Biker Chick Campout (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (4 page)

Mela took a few minutes to collect herself
before trailing him back to the group. Standing beside the bonfire,
she accepted another slug of liquor and took a plate of food from
Jess, who slipped in sideways for a quick hug. Hands full, Mela
leaned into the gesture, both women laughing at the awkward
embrace. Mela said, “Wasn’t sure if we’d see you and Brandy. I
heard from Slate that her business is booming.”

Mouth full of food, Jess nodded wildly, then
swallowed and grinned. “She’s doing so well, but I always knew she
would. A
Little
piece of genius, my woman.
Hooked my wagon to a rising star, ya know.” She paused for a
moment
and then, eyes darting back and forth
between Mela and something behind her, gestured with a fake
casualness as she
asked
, “So…what happened
by
the van?”

“Hmmm?” Mela lifted her plate and nibbled at
the chips piled on the edge. Working one between her lips without
the
use
of her hands, she grinned around it at
Jess, and then, mouth still filled with
chip
,
mumbled, “Wha chu mean?”

“Hurley came over here in a hurry like he
was all manly he-man pissed off. I figured he tried to hit on
you,
and you swirled him. Boosh, down the
drain.” Jess giggled and pretended to press a lever with her middle
finger. “Salute…and…
boosh
, take your swirly,
mister Hurley.”

Shaking her head, Mela opened her
mouth
but was interrupted by that same
shiver-causing male voice. “She barged in and got an eyeful, then
ice
princessed
on me, Jess. Middle of the
summer and cold as fuck. I suspect my package didn’t meet
inspection.” Turning, Mela saw Hurley had walked up behind them,
bun-wrapped
brat
in one hand, and a beer in
the other. “But maybe it was the label instead. Guess the lowly
prospect never had a chance, huh, princess?”

God, she
hated
that term. Mela
actually felt her chin tip
towards her neck
and knew a scowl had settled on her face. “Don’t talk about what
you don’t know, pros,” she said coldly, turning away.

“Ohh. Ice burn,” Jess joked, sliding her arm
back around Mela. Shuffling her feet, she turned them in a circle,
laughing when they were again facing Hurley. Staring, he lifted his
beer and drank, gaze never leaving her face. Mela’s eyes
dipped,
and she glowered at the ground between
them. A moment later she felt Jess’
arm
drop
away
and was puzzled when she heard Jess
murmur
, “Well, alrighty, then.”

“So, enlighten me, princess.” Hurley kept
his voice
quiet
,
apparently
not intending anyone else to hear him when he
asked, “Why’d you freeze up? Surely you’ve seen everything right?
I’m not that hard to gawk at, am I?”

Looking up, she was again struck by how
damned good-looking he was, even in the
weak
light of the fire. “You already know you’re easy on the eyes, pros.
I just didn’t mean to burst in on you like that. Everyone deserves
some privacy,” she said, trying to match her tone to his. “I
couldn’t imagine how anyone could sleep
through
all the noise this crew was making, so I thought
maybe you were sulking in there.” She glanced around the clearing,
feeling a half-smile curl her lips as she watched Jess drag Brandy
into
the space
between their tent and the
fire, pulling her girlfriend close to dance.
That girl
.

“It bothered me when they said you had to
stay in the van,” she admitted, glancing up to find him still
watching her intently. “I just…I don’t know…” she shrugged. “Wanted
to tell you it was okay to come out. That you didn’t have to. Stay
in the van, you know? You were free to come and go as you
please.”

“And that really mattered to you.” He
sounded
surprised,
and she nodded. Shaking his
head, he said, “As you’ve pointed out, I am only a lowly
prospect.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she lied and
saw his chin come up.

“Yes you
did,
princess.
I get it. Trust me, after the past year? I get it, putting me in my
place.” He turned and looked away from her, then glanced back.
“Prospect is on my back, but the club is in my blood, and my name
isn’t prospect
, it’s Hurley.”

She was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
For so much
. “For opening the van without making sure you
were
ready,
and for insulting your standing in
the club.”
For
making
you feel less than you are
. “The Rebels trust you to keep
their old ladies safe,” she said, gesturing out at the groups of
women sitting, dancing, or reclining on blankets talking. “That
tells me you are more than ‘just’ anything to your club.” Tipping
her head towards her friend, she indicated Ruby. “Right there is
your chapter president’s woman, but more than that, she is his
life, stolen from him once before. Something so precious, he guards
her night and day. For him to entrust her to you means something.”
Turning to look at Mica and Molly, she directed his attention that
way with a tilt of her head, then turned to gaze up at him. “I
know
what those two mean to your national president.” His
expression had
become
severe
, the line of his jaw hardening as his gaze
remained locked on her face, listening
carefully
to her words.

“Each of these women
is
important to someone in the club. Different chapters, but each of
them your brother.”
Appetite
vanished
, she bent to place her plate on the ground, and
then turned, looking outwards, towards the edge of the clearing.
Into the darkness, out where the woods began.
Anything could be
hiding in those woods
, she thought with a shiver.
Anyone
.
“This is a secluded location. Nothing
about us being here was publicized.” She snorted softly before
continuing, “Even Jess was warned off social media. But, even your
national president clearly holds you in some esteem, because you
are here”
—
she swept a hand out to indicate
the women
—
“with all of them.
Their
lone protector for the weekend.”

“I didn’t really think about it like that.”
Hurley shook his head. “Should have, the guys laid it out for me.
But,
Jesus
, all the politics that go along with prospecting
into a club kinda muddies things.” He scoffed. “Politics. They’ve
had me doing double-time, shuffling between Chicago and the Fort.
Most days it feels like
double
the pressure
because I’m trying to please two chapters. It’s almost more than I
can wrap my head around sometimes.” He fell
silent,
and she could see his shoulders contract in a
protective move; he’d said more than he intended. He shifted his
feet, boots shuffling in the grass, voice
flat
as he muttered, “I’ll head back to the van. Thanks for the insight,
Mela. Food for thought.”

At her name coming from his
lips,
she drew a breath. “Wait,” she blurted, and then
paused, at a loss because she didn’t know what she’d intended to
say. She knew what she was feeling and had been for days. Angry and
out-of-control, like she was free-falling all alone. Hurley helped
quell those
feelings,
and she wasn’t ready to
lose that, even if it were something he didn’t know he offered.

They stood like that for a moment, and then
he
tilted
his head and held out a hand. Not
overtly, so everyone would notice. No, his arm extended
only
slightly, a discrete
angle
of
his palm towards her. His words wrapped around her, a slow cadence
of exploration. “Wanna talk some more?” Without hesitation she
reached out, accepting the invitation by slipping suddenly cold
fingers into his warm ones, letting his large hand engulf hers, and
following as he tugged, pulling her towards the shadows by the van.
He opened the
door,
and they settled side by
side in the opening, Mela shifting back far enough to bring her
legs up, crossing them Indian-style, all while Hurley doggedly
retained possession of her hand.

“I’ve never seen you around the clubhouses.”
He spoke quietly, threading and unthreading his fingers
between
hers, a constant caress of skin-on-skin. The
non-question didn’t surprise
her
because only
a few people knew what her affiliations were. She shook her head.
He continued, “If you aren’t club, then why are you here?”

Lifting her gaze to him, she answered his
question with one of her own. “Do you know the story of how Slate
came to the Rebels, and how he got his name?” At his
headshake
, she drew a breath, and then told him, “It’s
one hell of a story. You should ask him about it sometime. How he
came by his name, granted by his president on the day he first wore
his own prospect patch.” Lifting up her other hand, she held finger
and thumb a hairsbreadth apart. “I factor into it in a small way,
muy
poco
,
very small
. Tiny.” She drew a breath that audibly
shivered from her nerves, every word she spoke dancing along the
borders of pain.
How far do I let him in?
“Everything
happened so long ago, it seems nearly a dream sometimes. A
nightmare, but so long ago I pray the edges are all worn and can no
longer hurt me.”

He made a noise and tugged at her hand until
she turned to look at him, waiting for the questions she knew would
come. “You know Slate well?” he asked, and she nodded.

“He saved me,” she
whispered,
the simple words saying so much, the weight of gratitude in her
heart expressed aloud
.

They sat in silence for a minute, his thumb
slowly stroking back and forth
across her
knuckles
, then with words slow and cautious Hurley asked,
“From what?”

Reminding herself she didn’t
know him, she shifted sideways and tugged, gently pulling her hand
from his grasp, needing some separation. As she spoke, she fell
into the formal cadence of one to whom English was a second
language, reverting to the lessons of her youth, learned before she
knew betrayal.
Before fear and pain became constant
companions. “From the time I was small, my father and uncle
disagreed on many things about me. Over the years, their arguments
escalated, raging out of control. Swirling around the family until
I wound up in a dangerous place, surrounded by dangerous men.”

She took a deep breath, dancing around the
edges of truth. “Men who were there for business, of which I was a
part.
Before he met Mason, before he knew of the
Rebels, Slate,” —she smiled, watching as Hurley’s gaze grew more
intent, eyes dipping to her lips, then back to her eyes— “who I
still call Uncle Andy” —Hurley’s eyes widened in surprise— “rode to
the rescue of a frightened and impressionable young Mexican girl,
one forced too quickly into adulthood.

“
That is how I am connected to
these women”
—
as she spoke she folded her
hands in her lap, knowing her words sounded stilted, aloof.
Distant, as if the things she endured had happened to another, that
distance was something this story always demanded from her—
“because while my association with the Rebels may have started with
Slate, it continues through my friendship with his woman, Ruby,”
—she paused a moment— “and with Mason.” Mela shook her head, so
many things left unspoken even with everything she’d said.
“Mason and my father have partnered together often in the past few
years, and I hold a Rebel challenge coin, giving me free passage
into or through any territory your club claims.”

Digging into the front pocket of her jeans,
she pulled out a coin. Just larger than a silver dollar, it was
heavy
and hot, the metal warm from resting so
near her skin. Handing it to him, she watched as Hurley turned it
back and forth, examining both sides of the
thick
disc, then Mela held out her hand to retrieve it.
He placed it in her palm, his fingers trailing along hers in
a sensual
motion.

“
Tell me how you came to be
here?” Unnerved by his silence, affected by his touch, she had to
firm her voice as she asked the question, pushing the treasured
Rebel token back into her pocket. She wasn’t sure if she would
receive a real answer because some men came to a club through paths
they preferred not to disclose.
Hurley is not one of
those men
, she thought, as he spoke.

“Mom left
Dad and me
when I was about five,” he began. “My dad’s best friend was a
Rebel. Well, he didn’t start out a Rebel, but the president of
their club folded it in years ago, so he got grandfathered in. Dad
and Diablo, his friend, and Winger, the president, worked on bikes
in Dad’s garage until the Rebels bought it to run their own show.
By then, I was working in the shop every day after school. Just
wrenching, nothing fancy. Nothing at all like Bear can do. You know
him? That man is amazing.”

She murmured, “I’ve seen some of his work.
Very nice.” Bear and Diablo
were names
with
which she was familiar, and Winger, married to DeeDee, was a man
she had known well. Lockee, their
daughter,
had been only a little older than she was, so the two girls were
thrown together whenever there was
a meeting
where
families
were invited. Winger and Lockee
died several years ago in a car wreck, and it still shocked her to
think that bright, vibrant Lockee would never grow older. Lockee
would never meet and marry a man she loved, never bear his
children. All the things any girl hoped to experience, now an
impossibility.