Slate by MariaLisa deMora
Rebel Wayfarers MC ~ Volume #2
Release Date: July 31, 2014
Andrew Jones grew up in a small town in Wyoming, and as a teen watched his family implode following the
death of his father. Driven by the need to provide for his little brother, he begins looking for work, restlessly
traveling from job to job on his Indian motorcycle, seeking something he cannot define.
Meeting Davis Mason, President of the Rebel Wayfarers MC in Chicago is a pivotal event in his life, and over
the following years he gradually becomes Slate, assuming the persona as first a prospect into Mason’s MC,
then as a full patch member. He has finally found the brotherhood he longed for, a sense of connection and
belonging…a family and home.
The only thing missing from Slate’s life is a woman who can love him…all of him. He finds his match in a
daughter of the MC, and his dreams become filled with her silent smiles, unruly red hair, and soft curves.
Slate works to gain her trust, but as their relationship slowly begins to grow, ghosts from their previous lives
threaten to ruin everything and put the woman he loves in grave danger.
Can he save her from dangers drawn to her by the past, or will she and their love be a casualty of conflict
caused by the club.
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Slate
Rebel Wayfarers MC ~ Volume #2
Mica
Rebel Wayfarers MC ~ Volume #1
Andy’d gotten used to chatting with bikers wherever he went. It seemed like simply owning and riding a bike made him a small part of a large brotherhood. He loved the low, underhand waves and two fingered gestures bikers gave each other as they passed on the road. More than once, he had ridden alongside strangers for long miles, never stopping and meeting, just waving goodbye as their ways parted, brothers in spirit.
These men looked the room over, and the man in front made a motion to the bar, so they all pulled up stools instead of going to a table. Good, that would be easier on him, because it meant he could keep working on his list in between serving them.
Wiping his hands on a bar rag, he approached them. “What can I getcha? Fair warning, we’re only fifteen minutes from last call, so you need to order heavy and fast.” He grinned at them, seeing a white smile parting the leader’s dark beard in return.
“Shot of Jack and a draft,” he said.
“All around?” Andy asked, his hands already pulling up iced mugs for the beer and a stack of shot glasses for the whiskey.
Nodding, the tall biker slapped a fifty onto the bar and Andy acknowledged it with a return nod. He set up a mug under the tap, starting it on the tilted side of the glass first to reduce the head, and then picked up a bottle of Jack, pouring it up and down the sides of the stacked shot glasses, getting an overflow start on filling them. Alternating between the beer and the shots, he served the men quickly, taking the money and returning the change to the bar in front of the dark haired man.
Walking away from the group, he cleared empty glasses and bottles from the rest of the bar, realizing the remaining patrons had vacated while he was serving the bikers. At least everyone had already cashed out their tab, and several of them had left tips. He collected those along with the empties, and pushed the money into the jar on the bar back. The jukebox did its random thing, and started playing Ladies and Gentlemen by Saliva. Andy grinned down at the tabletop he was wiping; that song was an anthem for his life recently.
“Whose Indian is that out back?” The question came from down the bar and Andy looked up, wiping down the inside of the ice bucket.
“She’s mine,” he smiled proudly.
“Nice ride, man,” came from the man closest to him, a blond beast with a nonexistent neck.
“Thanks, I try to keep her spiffy,” he nodded, and turned back to his work.
“Who do you ride with?” That came from the far end of the group, a dude with brown hair and swirling tattoos on his face.
“I’m not affiliated, man, just moving through. Here for a few months.” Andy tensed up, wondering if this would be a problem here, like it was in Durango.
He’d been jumped there by some bikers who thought he was a nomad scouting their territory. The beating wasn’t that bad; they stopped once they stripped his shirt and couldn’t find any tats of colors or club brands.
He hated that vulnerable feeling though, because he knew they didn’t have to stop…and there was nothing he could have done either way.
Standing upright behind the bar, Andy mentally ran through the motions it would take him to reach the shotgun under the counter top at the other end of the bar. “That a problem?” he asked the group.
“Nah, ain’t no big thang,” said the leader, taking a long drink of his beer.
Nodding, Andy pointed at their empty shot glasses and almost empty beer mugs, asking, “Want another round?”
Flipping out a twenty to add to the money on the bar, the leader answered him wordlessly, and Andy nodded. He moved back down the bar and started the process again, serving the men their drinks and ringing up the sale.
Seeing sudden movement in the mirror, he watched as four of the men descended on one of their own, taking him down to the bar top and holding him there. Spinning around, Andy saw the gun in the man’s hand in the same moment it was plucked from his fingers.
Tucking the gun into the back waistband of his jeans, the dark haired leader grinned over at Andy. “Looks
like Spider thought he had a problem with that, but he was wrong,” he said, sitting back down on his stool.
Spider was sitting upright again, sandwiched between the blond and the leader; he spit out, “Ain’t right and you know it, Watcher. We don’t need a nomad gettin’ in our business.”
“Shut up, Spider,” said the blond.
“You shut up, Opie. You know it too,” came the retort.
Andy’s head was spinning; he...that guy might have been going to shoot him. “You might want to sit down a minute, kid,” Watcher said, looking at him closely. “You look a little green.” Andy immediately plopped his ass on top of the beer cooler, scooting away from the group and glancing under the counter towards the
shotgun.
“Awww, naw, kid. Don’t do that,” Watcher tisked and shook his head, pointing at the tattooed man and saying, “Pops, grab that scatter gun, wouldja? Devil, why doncha give your Jack to the kid.”
Watching, Andy saw the tattooed man, Pops, reach over and pull the shotgun from the rack underneath the bar. Andy laughed weakly. Opie, Spider, Watcher, Devil, and Pops—he was about to be killed by a group of men with comic book names.
Raised in the south, MariaLisa learned about the magic of books at an early age. Every summer, she would spend hours in the local library, devouring books of every genre. Self described as a bookaholic, she says
“I’ve always loved to read, but then I discovered writing, and found I adored that, too. For reading … if nothing else is available, I’ve been known to read the back of the cereal box.”
Oatmeal is her comfort food. She hates gardening but loves flowers; not cut arrangements, but in the wild, outside. She has a deep and abiding respect for our military. Her dad was career Air Force, and parades make her cry.
A serious hockey fan, she’s loyal to the Edmonton Oilers, and the local ECHL team, the Fort Wayne Komets, are a fav of hers. She has season tickets and even tries to hit the road games within a hundredmile radius.
On music, she says, “I love music of nearly any genre — jazz, country, rock, alt rock, metal, classical, bluegrass, rap, hip hop … you name it, I listen to it. I can often be seen dancing through the house in the early mornings. But I really, REALLY love live music. My favorite thing with music is seeing bands in small, dive bars. If said bar has a good selection of premium tequila, then that’s a plus!”
5 signed paperbacks (US ONLY)
