Chapter Nine
Prospect no more
Meek shook his head indulgently, watching as the inebriated woman seated at the table in front of him again dissolved into laughter, forehead leaning heavily into one hand. Amused, he snorted as the elbow she had propped on the table slid to one side, allowing her to slowly face plant onto the surface. She lay there, giggling helplessly, and Mason’s eyes hit his, their gazes locking across her shaking shoulders while the two men grinned at each other. From the tousled pile of hair, his name emerged on a rising hoot, drawn out until it sounded like a creaking door, “Meeeeeeek!” This was followed by more uncontrollable laughter. Then, still laughing, she mangled his name, sounds coming out as an unmistakable imitation of a cartoon character when she forced out, “Meep, meep.”
“Oh, God, make it stop.” She struggled to a sitting position, wiping at her cheeks with both palms, trying hard to force her hilarity down. Calming slightly, she looked up and stole his breath, telling him, “I, Mica Scott, do hereby dub thee Road Runner.” Fuck, he thought, she’s drunk, but is she too drunk to know what she just did?
Meek relaxed when Mason didn’t react, and simply sat with his gaze trained on Mica, watching with a patient smile as she collapsed onto the tabletop again. Over the next few minutes, the two men talked casually while they waited for her to laugh herself out. More than once Mica’s giggles trailed off, then she would pipe up with one more rendition of “Meep, meep,” sending herself into another cascade of laughter. Mason cut his eyes to Meek, then held his gaze and said, “Gotta get you a different patch now, Road Runner. We’ll need to pick a new color for this one. It’s a first.”
Jesus, he thought, stunned at Mason’s easy acceptance of the change. He was a different man around Mica. Since she’d showed in Chicago, he’d mellowed. At least until her shit hit the fan. Then Mason swung right back through the other side like a pendulum, working with a laser-focus to keep her safe.
Mica Scott was like no woman Meek had ever encountered before. She was the kind of woman who was all woman. Soft and feminine through and through. But she was also a mystery. Soft, but strong. So strong she put most men to shame with the things she’d suffered and still kept moving forward. Keep on, keeping on. Good motto. And for her to be the person she became after the start in life she’d had? Good and kind, caring for others. Simply amazing. Mica was a woman well worth the time of his president, a man Meek had come to revere as he did his own father.
Surely Mason doesn’t intend to rename me. Meek had finally become a familiar mode of address, and every man who used it recognized the significance of the name; a shared understanding that ran deep into his bones. Those four letters memorializing the exact moment in time when he finally got it. What it meant to be part of a club. Really understand the unspoken bonds shared with brothers, that deep sense of belonging to something so much bigger than yourself; a true brotherhood. To have men who mattered ready to stand at your back, and feel a profound compulsion to keep them safe in return.
Much like the obligation they all had to protect Mica. With her, Meek tended to think of it like aftercare, but more extended and intense than anything he’d experienced in a fetish club.
That would be the club, as opposed to the club. Each satisfying in their own way.
It’s been a long time, he thought, and it had. Rebel business had kept him away from playtime for weeks. Not that he begrudged the business part, he just missed the sense of gratification he only received from a well-delivered scene. Letting his mind roam for an instant, he imagined Aurelie’s body under his. Just the thought made him wish for darkened corners, mask-disguised faces passing by, and a drained and satisfied sub cradled in his lap. Too long.
Mason continued speaking, and now the words were ones that killed the air in Meek’s chest for a second time that night, because he was being handed everything he wanted. The one thing he’d found that was a need stronger than anything else. Stronger even than the need for the breath that wasn’t flowing into his lungs: the full brotherhood of the club. “We’ll patch you in at the next meeting, man. We’ve never had Mica name anyone before; I hope you understand the fucking honor paid you. Welcome, brother.”
Road Runner frowned and then smoothing his features, nodded. “I do, Prez. Thanks, brother.” Thumping the wall of his chest hard with a closed fist, he repeated the words Mason used when assigning the honor of watching over the Rebel’s princess. She was every member’s treasure. “A fucking treasure.” As Aurelie was mine.
***
A few weeks later, Road Runner was seated in a booth at Jackson’s, about ready to lift his empty mug to signal for another when he felt the air in the bar suddenly sizzle with tension. Twisting his head, he caught sight of Daniel Rupert walking through the front door of the bar, followed by a gaggle of his players. Rupert was the owner and captain of a minor league hockey team here in Chicago. A businessman, he owned a trucking company in Wisconsin, besides. He was also the man who had somehow managed to turn Mica’s head, taking her from Mason.
To hear the bar regulars gossiping, none of them believed Mason had put up a fight for the gal. Way they told the story, he’d simply stepped aside when she expressed interest in the hockey guy, backing off and giving the man a clear field of play. “Pussy move,” one guy had retorted. Not a regular, and he wouldn’t get the chance to become one. Road Runner snorted. Getting thrown headfirst out the back door tended to suppress any desire to return to an establishment.
All the locals knew was that some kind of drama had gone down with the happy couple and, next thing you know, Mica had moved back to her little house next door to Mason, ditching the hockey guy and leaving him high and dry. That was the version allowed for the citizens.
Members of the Rebel’s Chicago chapter knew better. Most had been involved in at least some part of what came next because Mason rallied every man to help protect Mica. What he felt for the woman was deeper than a lover, in spite of whatever might have happened between them before.
But, no one—and by no one Road Runner meant even Mica’s best friend, Jessica Nalan—knew exactly what had happened. One day Mason was in the clubhouse, grin on his face and talking about the ring burning a hole in Rupert’s pocket. The next, Road was one of several members who received a scramble call to cover her house.
When Road had rolled up, the only light on in the entire building was in her bedroom, softly shining around the edges of the closed drapes. He’d approached the building carefully, because with all her shit swirling around, none of them could be certain what they’d be walking into. Each trusted Rebel held a key to her home, and Road Runner had used his to enter, finding her curled into a ball on her bed, sobbing.
Uncaring of how it might look, Road had crawled up beside Mica, shifted them so she lay next to him, and gathered her to his chest. He’d crooned soft reassurances to her, and held her until she’d exhausted herself, drifting off to sleep, leaving him staring at the dark circles grief had painted underneath her eyes. Even at rest, trembling, she had flinched at every sound, her house filling with angry men clad in black leather.
It wasn’t until hours later that Mason had come in. He’d taken one look at Road cradling her close and visibly flinched. Standing with his shoulders pressed against the wall, face wreathed in shadow, Mason stood guard. Arms crossed on his chest, he’d kept a wordless vigil that night, staying planted there for hours, until the sun was well above the horizon, sunshine peeking between the curtains.
Mason hadn’t moved until Mica had stirred, stretching and sighing as she shifted in Road’s arms. Mason had stared at Road’s face for a long moment, his own expression impassive. “She needs anything, you let me know.” With those muttered words, Mason had turned on his heel and strode from the room, and Road thanked God he hadn’t hear Mica’s sleepy call. “Daniel?”
She was a strong woman, so like always, she managed to pull herself together and eased back into what seemed like a regular routine of work, home, and friends. But when he looked into her eyes, shadows darkened them, something that looked uncomfortably like fear in their depths. Now, she was in Texas, ostensibly headed down to visit family, but Road knew the club was trying to draw out her tormenter, her enemy, and so theirs. It was a man who had laid hands on her baby sister, creating more chaos and pain.
Mason had flown out that morning and planned to be in Texas for the duration. Now, Rupert was here, in Jackson’s, somewhere most sane people would believe was the last place he should be. Time to put a twist on it, Road thought, intending to make it plain the hockey guy wasn’t welcome. Then, catching sight of Rupert’s face, he saw a pain and grief matched only by Mica’s. With a sigh, he remembered Mason had stepped aside, seemed to want this man for their princess. As in any good scene, he changed tactics to line up with the exposed needs of the players, deciding being a Dom was a useful skill in any part of life. Road stood, hand out, calling, “Daniel, good to see you.”