Page 11 of Not Even A Mouse
Party line
Myron
“Myron, grab the phone, brother.”
Pulled from his review of the most recent forecast for the Rebel Fort Wayne businesses, Myron stared at Goose, his mired-in-numbers brain taking a moment to catch up. The clubhouse had an old-fashioned phone attached to the wall behind the main room’s bar, and Goose was standing, arm extended, handset dangling fromhis fingers. His friend and patch brother grinned broadly and swung the device back and forth, like a hypnotist's coin dangling from a string. “Earth to Myron. Come in, Myron.”
“Houston, we have a problem,” he muttered and pushed away from the table. He dropped the printout on top of the piles of paper already littering the surface and stood. “Coming.” Reaching for the phone, he rolled his eyeswhen Goose first jerked it away, then laughed and handed it over. He put it to his ear and announced himself. “Myron.”
Dead air.
He glared at Goose as he realized he hadn’t even heard the damn phone ring.Damn jokester. Now he’d have to get his head back around wherever he’d been in the spreadsheet—a sound came through the phone interrupting his thoughts, sounding like a generic announcementintercom. Myron listened intently and made out the steady sound of someone breathing, in and out. “Hello? This is Myron.”
He stood straight, eyes wide when he heard, “I didn’t know who to call.” Even upset, that voice was distinctive, flat Midwest drawl and all. There was no mistaking the bartender he couldn’t get enough of.
“Mouse?” Across the room he saw Brute’s head come up, scarred mienswinging to face him.This is all Brute’s fault, anyway. Brute well knew who Mouse was, even if he didn’t know what had happened the first time Myron saw him while playing babysitter to Bexley.
He and Andy had only been seeing each other for a few weeks, and so far, Myron had been careful to steer things away from what could be a disaster if something like this happened. “Is everything okay?”Myron turned his back to the room, pulling the phone close in an attempt to create a pocket of privacy for himself, but there was a reason the phone was placed where it was, and still attached to the wall like a junior high school boy’s nightmare. The only thing that would give less privacywasif it were a party line, something Myron only vaguely remembered from the time before his parents died.
“I’m at the hospital.” Andy’s voice broke, going high as he croaked out, “Talya’s...Myron, something happened to Natalya.”
“Where are you?” Myron was already running through logistics in his head. They hadn’t chatted this week. Between Myron dancing attendance on club meetings and Andy’s reports that Talya wasn’t feeling well, texting had been all they’d managed. But there was no question inhis mind he’d be going to the hospital, because if Andy needed him, he would damn well be there. If Talya needed him—Please, God, let her be okay. He’d ridden his bike down from Chicago, but he’d rather not park it in a public lot on his own. If there were several bikes together, no worries, but a single bike was easy to steal. All it took was three men and a trailer, and his iron would be lost.The club had both a van and truck assigned to this chapter, so he’d have a ride anyway.
Andy gave him the information for thehospital,and told him where the surgical waiting room was located.Surgery. Shit. That gave Myronpause,because surgery on such a little girl was frightening to consider.How did her not feeling well jump to needing surgery?Talya was only six, small for herage,andthe thought of her going under the knife had to be eating at Andy.
“Can you come? It’s just me…and…” Andy pulled in a shaking breath. “Can you come?”How is he there alone? Where is Talya’s daddy?
“Andy?” He waited until he heard an affirming sound. “I’ll be there soon. Hang in there, man.” He made a promise he knew he couldn’t backup,but was helpless to offer any other comfort. “She’s goingto be okay.” Blowing out a breath on a steady exhale, he hung up the phone and tried to compose his expression before turning around. He was glad he’d taken those few seconds when he realized every man in the room was focused on him. He wasn’t the only RWMC member who’d taken a turn watching over Bex at the bar, which meant he wasn’t the only one who knew Mouse. “His little girl’s in surgery.”That would explain to the group what was going on, but not why Mouse had reached out tohim, out of all the people he could call.
Familycame first in the RWMC, something their founder and president had hammered home time and again. Mason had a way with words and wasn’t shy about using them to get what he wanted. Like every great leader, he seemed to have an innateunderstanding aboutwhat ittook to wrangle the best out of every man under his patch. For many, it was knowing their family would be taken care of, no matter what.
As far as his brothers knew, Myron had done just the same as them. Gone to the bar, nursed a beer or two while staying focused on Bexley. Their very presence in the bar providing an extension of their brother, keeping his woman safe when Brute couldn’t.
Andsure, that’s what Myron had done the first time he’d gotten the call to babysit Bexley.Andy wasn’t working that night, he reminded himself. No, his introduction to the out-and-proud Andy hadn’t come until a few weeks later, and Myron remembered the feeling in his gut when he’d waltzed into the bar expecting to see the tall brunette working only to find the handsome Andy instead. That had beena memorable night, Myron’s first real encounter with a man who didn’t hide his sexuality.And it was Andy.
Myron had been closeted for...ever, it seemed like. After figuring out what he liked from a relatively young age, he’d never known a day when he wasn’t on guard with his actions or words. Even during his time spent in the homeless shelters around Chicago, any quick, desperate encountersthat seemed to last only moments in duration had all happened in darkened nooks and crannies. Desire or needhiddenbehind bravado in public, prowess with fighting best on display instead of what so many would see as a weakness.
Then had come the truly desperate days, where those furtive actions took on a coating of shame, the sparse clink of coins flicked at his feet on the worst days, or crumpled,filthy bills tucked into a back pocket on only slightly better ones. Body spent and mind weary, Myron had been lost within the unwashed ranks of the forgotten for so long, he had begun to feel invisible, seated at a long table with so many other homeless men, trying to be unobtrusive as he tucked spare slices of bread into his often-mended pockets.
He’d been seated like that one night, one ofthe lucky few queued up early enough to secure not only a meal but a bed, mind occupied with a jar of buttons a volunteer had handed him on his way into the shelter. A voice, deep and amused, gently joking as if they’d been friends forever had asked him what he was doing. Myron could remember the exact words if pressed, but what had cemented itself deeply in his mind was the face of the man standingacross the table,basketof bread in hand like any other volunteer. Older, but not too, only a decade or so in age difference—which now, years later, seemed a laughably small distance—but immeasurably older in experience.
That had been his first introduction to Davis Mason, the national president and founder of the Rebel Wayfarers MC.
Mason, the man who had saved him.
Myron blinked fast, unexpectedsentimentality creeping up on him without warning. Mason would say that Myron had saved himself, by having the courage to reach out and take the hand offered, but Myron knew better. Before Mason and the RWMC, he’d been trapped performing an ever-shorter arc of attempted escapes from that life, all doomed to failure, and all with the same eventual destination. It was a minor miracle that hehadn’t gotten tangled up in drugs or drink while running from the depressing destitution of his life, and his resolve had worn thin by that night. The man seated to his right on the shelter’s bench had already offered him an out,promiseof a sharp-needled amnesia if Myron would get on his knees after lights-out.Never know if I’d have taken it.
“Myron, brother. You’re goin’, right?” He jumpedand looked around, seeing three men had approached him. Gunny was closest and held a hand out, palm down like someone would do with an agitated dog. Goose and Brute stood just behind him, their broad shoulders blocking Myron fromviewof the rest of the room. “You need someone to drive you to the hospital?”
Just like that, with the raw concern in Gunny’s voice, he knew they’d read the situation…readhim, andknew. Myron took a step back, a bump from his shoulders jarring the handset off the hook, cord tangling his arm as it fell. The ghost of a blow flickered across his skin, remembered sensation of hard-striking leather making his head swim. He shrugged away from that and slid to the side, muscles tensed and ready for what he expected would come next. It was no secret that the MC world wascustom made for men. Men who liked to drink and party. Men who liked to fuck women and lots of them, being chased by fender bunnies in every town. Men who were all-in when it came to breaking any of society’s rules.Anythat is, except this one.
Myron shook his head and lifted his chin, glaring at the three men that for years, he’d counted as friends as well as brothers under the patch. “No,”he bluffed, schooling his face to hide his sudden anger and grief. “I’m good, brother.” The word slippedout,and he waited for one of them to throw it back into his face, waited for them to follow whatever unspoken code they felt necessary.
“I texted Bulldog.” Brute’s voice was quiet, rough as always, vocal cords forever damaged by the injuries taken during his last overseas deployment. He’dbecome friends with the ER doc who knew more aboutbikersthan anyone would expect. Bulldog had somehow become a friend of the club just by being there during hard situations over the years, now an invited guest at their parties. If he were working and Mouse took hisdaughter tothe ER, he might know the situation. Brute’s features were unreadable as he delivered the next verbal blow. “He saidto hurry.”
Fuck.
“Myron.” That was Brute, someone who knew Mouse well, and since Mouse wasn’t one to hide away, he would surely know everything. “Let me drive you.” When Myron would have argued, he shook his head. “You’re not fit, brother. Goose can follow and bring me back. I’ll leave the truck for you for later.”
Bulldog said to hurry.
Myron nodded and turned to follow Brute out of the clubhouse,leaving everything he’d found worth living for behind. Maybe for the last time.
