Page 6

Gunner

I damn well meant to leave.

I got on my bike that night and headed straight out of Hart. I pushed towards Seattle. After the city broke away, it would be easy to disappear into the mountains. Become some kind of fucking recluse. Those thoughts only steered me towards the fact that Tyrant bought property up that way. The old trapper’s cabin where his own father once took him to be tortured when he made his reappearance from the dead, is now club property. Raiden wanted to tear the thing down, but our Prez was adamant about keeping it and renovating it.

It’s another reminder that Tyrant is nothing like his father. Everything he has, he’s willing to share. Originally, he’d planned on making it a new family home, but instead he decided to build a property for him and his family elsewhere on the land, leaving the renovated cabin for club use.

I got about as far as the wrong side of Seattle before I started thinking about that cabin and how it was just up there waiting. Even when I was fleeing, I’d subconsciously strayed right back into the club’s arms.

People think that criminals have no sense of honor, but they’re dead wrong. The guilt ate at me. No one from the club would have been coming after me to slit my throat or put a bullet in my forehead for abandoning the place. It wasn’t fear that twisted me up.

It was family.

I gave my word to Tyrant. I didn’t give it lightly—even if I did trade it for a pan of lasagna. I told him I’d guard Penny. Having him ask me, when he could have had his pick of any other club brother… it hit parts inside of me that haven’t been touched in half a lifetime.

When I told him yes, I put my life at his feet. His daughter would be safe. I’d see to it.

I had to turn around and come back.

That, and the thought of never seeing Diletta again was more than I could bear. Truth? I’m addicted to her. I was nothing before I met her and I’m nothing without her. I barely exist as it is. She’s the light and breath in my body. Rolling back into Hart that night, my lungs felt starved for air. I was craving the sight of her something fierce, but I had to deny myself. I’d fucked up, doubly, and I was going to have to figure out a way to fix it that didn’t involve running.

I’m back, but this community cookout bullshit that Tyrant insists on doing a few times a year is enough to make any man wish that he’d found a good rock, or better yet, a steep cliff, and fallen straight off the end of it.

I’m hanging out in the background of the massive crowd assembled around the clubhouse. Unfortunately, we have a lot of lawn and right now it’s taken up with folding chairs and blankets, tables set up with food, four grills working overtime, churning out hamburgers and hotdogs. I have no idea where all the coolers came from, but they’re stacked along the back, filled with cold beers and sodas.

Anyone and everyone from Hart are welcome here. Tyrant likes to foster a good relationship with civilians. We basically run the town, but we don’t rule by fear and intimidation. Someone steps out of line, sure as fuck they’re gonna get put back into it, but one of the main reasons we have a decent relationship with the cops here isn’t just because a few are dirty enough to be on the club’s payroll. It’s also because we’ve done a lot of legit good for this town, clearing out the scum. Tyrant’s argument is that we don’t just have the club here. We live here. We’re members of this community.

I guess it hits different for him, having been born and raised here and having a kid himself.

The old ladies and club whores are circling around the crowd, being helpful for the most part. They’re the ones managing the snacks, handing out cans of soda, getting the condiments on the buns for the kids, taking care of all the paper plates and plastic utensils that are getting chucked in the garbage.

The music is loud, blaring from the speakers that Wizard set up. He’s in charge of the music and was warned to keep it family friendly, but generally his choice in music is questionable at best anyway. Today his playlist is mainly classic rock which seems to be going down well.

This will go on for hours, the visiting and chatting and making like it’s a PG rated place, instead of a haven for criminals, but later, when the party moves inside and all the guests and kids have gone home, the real debauchery will happen. The hard alcohol will start flowing, the music will thrum through those old wooden floorboards—the acoustics in the ancient warehouse turned clubhouse are perfect for a good bassline, the air will be so thick with weed smoke that the lounge will be obscured from one side to the other. Through the night, the men might start disappearing into their private rooms—especially those who have old ladies, but there’s always a few who will just find a dark corner or get a blowjob from one or maybe two of the club whores right there on the couch, and probably later pass out not far from that very spot.

“You look like you’d rather eat shit than be here.” Bullet sidles up, a beer in each hand. He tries to pass me one, but I shake my head. “Sorry, babe,” he drawls sarcastically. “I forgot for a second there that unless you have a weapon in your hand, you’re chronically no fun. Should I get you a grape soda instead?”

I debate the merits of sticking my fingers into his eyeballs and tearing them from the sockets, but given that he runs the town’s only gun range and it’s the one place on earth aside from Diletta’s backyard that I find even a fraction of peace and satisfaction, and on top of that, I generally do like the guy, his eyes should probably stay where they are.

“Have a burger. Standing over here looking like the lovechild of a pissed Norse god and a serial killer is scaring the kids.”

I let my eyes rove over the whole sprawled out assembly again. The kids are laughing, running around and chasing each other, causing all sorts of chaos. Half of them are bratty, wild offshoots from my club brothers, which means they’re rough and ready to cause trouble. We haven’t had any blood or punches thrown yet, by children or adults, so the day is quite young.

I grunt.

“That’s what I mean. You wear your inner caveman on the outside. It’s feral. If you gave people half the chance instead of acting like a stone-cold mercenary, they’d see that you have this dry sense of humor, and you could make a few friends.”

“Watch your shoes. They’re about to be plastered with vomit.”

Bullet laughs. “That’s what I’m talking about.” He shifts the beers to one hand and smacks me hard on the back.

I’m a big man and Bullet is average height, but he puts all his weight behind that smack. For someone who was ex-special ops, he’s alright. His appearance wouldn’t suggest an unruly man. His dark hair is nearly trimmed, and his short beard is well groomed. His dark eyes are always laughing with good humor. Not what you’d expect from someone who has seen some real shit, but I guess it’s been some time now, and unlike some of the guys in this place, he’s dealt with his demons.

“Christ, it’s not even two and look at that.” Bullet whistles, standing aside so I can see Raiden carrying his old lady fireman style over his shoulder. She’s being a good sport about it. Shocking, given that Ella can more than hold her own.

Bullet chugs down most of the one beer and cracks the second. “Can’t say I wouldn’t rather be at the range.”

“Shooting something is always preferable to social interactions.”

“Honestly, though, everyone loves this. It’s not just the people from town that get to come and go and see that we’re not all big, scary boogeymen.”

“Pretty sure ninety percent are just here for the free food.”

“Nah.” Bullet sweeps his hand over the crowd.

Tyrant and Lark are working the crowd, Penny’s up on her dad’s shoulders. Patti Patterson, who owns the club’s favorite bar on the outskirts of town, is chatting with the club’s physician, Adam Archer. He has a good cover story, in that he’s actually a legit plastic surgeon. No one but us know about his basement clinic. Patti’s two boys are running around the place being typical ten and twelve-year-old terrors.

“Someone better intercept those boys before they run into Justice and Stone.” Preacher and Rita’s boys are around the same age and singlehandedly always manage to put the demon in demon spawn. “Unless we’d like the place blown up.”

“I don’t think there’s anything here they could get their hands on to use as a bomb.”

I’m not holding my breath on that one.

Atlas, who looks like a movie star, and his old lady, Jody, are moving off to the shadowy edge of the building. They’re both young and even though they’ve been together for a few years, it’s like they just met.

Decay and Grave, the club’s terror twins, mill around the place like they can’t wait for fight time. They’re really only happy when they’re knocking heads together or bashing skulls in.

I instinctively search out and find both Reaper and Crow, standing on opposite ends of the crowd. Some clubs have two enforcers. I wouldn’t say we need it, but they take their job of keeping shit in line seriously. Crow always dresses in black. If I wasn’t here, he’d probably get the title of the club’s scariest motherfucker. Scythe, the club’s sergeant-at-arms, is over talking with Reaper, his tattooed head glistening in the sun.

The other men are dispersed around, swallowed up by the crowd, the prospects nearest the compound because technically, they’re still pulling guard duty.

What in the absolute fuck?

I wouldn’t have said it was possible to surprise me, but the second I catch sight of that pinup style halter black dress with lemons all over it, raven black hair, long legs, and spiked yellow heels, my heart arrests and my breath stops. It’s like Bullet decided to throat punch me for being an insufferable ass ninety-nine percent of the time.

I choke, coughing to clear my airpipe. Bullet gets up in my face.

“What the hell, man? Are you good?”

I whip my eyes down to the ground and take an instinctive step back, right as Diletta’s dainty jaw lifts and her soft brown eyes scan the crowd like she’s looking for someone specific.

Me .

What the fuck is she doing here?

“Gunner?” Bullet steps in front of me, blocking my view, and I want to shove him away and pull him right into me for cover at the same time.

I take another step back and another, until the bricks of the warehouse are just about crunching into my spine. When I said I was on the outskirts, I meant as far away from other people as possible, but now I’m trapped.

She doesn’t know. She won’t recognize you. She’s here because she’s part of the community.

She’s been here for years, and she’s never come to anything the club has hosted before. Why now?

“Gunner? Seriously, I’m going to—”

Bullet’s voice drowns out as a wash of red coats my brain.

Diletta turns her head, looking this way and that. She threads the assembled bodies with nimble ease, dainty little lemon earrings swinging from her lobes. She clears a few bodies, getting closer, revealing a container of cookies that she’s clutching in front of her. The gold locket around her throat glints in the sun. With those cookies, she looks so sweet and harmless, doing her usual best fifties housewife impression.

She’s flawless. So fucking beautiful bathed in the golden sunlight that it hurts. A monster like me shouldn’t even sully her with my fouled eyes. That’s the way I’ll always feel about her. She’ll always be an angel and I’ll always be a beast.

Like my thoughts are sending up a smoke signal, she turns and stops dead.

Our eyes clash. Tangle.

What little oxygen I’ve gathered punches straight out of my lungs.

I can’t move. My vision narrows. I know it’s serious and it’s real because black spots start forming along the edges. She’s straight dead in the center of that tunnel.

Bullet’s saying something, trying to get up in my face, but I can’t hear it. I don’t even see him.

I’m too captivated by the goddess stalking confidently in those towering heels right for me.

I could pretend I don’t know her. Say I recognize her from the shoe store.

For the first time ever, I can’t just escape inside, hollow myself out, and shut down.

She’s just parted the sea of people around her and honed straight on me like our souls have been communing for a lifetime. Like we’ve played at this exact moment of meeting for thousands of years, thousands of times over. Our bodies are different, but our spirits are twisted together. They haven’t forgotten.

It’s absurd.

I shake my head to clear the fog and the ridiculous spell just as she steps in front of me. Her eyes scrape my arm and for just a second, I wonder why, before I realize she’s staring straight at the line of still healing stitches.

She holds out the round plastic container of cookies, clear on the bottom, a blue lid on top. “Here. I made these for you. Now you don’t have to creep outside my window watching me bake.”

Well, there goes that. Jig’s up, motherfucker.

Her face says that she knows and she’s not going to be talked out of it. Diletta always was too smart. She knows me as her stalker, but that’s only half the truth. I might have screwed up monumentally, but I won’t slip further. Never again.

She’ll never know that it was me who saved her life all those years ago.