, so you’ll have to find Myron after we roll in.”

“All right. I’ll head over to the
storage
and get the bike, take it to the garage, and change the oil. What time is everyone heading out?” She had already
begun
to run through a list of things in her head she would need to handle
now,
since she would
be away
for several days. “I’ll let Melanie know. She’ll be okay staying in the suite here, right? Like before?”

She and Winger had always wanted a big family, and after trying for years with heartbreaking results, they finally had
been
blessed with Lockee, their daughter. Melanie Davidson had met Lockee in kindergarten, and the two girls had fallen
quickly
into friendship. Over the years, the girl had spent so much time at their house she had practically grown up in the Moser household. Her home life hadn’t been easy, but she
managed
to turn out a gentle soul and had found a special place in both Winger and DeeDee’s hearts. Melanie might not be her daughter by birth, but it was only a technicality as far as she
was concerned
. Having the girl around made life
better,
and after coming through their tragedy together, that was truer today than ever before.

“Of course,
hon
,” he reassured her. “It’s her suite, and this is her family. Nothing will happen to Melanie here. We got her, DeeDee.”

Nodding, she turned to leave, pulling her phone from her jeans pocket and punching in numbers. The call went
unanswered,
and she left a message. “Mel, baby girl, I’m going on the run with the boys this weekend up to Chicago. Not sure when I’ll be back, but Bingo knows you’re staying here. Be good, girl. The club will watch out for you. Love you.”

Winger and Lockee had been killed more than two years ago in a car accident. Distracted by an incoming text, an inexperienced driver’s careless swerve had forced their truck off the road where it flipped end-over-end multiple times. None had survived extraction from the mangled
vehicles
, and DeeDee had gotten the call.

Like an extended family, the club had rallied around her, offering her love and care in a loss they all shared. Someone had been with her constantly as she moved in shock through those first days following the accident. Even
though
she had been part of a club for more than two-thirds of her life and knew how close the men all were, the outpouring of support and love had still stunned her. There had been more than three hundred members riding in the procession from the church to the cemetery, and because Winger was ex-military, there was another whole group of Patriot Riders. Melanie had been beside her every step of the way, at times physically holding her up when overwhelming grief would crash over her.

The club knew she would have to sell their small house, so without even being asked, they had
shown
up a week later with boxes and a
truck
and moved her into a suite in the clubhouse. It had two bedrooms with a sitting room and half-bath, and they handed her the keys with no questions asked. She
lived
here since then, rent free, and the club placed no demands on her, but she voluntarily helped by keeping the clubhouse tidy, trying to make sure things ran smoothly.