Davis Mason grew up dirt-floor poor in the rolling hills of rural Kentucky, escaping that life only to find himself adrift on the hard streets of Chicago in his teens. Determined to never again feel the sting of poverty and hunger, he is willing to do whatever is necessary to ensure he has enough power and money to make that happen.
Introduced to what seemed a perfect brotherhood within a motorcycle club, Mason is shaped and honed into a deadly weapon by their sadistic president. As he slowly works his way up the ranks to gain control of the club, he’s resolved to make it better…stronger, able to withstand any challenge.
Betrayed by his bloodline, he cuts all ties with family and begins the process of building a new one. Rising like a phoenix from the ashes of the club he destroyed, he founds the Rebel Wayfarers MC and surrounds himself with loyal, trustworthy brothers. Mason throws himself headlong into the hard job of making certain his brothers have everything needed for themselves and their families, and he works to balance those needs within both the well-mannered citizen world of business, and with the anything-goes biker world of the MC.
Flirting with happiness time and again, just when Mason believes it’s finally within his grasp, he’s torn between what he wants…and what he knows he should do. He finally has the security and family he’s always wanted, but will Mason ever find the love and passion he craves?
“When a man is denied the right to live the life he believes in, he has no choice but to become an outlaw.” – Nelsen Mandela
From Chapter 2: Monaco
“Boy, you hung onto your response a mite long,” Deacon said, and Mason felt John and Ripper easing away, giving him room. Fuck, he thought, taking a deep breath. This would be a repeat of a scene acted out many times since he joined the club. Deacon was determined to break him, make him bow, and Mason was exactly as determined never to give any man that kind of power over him again. He had vowed his father would be the last man to beat this type of response out of him. And, even if he didn’t know it, Deacon’s level of discipline fell far short of his father’s anyway, lacking the arrogance and conviction that came from believing oneself God’s mouthpiece.
He stood, waiting, watching Deacon saunter across the room. “I believe I just said I want you to get your fucking ass to the fucking Monaco.” He swept his hand out, indicating the room. “And yet, I note you’re still here in front of me, standing in my goddamn clubhouse.”
“Our clubhouse,” Mason said before he could clamp his lips closed. Fuck, he thought, there’s the gasoline. He was the match; anyone could see how his presence lit Deacon up like a bonfire. These days, any excuse was enough for the man, and with this fuel, now everyone in shouting distance would get to witness the fucking inferno blaze high and hot. Before he could even settle his feet into a bracing stance, Deacon was on him, fist punching the side of his head hard.
He learned early on that fighting back wasn’t an option. You didn’t hit your president and expect to keep breathing air. Deacon quickly hit him again, fist to his temple. Dazed, Mason stumbled and fell to one knee then climbed back up, fists clenched at his sides, gaze locked on Deacon’s eyes. “My fucking clubhouse.” Deacon grunted, coming at him again, taking his time knocking Mason to his hands and knees. He shook his head hard before standing again, hot blood welling in his mouth. They had repeated this dance a dozen times before Deacon stepped back, breathing hard and glaring as Mason staggered to his feet once again. He swallowed the mouthful of blood, clenching his jaw, waiting.
“Get your fucking ass to the Monaco. You got me?” Deacon leaned forward, putting his fleshy lips next to Mason’s ear as he said, “You ain’t gonna ever learn. My fucking club, my fucking clubhouse, and you’re my fucking pussy if I want it that way. And, boy…you sure the fuck won’t fight me back. Will you, pussy boy?”
“I got you, Prez,” he gritted out, ignoring the rest, and waited. Waited to discover if this was over, waited to determine if he could hold himself in check once again. Waited to see if today would be the day one of them would die.
Deacon pulled back, his gaze scanning Mason up and down, and then without another word, he turned and stalked out of the room. Mason clenched his eyes closed, tightly clamping a lid on the pain, ears still ringing from the blows he had taken.
“Fuck,” Ripper said, pressing a bandana into Mason’s hand. “He fucked you up, Mason.”
“You like pushing the old man’s buttons, don’t you?” John laughed shrilly, excitement evident in his voice at the promise of more action. “Clean up. Let’s get rolling.”
“I’m still fucking standing, ain’t I?” Mason asked, wiping the blood from his face and neck, feeling a slow trickle still coming from his nose. He swallowed the blood in his mouth again, the bright taste of copper making him sick. Reaching up, he poked at his split lip with one finger, wincing at the pain. “Still standing.”
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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 book-a-holic, 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.”
A hockey fan, hiker, gamer, and single mom of a special needs son, she embraces her inner geek and has been working in the tech field for a publishing company for a couple decades.
Music is a driving passion, and 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 [read: small, intimate venues]. If said bar [venue] has a good selection of premium tequila, then that’s a plus!”
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