Page 1 of Gunner (Iron Sentinels MC #3)
D awn hesitated outside the roadhouse, gripping the strap of her purse a little tighter. The neon BEER sign flickered in the dirty window, casting a dull glow over the gravel parking lot.
She had expected a bar, maybe a little rough around the edges, but this place looked like it had been carved straight out of an outlaw’s fever dream.
The bikes lined up out front were a warning, the deep rumble of conversation and clinking of glass seeping through the cracked wooden door like an omen.
Her heart pounded as she stepped inside. The scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke wrapped around her like an unwelcome embrace. The place was dimly lit, crowded with burly men in leather cuts and women who looked far more comfortable than she did.
No music played, just the steady murmur of voices punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional holler from the pool table in the corner.
She swallowed hard, trying not to let the wave of nerves show on her face. She was here to meet Jesse, the guy who’d fixed her friend’s bike and charmed her enough to score a date. He had promised to meet her at eight. It was now almost nine.
Dawn pulled out her phone, checking her messages for the third time. Nothing. Not even a lame excuse.
Bastard.
She dropped onto a stool near the bar, setting her purse down carefully as she ordered a drink. Maybe he was running late. Maybe he had a good reason. Or maybe he was just another jerk who didn’t have the guts to cancel.
Her irritation simmered as she sipped at the whiskey she hadn’t really wanted but needed to feel like she belonged here.
The bartender, a guy with a scar over his eyebrow, eyed her with something between amusement and pity, but he didn’t say a word.
She appreciated that. What she didn’t appreciate was the way the men at the nearest table were watching her like she was fresh meat dropped into a den of wolves.
“Lost, sweetheart?” one of them drawled, tipping his beer bottle toward her. His grin was slow and lazy, the kind that made her skin prickle.
“I’m fine,” she said, voice clipped.
Another man, broader, older, with a thick beard and a jacket patched with an unfamiliar MC logo, let out a low chuckle.
“Pretty little thing like you sittin’ here all alone? Dangerous place for that,” he said.
Her jaw tightened. She wasn’t stupid. She had grown up around guys like this—hell, her own father and his friends had hung around the local MC like some groupie when she was a kid—but that didn’t mean she liked the attention.
It felt different when she was alone. She should leave. Jesse wasn’t coming, and sticking around just made her look pathetic. But as she reached for her purse, the strap snapped.
The sudden jerk sent it tumbling to the sticky bar floor, spilling its contents in a messy scatter of keys, phone, lipstick, and loose bills. Heat flooded her face as she scrambled to pick everything up, her fingers trembling with frustration.
A couple of coins rolled toward the bikers’ table. One of them, the bearded one, scooped up a quarter and twirled it between his fingers.
“Need some help, sweetheart?” the biker asked.
“No.” She snatched up her things, stuffing them back into her bag with jerky movements. Her pulse pounded in her ears. This was mortifying.
She shot to her feet, turning too quickly, and the heel of her boot—her favorite damn boot—snapped clean off. Dawn wobbled, nearly falling, and the sudden burst of laughter from the table behind her made her cheeks burn hotter.
“Damn, she’s havin’ a rough night,” one of them remarked, not bothering to keep his voice down.
Dawn gritted her teeth, clenching into fists at her sides. Screw this. Screw Jesse. Screw this whole damn night. She had spent over an hour waiting for a guy who clearly wasn’t going to show, sitting alone like an idiot while bikers and drunks leered at her.
She had put on her favorite boots, curled her hair, even debated whether or not to wear red lipstick—all for what? A no-show loser who didn’t even have the decency to text her?
She limped toward the door, half-walking, half-hobbling, her broken boot making every step feel more ridiculous than the last. She could feel their eyes on her, hear the amused murmurs and chuckles. It made her stomach twist, her pride stinging like an open wound.
The cool night air hit her like a slap as she shoved through the door. She took a deep breath, willing herself to calm down. Her car wasn’t far. Just a short, humiliating walk across the lot.
Dawn yanked her car keys from her pocket, her fingers clenched so tightly around them that the cold metal dug into her palm. As she moved toward her car, her heel caught on a crack in the pavement.
“Shit!” she gasped as she stumbled forward, her keys slipping from her grasp and clattering onto the ground.
Before she could bend down to retrieve them, a large, callused, and inked hand scooped them up. The scent of leather, motor oil, and something darkly masculine invaded her senses before she even looked up.
She straightened, heart pounding, and found herself staring at a broad chest covered in a black leather jacket.
Her eyes traveled upward, past thick, ink-covered forearms, to a strong, chiseled face with a light dusting of scruff.
His dark eyes were intense, unreadable, and framed by thick brows that made his gaze all the more piercing.
He held her keys out to her. “Drop somethin’, sweetheart?”
Her breath hitched slightly at the deep, gravelly timbre of his voice.
She swallowed hard, taking a half-step back, trying to ignore the way her stomach twisted—not with fear, but something else.
The leather jacket bore a patch. Another biker. Definitely not a guy she wanted to mess with. But damn, was he attractive in a way that had no right to affect her. And for some strange reason, she didn’t feel unsafe around him compared to the other men in the roadhouse.
She hesitated before reaching out to take her keys. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He smirked slightly. “Gunner. Iron Sentinels.”
She cleared her throat. “Dawn.”
“Dawn,” he repeated, like he was tasting the name. He swept his gaze over her, not in a crude way, but in a way that made her feel ... seen. “You havin’ a bad night, or just pissed off in general?”
She exhaled sharply, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Bad night.”
His smirk deepened. “Could’ve guessed that. You looked like you wanted to punch someone when you walked outta there.”
She huffed a small, exasperated laugh. “Maybe.”
He cocked his head slightly, studying her. “How about a drink? Might help take the edge off.”
She blinked. “What?”
“A drink.” His voice was casual, but there was something deeper beneath it—an invitation, a challenge. “I’ll buy.”
Her instincts warred inside her. Everything about Gunner screamed danger—his size, his ink, the MC patch on his jacket.
She’d always been drawn to older men, stronger men, men who exuded confidence.
But none of them had ever treated her well.
They had used her, broken her, left her doubting herself.
But Gunner ... there was something different about him.
She hesitated a beat longer before nodding. “Okay. One drink.”
He grinned, stepping aside to gesture toward the door. “After you, sweetheart.”
This time, walking into the bar felt different. When she had entered earlier, she had felt exposed, vulnerable. Now, with Gunner’s broad form behind her, his hand guiding her lightly at the small of her back, she felt ... protected. Safe.
Heads turned as they walked in. Some of the bikers smirked, others simply took note and went back to their drinks.
One, however, let out a low whistle. “Didn’t think Gunner was the type to bring home strays.”
Dawn stiffened, heat rushing to her face.
Gunner stopped abruptly, turning toward the man with a look so sharp it could cut steel. “The fuck you just say?”
The bar went dead silent.
The man—an older biker with a graying beard—held up his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, man. Just bustin’ balls.”
Gunner’s stare didn’t waver. “Don’t bust hers.”
A long pause stretched between them before the older man looked away, mumbling something under his breath.
Gunner turned back to her, his expression unreadable. “C’mon. Let’s get that drink.”
Dawn let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and followed him to the bar, the weight of the room’s attention slowly dissipating.
One thing was clear—Gunner had a reputation. The way the other bikers looked at him, the way they quieted when he spoke, the way no one dared challenge him when he shut down the teasing—all of it told her he wasn’t just another guy in a leather cut.
Gunner asked her what drink she wanted. She told him a beer and he ordered one for himself as well. The beers soon arrived.
Dawn toyed with the rim of her glass as she considered her next move. She could still back away, make some lame excuse, pretend she was too tired or had work early in the morning.
Tonight had already been a complete dud—no different from other nights where she put in the effort, got her hopes up, and was left disappointed. Walking away now would be the smart thing to do.
But a voice inside her told her to stay. Because this wasn’t like other nights. Gunner wasn’t like the other men she’d wasted time on.
There was something about him, something that unsettled her just enough to make her feel alive. Maybe it was the way he watched her, his dark eyes sharp and assessing, like he was peeling back layers she didn’t even realize she had.
Maybe it was the way he moved, easy and confident, like a man who had nothing to prove—because he knew exactly who he was. Or maybe it was the fact that, for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t the one doing all the chasing.
Besides, Dawn could hold her alcohol. And one drink wouldn’t hurt, would it? She lifted her glass to her lips, locking eyes with Gunner as she took a slow sip. His smirk deepened, like he knew exactly what she had just decided.
“Guess you’re staying, then,” he murmured, his voice a deep rumble that sent an unexpected thrill through her.
She set her glass down and met his gaze head-on. “Looks like it.”