Chasing Gunner
Copyright © 2019 by J.M. Stoneback
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons , living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Letitia Hasser. R.B.A Designs
Editors: Marla Selkow Esposito, RJ Locksley
Proofreader: Judy Zweifel
You want updates on upcoming books, sign up for my newsletter
Spotify playlist
Chasing Gunner was inspired by the song: Bad Wolves-Zombie
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Stuff you need to know
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Other Books by J.M.
Gia
“Where’s my goddamn coffee, Rainbow?” Gunner’s voice is deep as an ocean.
If he weren’t my boss, I would toss my bottle of water at his head. Jeez, he’s a pain in the butt. Why must he turn into a raging lunatic if he doesn’t get his coffee?
As I spin the black leather chair around to face him, his azure eyes burn holes into my whiskey-colored ones like I started World War Three.
Glare back.
Glare back.
Don’t let the wolf intimidate you.
My heart beats wildly and freely like a horse running loose in the woods.
I tear my eyes from his and look at his thick, auburn hair that sticks up. His slightly crooked nose, sharp-as-glass jaw, and defiantly pouted mouth remind me of a Vincent van Gogh painting—beautiful yet sad and depressed.
He leans against the doorway; his body is lean like a runner. His sculpted arms are folded across his chest, wrinkling his crisp white shirt, and the custom-made gray vest hugs his torso. Everything he wears screams designer from head to toe.
PSA: My boss uses women for sex, then ghosts them and has enough charm to enchant a venomous snake.
Stay away from the wolf in the Tom Ford suit.
I met Gunner when I was a sophomore in college, working at the library on the NYU campus, and he was a senior. He and his friends used to cause a ruckus by talking, sticking books on the wrong shelves, and making my job ten times harder. When he wanted to check out a book, he stared me down like a wolf sizing up his meal while I acted as if I were unaffected by his stares, as if my heart didn’t want to jump out of my chest and into his hands.
When he spoke, I melted like butter back then.
“I’d like to check out a book, Rainbow.”
“Are you hungry? I’ll take you out to eat.”
“Why don’t you speak, Rainbow? Are you mute?”
“I love the rainbow socks, Rainbow.”
It was my taste for bright colors for my clothing that earned me the nickname he gave me. When I did my homework in the study hall, he’d sit next to me and babble about his day. Sometimes, I’d smile when he said something funny. And other days, he’d do his homework in silence.
I wasn’t allowed to talk, look, or act like he existed—or any man for that matter. My ex was a narcissistic prick and verbally abused me when I didn’t follow his tightrope of unrealistic rules. I paid the price by getting shoved, slapped, and—when he had a really bad day—punched. I have the battle scars on my stomach and back to prove it. It was hard leaving him because he gaslighted me constantly and told me it was my fault he pounded on me until I believed him.
Gunner’s presence tugs at the strings of my stitched-together heart.
I hate him for making me feel a burning candle.
I hate myself for wanting him because my brain knows logically we wouldn’t work.
“Get the lead out of your ass and get my coffee.”
I want to flip him the bird and tell him to shove his attitude up his butthole, but instead, I stand from my oak desk shaped like an L, clutch my pink floral purse I bought at the thrift store, and leave the tiny room. Our two offices are the only ones on the top floor, which I enjoy since I don’t want to listen to gossip or deal with people wanting to talk to me.
I rush to the private elevators, step inside, and tap the first-floor button. Classical music booms through the speakers, and I tap my feet on the carpet as the elevator descends.
I flatten out my black pencil skirt that’s held together by safety pins at the side of my hips. My crimson pumps are borrowed from Izzy’s—my bestie’s—fabulous and expensive wardrobe. I couldn’t help but throw a little color into this suit-and-tie world. If I could, I would have chosen a bubblegum-pink dress with rainbow knee-high socks, but in the corporate world, bright colors are banned like wearing white after Labor Day. My clothes come from Goodwill, and when I want to splurge, I shop at Family Dollar. It doesn’t bother me that I live in a shoebox apartment in the dumps of the Lower East Side, and I don’t care about money in the way the greedy world does. I just want enough to be able to get what I need, which isn’t a lot.
Finally, the metal doors ding open, I step out, and chatter overloads my ears. I rush past the receptionist and empty security desk. My heels click against the black-and-white tiles with the letter U carved in the middle of the floor. People are heading out the revolving doors as if the building is on fire.
As I open the thick glass door that’s connected to a café, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and ground beans assaults my nostrils hard enough to choke the living crap out of me. Laughter bounces off the eggshell-colored walls, and people in business suits relax at high, brown tables as they focus on their tablets and laptops. The pink chalk on the blackboard that reads “Buy one smoothie and get one free” is the only color that brightens this shop.
This place is as alive as a rock concert.
The line is so long my back is pressed to the door. I stand behind a guy in a gray suit with his phone glued to his ear.
The only good thing about working at the Underwood Banking Headquarters is getting discounts on certain coffee shops, chain restaurants, and their gym.
If I had a choice to be anything but a personal assistant, I would be a pastry chef with my own bakery, slapping smiles on customers’ faces with my sweet treats. But, sadly, student loans from an incomplete degree bury me in a mountain of debt, keeping me from opening my own business.
So I’m stuck waiting for the next chapter to come.
I’ve been working for the wolf in the suit for a whole two months, and it hasn’t been a walk in a park.
I can’t do anything right.
Last week, he dang near bit my head off because I didn�
��t tell the delivery guy to make sure his steak didn’t touch his mac and cheese, so he tossed the food into the trash and made me reorder his lunch.
I don’t know how his last PA put up with his crap. If I could find a job that pays more than my current salary, I’d leave this one in the dust.
Point blank—this job is like prison, you do your time and you get out.
The line moves, and I stand in front of the granite counter. Tina is slouched behind the register, greeting me with a perky smile. Pimples dot her face, and her inky black hair is piled into a high ponytail that sways back and forth.
“Does Mr. Underwood want the usual?” Her voice is soft, and her pale cheeks turn pink. She wears a smile on her face as wide as the ocean. It’s cute that she has the biggest crush on him. If only she knew the real Gunner, she wouldn’t be so smitten with him. I think most women who work here want him. Too bad he isn’t all that pretty on the inside.
“Yeah,” I say, slapping a fake smile on my face.
She parades to the black machine, clutching the pot, and pours his coffee into a tall brown cup with the Underwood Banking logo stamped across it. She slides the cup onto the counter while her long bony finger taps the cash register.
“One large cup of joe, black. Tell Mr. Underwood I said hey.” The register dings, spitting out the drawer, and she pushes it back with her hip.
“Will do,” I murmur before rushing out of the café.
When I make it back to his office, I set the cup on his glass desk while he’s talking on the phone. I nibble on my bottom lip, waiting to tell him about his next meeting. His office is bigger than my shoebox apartment. He has a huge bathroom with a shower, a toilet, and an eating area with a mini-fridge stocked with Gatorade and water. His desk is clean, bare, and boring. A wide window showcases the skyscrapers of the city, Brooklyn, and the Statue of Liberty. It’s like looking at New York City from a bird’s-eye view.
Rolling his eyes, he slams the phone down on the desk, grabs his cup, and takes a long sip. “Took you long enough.”
“You have a meeting with Darien Casey about American Banking in thirty minutes,” I say as annoyance drips from my words.
I turn on the balls of my feet, go to my office, pack up my HP laptop in my pink bag, and head to the massive conference room located on the twentieth floor.
Darien peers up at me, flashing me his straight white teeth. He sits at the long white table, and I take my seat across from him, setting my laptop on the table and hitting the power button.
“Where’s dickweed?” His tone is as serious as a heart attack. I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from bursting out laughing.
I like Darien more than Gunner—he’s more laid-back and doesn’t act as if he has a stick up his butt all the time—but he’s anal about certain things. Two weeks ago, we had a business meeting at the River Cafe, and after we finished eating, he collected all our dishes and stacked them on top of each other because he hates looking at messes. He curses like a sailor and wears his arrogance on his sleeve. I have three words to describe him: Tall. Dark. Handsome.
His hair is inky black, his skin is naturally golden, and his eyes are stormy gray. He isn’t wearing a tailored suit like he usually does at meetings. Today, he’s wearing a tight, white shirt that hides his six-pack and black denim jeans.
He’s happily married to Alana, Gunner’s sister. She’s supermodel-gorgeous and pregnant, due any day now. I would bet my whole paycheck their child will turn out so pretty she’ll be able to star in a Carter’s Clothing commercial.
“In his office.”
“He better hurry the fuck up, I have shit to do.”
“Shut the fuck up. You’ll wait if I want you to wait,” Gunner’s voice booms as he slams through the conference room door. The scent of cinnamon wafts through the air and is almost intoxicating. Slowly, I scoot my chair away from his.
“In case you forgot, I have to meet with my very moody, pregnant wife at a birthing class.”
“Grow a pair and stop letting Alana boss you around,” Gunner says, resting his arms on the back of my plastic chair.
It’s funny to watch them banter like brothers. They have this whole weird bromance thing going on, but I have no idea how long they’ve known each other. I don’t remember Darien being one of Gunner’s friends back in college.
Darien’s eyes bounce between Gunner and me. Gunner shakes his head as if they’re having a silent conversation with each other.
What is happening here?
“She doesn’t,” Darien says.
“Sure,” Gunner says sarcastically. “Let’s get this over with.” He takes the chewed-on pen with the Underwood Banking logo from behind his ear and twirls it between his fingers. “Got any updates on American Banking?”
They bought the bank two years ago. Apparently, John, the previous owner, was dying, and the business was sinking, so he wanted to save it.
“The finances are a disaster; the previous CFO was embezzling money, so I had his ass thrown in jail. We have to take out thirty mil of our own to fund it.”
Darien shrugs like thirty million is nothing. I guess if you’re the CEO of one of the top banks in America, money like that is chump change. Both men are richer than Bill Gates and Warren Buffett combined, and if they wanted to, they could buy several countries. They’re business partners, but Darien owns D&D and Gunner owns Underwood Banking, which also makes them competitors.
Gunner turns toward me and says, “Email Mason and tell him to transfer fifteen million to American Banking.”
I do what he says.
They ramble on about business, and it all sounds like a foreign language. When the meeting is over, I place my laptop into its case and head back to my office. Throughout the remainder of the day, I color-code Gunner’s calendar.
After I’m done, I refill his coffee, organize his file cabinet, and schedule conference calls with Mason.
At the end of the day, I feel like a Dementor zapped my energy from me and I want nothing more than to go home and lie down.
I grab my purse, sling it over my shoulder, head to his office, and poke my head inside. “I’m leaving.”
His eyes are glued to the monitor as he types on the computer. “When you get home, check your email—you have to scan my PowerPoint notes for the conference meeting tomorrow.”
As I stroll to the private elevators, I ask myself if this is what my life has come to, working at a job I hate. Every time I think about the future, it isn’t rainbows and sunshine—it’s gloom and rain. I’m stuck at a dead end.
Gunner
It’s too early in the morning for this shit.
I lay my head on the black lounge chair, watching as the ceiling fan circles slowly. The A/C pumps out cool air, and Hannah’s pen scratching against the pad, the sound makes me cringe. My overpriced and underqualified psychiatrist. My head pounds so fucking much I can’t think straight. I should have never gone out last night and gotten wasted. Should have taken my ass straight home.
“Did you complete last week’s assignment and score yourself a date?” Hannah asks. Her voice is like running fucking fingernails on a chalkboard. Cringe worthy and loud.
Hangovers are a motherfucker.
I crane my neck to look at her. She perches in the chair across from me, removing a piece of gum from a wrapper, pops it in her mouth and chews. Hannah is rocking the Sybill Trelawney style. Her bifocal glasses are so thick she can see Mars, and her skin tone is the same color as milk. Her frizzy, black dreadlocks are pulled into a ponytail, and she dresses like she’s from the seventies.
She wears a yellow blouse with matching dress pants, and she’s a germaphobe, which is why she has on latex gloves.
She’s as appealing to me as wanting to shove a knife up my ass.
“No.” My tone is flat.
The good doc wants me to step out my comfort zone, date, and get over my fear of connecting with women on an emotional level.
The last time I took a woman
out on a proper date it was a fucking disaster. Two years ago, I took long-legs Abigail to the Gala, and she annoyed the fuck out of me to the point I wanted to shove a spike through my eye. She ended up calling me nonstop after the date, asked me to meet her parents, and lived in a delusional world where we were in a relationship. And when I shot her down, she went apeshit on me—busted my car windows and spray-painted “asshole” on the door. Then there was big-titty Paige. I took her out to eat and bought her designer clothes. Then she told me she loved me, so naturally, I stopped calling and texting her.
I spend a few Benjamins on a woman, and all of a sudden they’re planning our wedding. If they knew what kind of monster I am they wouldn’t toss the “L” word around so quickly. So I gave up on dating.
I’m sick to death of paying for a psychiatrist just to be told I need to date.
I’m. Not. Dating. End of fucking story.
Women care more about what’s in my wallet than how they feel about me. They’d rather have Gucci, Chanel, or Michael Kors than the real me. So why the fuck would I spend my time looking for love?
Love is a poison I don’t want to drink.
“Date, Gunner. You need to put yourself out there.” She says this as if she’s tired of repeating herself. She places her blue notepad decorated in Bible quotes on the neat desk.
The leather couch squeaks as I sit up and glance around the small office. The walls are pale as a ghost, and her metal desk is shoved in the corner next to a window that’s shaped like an oval. The sky is gray, and rain taps angrily on the window. Four towers of fashion magazines are stacked neatly in the corner by her desk. (I suspect she’s a hoarder.)
“I have eight words for you. Stay the fuck out of my love life.” I pause. “Help me fix my anger issues.”
This is one of the main reasons why I see her. Anger outbursts have been kicking my ass ever since my piece-of-shit dad fucked off to the next woman he could destroy. FYI, my dad’s hobbies were getting sloppy drunk and pounding on my ma and yours truly until we were black and blue.
“Sorry, just doing my job.” She pauses. “This is the third time you’ve come in here hungover. ” Concern colors her hazel eyes. “Why are you wasting our time if you keep repeating the same behavior?” She loudly pops her gum.
Chasing Gunner (Chasing Series Book 2) Page 1