Mica (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (7 page)

After Tug had pulled out and was on his way, Mason rounded on Mica and said harshly, “I don’t think you fully understand your situation, Mica Scott
, so let me lay it out for you.” He took in a breath. “You live next door to me. I’m the president of a motor club. It’s a biker club; some people call it a gang, but I call them my brothers. Whatever, it is what it is, but these guys all belong to me, and I guarantee you that we are ALL good guys. Now, I am not moving; I am not going away, which means these good guys will be over here off and on. Even though they are good, they can be fucking intense, and I don’t want them to be a bother to you, ever. So when I tell them you are ‘with me’, or that you are ‘my friend’, or even if I tell them that you are our fucking ‘princess’, it fucking makes things easier and gives you a lot less shit to deal with in the long run.”

She looked at him, her eyes wide in a carefully still face, and he snarled a laugh, rolling his eyes at her.
“All of that means you are off-limits to them. Fuck, Mica, you are like a babe in the woods around me, all wide-eyed and afraid of the Big Bad Wolf. Is that what I am to you, babe? Am I the Big Bad Wolf?” She didn’t deny it, and when he stopped talking, she scurried into her house quickly without speaking.

It had been weeks before he saw her again, not only because she avoided him around the house, but because she had stopped coming into Jackson’s. Over a few weeks, they had slowly
returned to the tedious chin-lifts and boring little stop sign waves, but no fucking talking. He’d finally gotten tired of it, and was waiting for her one day, sitting on her steps when she came home from work. She stopped halfway between the car and the porch, watching him warily without speaking.

“Babe,” he asked, “what is the fucking deal?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me, Mr. Mason?”

Frustrated, he said, “You haven’t been to Jackson’s in weeks. You haven’t said squat to me in weeks. I repeat
—what is the fucking deal?”

“Bless your heart
. I find your life very…troubling, Mr. Mason,” she said, and then stopped abruptly. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry; that was rude.”

“No, it was true
; my life probably is troubling to you, but what the fuck does that have to do with coming to Jackson’s? I get that you don’t want to see me here, but the guys miss seeing you at the bar.” This was true; Tug, Digger, and Slate asked about her nearly every night.

“I…um…I just stopped going
.” She was twisting her fingers tightly into her belt loops, tightening and releasing, tightening and releasing.

Mason frowned at her
. “Yeah, I know you stopped coming, but…babe, my question is ‘why’?”

“I don’t know. It’s like you’ve invaded in my life and I don’t even know you. I…I find it odd that my neighbor
—you—own the bar at which I drink,” she admitted. “It feels like you are everywhere. You are my neighbor, the landlord for my business, my sometime-mechanic, the thrower of community parties, and to top it off, the owner of my favorite bar. That felt like just one thing too many. You are imprinted all over my life, everywhere I look, Mase.”

“
Ugh, don’t do that. Don’t call me ‘Mase’; my goddamn name is Mason,” he grumbled good-naturedly at her. “I fucking hate it when people do that—call me cute shit. Don’t fucking do it.” He thought for a minute and stole a look at her face. “Mica, would you want me to sell it—the bar I mean?” he asked, only half-joking. He thought he might be willing to part with it if would make her more comfortable with him in the other areas of her life.

“Oh
, no, Mr. Mason, it’s a nice bar—” she started.

He interrupted her with a heavy sigh, “
We’re back to the mister now, huh?” He paused, and then laughed harshly. “If it’s a nice bar and you like it, then come back, babe, okay? I fucking miss you too; it’s not just the guys. If you are afraid of me, of who I am, then just don’t be. Just stop it, and don’t let yourself be afraid. Babe, I promise I will never hurt you. You will always be safe with me.”

He paused for a second
. “Let me repeat myself—I. Will. Never. Hurt. You.” He smiled softly at her, looking into her face. “Mica, fear can’t hold you back from things you want to do or enjoy, not if you don’t let it. So come back to Jackson’s and see your friends, babe. We miss you.”

She nodded her head slowly, chewing on the side of her thumb for a minute
. “Okay, Mason.” And she did.

10 -
            
J.J.

“J.J., when are the new tractors going to be delivered to our east coast yards? We have drivers sitting on their asses in Wilmington and Savannah who aren’t making any money—for themselves or for us. They have families; we have bills. You said the equipment would be there a week ago, but here we still sit, in the same position of—let me say it one more time—not making any money.”

Jon Junior, or J.J. to friends and family, waited on the phone without saying anything, knowing from experience that Daniel wasn’t done yet.
Wait for it…wait for it…

“And why is Dickie stuck in Montana waiting for Canadian permits? He missed his appointment with the import agent this morning because of it. We need those permits, man, especially if we’re going to take over some of Cochrane’s charcoal runs. What the hell have you been doing with your time, J.J.?” And bingo, there it was, the ever-present dig at how long it took him to do anything anymore.

“I dunno, Danny; what do you think I’ve been doing? Sitting on my ass all day? Well, yeah, I am. Kinda comes with the fucking territory,” he said angrily. “Oh, yeah, don’t forget—I’m also staying away from the truck bays, trying to stay out of the fucking way of the people doing the real work around here,” J.J. shouted into the phone. Smacking the disconnect button several times furiously, he growled, “Goddammit, it’s just not as satisfying as smashing a handset down.”

A hand came down hard on his shoulder, jarring him out of his anger. “J.J., you need anything, man?” His best friend Marty Larsen, their chief mechanic, crouched down beside him, putting them at eye level.

“A new fucking life wouldn’t hurt, Marty,” he took a deep breath and shook his head. “Naw, I’m good, man. It’s just Danny being Danny. He’s stuck at some hospital in Chicago, so he calls and tries to micromanage shit here.”

Marty frowned. “Why’s he at the hospital? He sick? You need to go down, or take your mom down, J.J.?”

“Naw, he’s there with a friend. He stopped a mugging or some shit, and he’s waiting for them to be released. It’s nothing to do with him, thank God. That’d be all Mom needed.”

J.J. pushed away from his desk, tucking his cellphone into the breast pocket of his jacket. Looking at Marty, he scowled. “Get outta my way, man.” He moved his chair towards where his friend was crouching, forcing him to stand and back away. “I gotta check the permit log, find out why Dickie is stuck in the U.S. of A and isn’t in Canada, and then find out why he called Danny and not me.”

Turning to go out the office door, Marty asked, “You still coming to Hansen’s tonight? That little waitress, Penny, has been asking about you.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there, but only if you get the ten trucks due for maintenance done and back on the line. You need to go and get your guys working, Chief.” J.J. waved in dismissal.

Grabbing the wheels of his chair, he rolled over to the file cabinet, frustrated when the files he needed were in the top drawer, but he jacked around until he had what he needed and spread them out over the desktop.

Picking up the phone, he called his brother, Richard, who answered with a gruff, “Yeah?”

“Hey, dickhead, which permit is it you think you don’t have? I’m showing we applied for everything needed when you were in the shop last week.”

Dickie responded, “I was wrong; everything’s good. I’m waiting in line now and should be at the inspection bay in about ten minutes.”

J.J. frowned. “Okay, I’ll let Danny know. How long did you sit at the border thinking you weren’t permitted before you looked and found out you were wrong, Dickie?”

“Not long, a couple hours maybe,” his little brother responded.

“Okay, make sure your logs are in order, man. No more fines, okay?”

Hanging up on his second brother of the morning, J.J. wondered if what he heard in Dickie’s voice was a hangover. It wouldn’t be the first time, and he strongly suspected that a bottle might’ve had more to do with missing the appointment in the import agent’s inspection bay than Dickie making sure his permits were in order. His brother usually depended on the mechanics to do that for him, along with pretty much everything else except actually driving the rig.

At the end of the day, Marty came dragging back into J.J.’s office, flopping down in the chair with a sigh, asking, “Hansen’s?”

J.J. nodded at him, no less exhausted. “Lemme lock up and grab my truck. I’ll meet you there.”

“Truck keys,” Marty demanded holding out his hand, and he waited until J.J. tossed them over, “I’ll start it for ya.”

At his truck, after locking up, J.J. attached the winch to the hook on his chair and leveraged himself into the driver’s seat. Using the controls to place the chair in the back, he closed the door and waited in the warm truck until Marty drove out the gate ahead of him. Pulling up at Hansen’s, the local bar, he reversed the process and met Marty inside at their normal table.

“Penny’s working tonight, man,” Marty nudged his shoulder, “and she’s comin’ this way.” J.J. rolled his eyes, looking at the eagerness in his friend’s face, but not wanting to put a damper on his enjoyment at the moment.

“Hey, J.J., Marty, how was work today?” She sat their usual beers down—two bottles of Booyah, a local favorite.

Marty responded, “Same old, same old, Penny.”

Looking around the bar, J.J. said, “Y’all are pretty busy tonight. Working by yourself?”

“Nancy should be in anytime now. I’m off at 10,” she tossed over her shoulder at the two men as she walked back to the bar.

J.J. restricted himself to a single beer, as he’d done for the last year. There was avid conversation between Marty and his friends about the Mallets’ chances this year; Daniel’s team was always a hot topic during hockey season.

After a few hours, he was ready to go home. There was no sense hanging around a bar if you weren’t drinking; plus, he was tired and getting hungry. Telling the guys goodnight and leaving Hansen’s, he saw Penny standing outside by her car, which had the hood up. “What’s up?” he rolled towards her.

“My stinkin’ battery’s dead. I hate winter.” She kicked her car tire.

“Gimme a minute; I have jumpers.” He moved to go back towards his truck, pushing hard through the slushy snow just as a group of men came out of the bar. One of them saw Penny, and assuming what had happened, grabbed cables from his own backseat before J.J. could even get to the toolbox on his truck. He sighed and waved goodbye at Penny, knowing she’d be gone before he could make it back across the parking lot. Twisting in his chair, he started the process of getting into his truck to go home.

Finally at home, J.J. could relax, wheeling slowly into his bedroom. Danny had remodeled the entire house for him after the accident, and everything was set-up for easy wheelchair access. Grabbing an overhead bar, he shifted to the bench near the open shelving that served as his clothing storage. Stripping bare, he put a towel down across the seat of the chair and moved back, heading in for a hot shower. Sitting in the steam, J.J.’s thoughts turned back to more than a year ago—the day everything went to shit, when he was sentenced to this chair and this life.

He’d been standing to the side of one of the tractors, reading a clipboard of the maintenance needed for this rig. He was watching idly as Dickie ran the lift to pick up the tractor so the mechanic could work on it. There was an abrupt grinding noise, and then shouting. Something picked J.J. up and threw him face first into the wall, trapping him there. He had pushed ineffectually at the wall, unable to move away.

Twisting and seeing what had him pinned, he knew why he couldn’t move. The tractor had slipped off the lift, and he was immobilized between the big wheels of the rear axle and the bay wall. He was surprised there was no pain, and he could clearly hear everyone yelling at once, but there were no constructive suggestions.

It figured he’d have to organize his own rescue. “Hey, Marty,” he yelled, “call 911,” and people quieted down some. “Dickie, see if you can get the lift back down. Maybe the truck will slide back. I’m stuck, man. I can’t move here.”

He heard Marty yelling into the phone, and twisted the other way to see Dickie looking at him with horror on his face. “Richard Rupert, see if you can put the lift back down,” he barked out an order as if he was still in the Army, using his brother’s proper name to try to snap him out of it, and as he did so, he felt a twinge of something not-quite-painful in his lower back. Dickie didn’t shift, just kept looking at him.

“Don’t move, J.J.. Don’t move anything,” Marty screamed at them. “The ambulance is on the way.” Sliding as best he could between the truck and the wall in order to be next to J.J., he started asking questions. “Where do you hurt? Can you breathe okay? Where are you bleeding?”

J.J. shook his head. “I’m just pinned, Marty. Get the damned truck off me.”

Shaking his own head, Marty said, “Not moving you until the ambulance folks get here, J.J.. Just stay with me, man.” Marty’s voice was high with tension and fear, and J.J. wondered what he could see from where he was standing.