~oOo~
Sleep was an impossibility, so when Leah heard the roar of Harley engines pulling away, she left the lonely little bedroom. There was a bookcase in the living room, and she’d seen a few Agatha Christie mysteries in there, so she thought she’d snag one and occupy her mind about Gunner’s mystery by reading one where the clues were laid out.
She hadn’t expected to find Willa and Patrice sitting at the Formica table at the side of the room. They both smiled, and Patrice stood up. “Coffee?”
Leah took a beat to check for any weirdness with Patrice, but there was none. She was just an almost-friend getting up to pour her a cup of coffee. Leah breathed a sigh of relief and headed to the table.
It was far too late for coffee, but then, on this night, who cared about sleep? “Sure, thanks.” As Patrice went to the kitchen, Leah sat, and Willa pushed a box of Thin Mints over to her.
“You still have Thin Mints in August? I can barely make a box last a full day.” She plucked two from the cellophane tube and popped one in her mouth just as Patrice set a steaming mug of black coffee before her.
Willa laughed. “You do not want to know how many boxes Rad bought for me this year. I was huge with Zach, and I had a major sweet tooth. I was excited the first time I saw a cookie sale, told him I love Thin Mints, and after that, he bought them out of Thin Mints every time he came across a Girl Scout. I think he bought the whole Tulsa area out. I’m going to have Thin Mints for the rest of my life. They’re stacked high in the deep freeze in our garage.”
Leah made up her coffee, stirring in plenty of cream and sugar from the little china cow and matching sugar bowl on the table. “Rad’s a nice guy.”
Both Patrice and Willa laughed at that, and Leah looked up, surprised.
“Yeah, he is,” Patrice said. “But I don’t think he likes it to get around too far.”
“No, he does not,” Willa agreed, pulling the box of cookies back. “He likes people to be afraid of him until he decides they shouldn’t be.”
“Well, he scared the hell out of me when I first saw him.”
More laughter. Leah tried to figure whether they were laughing at her or with her. She decided it was with her, and she smiled.
After savoring a sip of her coffee—it was really good, and really strong—she set her mug back down. “Do you know where they went? Things got weird with Gun before they left, and he didn’t tell me.”
No laughter at that. Patrice and Willa glanced at each other, and Willa turned to her and answered, “Leah, with the club, if your guy doesn’t tell you, nobody will. They get to decide what their women know, and we have to work that out with our men. Nobody will break into that.”
“So you know, but you won’t say.” She took another drink. With coffee this strong, she might not sleep all weekend.
“I know,” Willa answered.
“And I don’t,” Patrice said. “I’m not an old lady, and neither are you, Leah.”
Leah set her mug down again. “What does that mean? ‘Old lady’?”
“It’s like a wife, but it doesn’t have to be an actual marriage. Rad and I aren’t married, because I don’t want or need it. But we are basically husband and wife except for the paper and the rings.”
“They have something more than paper or rings. Maybe you noticed her ink while we were at the lake?” Patrice plucked at Willa’s shirt, a t-shirt with a deep, U-shaped neck. “Show her.”
Willa put her pack to the table and let Patrice pull one shoulder of her shirt down. Leah had noticed that she had tattoos—over the back of her left shoulder and between her shoulder blades, two birds, and on the back of her right shoulder, a flaming heart. Now Leah saw that it had Rad’s name across it on a banner and a little flower tucked into the banner.
She had Rad’s name tattooed on her.
“They call it ‘keeping their flame.’ It’s a commitment, like a marriage. The guys don’t let people into their business who aren’t committed to staying.”
Processing all that, Leah turned to Patrice. “And you aren’t? Oh gosh, that was nosy. I’m sorry.”
Griffin’s not-old lady frowned. “It’s complicated with Griff and me.”
She didn’t say more. One look at Patrice, who was generally a happy, mellow person, and Leah knew better than to push. There was something dark not too far off.
Setting that aside and focusing on the matter of where Gunner was right now, Leah turned to Willa. “Should I be worried? Can you tell me that?”
“Always. And never. They’re outlaws, honey. What they do…there’s always reason to worry. So there’s never any point to let it ride you too hard.”
Patrice laughed. “You sound like Mo.”
With a shrug, Willa popped another Thin Mint into her mouth. “Learning from the master,” she said as she chewed the cookie and then swallowed. “Anyway, Leah, the guys do what they do, and we decide if we can deal with what we know and what we don’t.”
“And sit up late drinking coffee and waiting,” Patrice added.
Leah stared into her mug. Gunner was an outlaw. She’d known that, he’d hardly hidden it, and she’d been warned by just about everybody in Grant. He’d told her again and again he was no good, and she didn’t believe him. She still didn’t believe him. She knew that he was good.
But sitting here at this table inside this cabin in the woods, with these women, what he did as a Bull really sank in. He broke the law. He did bad things. He’d gone out on this very night to do something bad. And that put him in danger. All the time.
She really did feel like a child. Naïve and out of her depth.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The sheriff’s ‘cabin’ was an old single-wide mobile home spiffed up with an extensive redwood deck and a hot tub. A beat-up 4Runner and a late-model Civic were parked beside an empty boat trailer.
Harleys were loud, so Gunner, Rad, and Griffin had left their bikes—in the woods, under cover—back about half a mile, where the gravel lane leading to this property veered off from the blacktop road. In black hoodies too warm for the night, they crept toward the dark house. The half-moon was dappled with fast-moving clouds, making the world seem to blink and stutter beyond the halo of the humming dusk-to-dawn light.
When Gunner spied the matched pair of plastic dog bowls—the food bowl empty, the water bowl full—he gestured silently and drew his brothers’ attention. There was a dog in there. Not a watchdog—a good watchdog would have sensed them already; the screened windows were open—but a dog. One of at least medium size, judging by those bowls.
They hadn’t expected a dog.
Rad shook his head, “Fuckin’ Apollo,” he muttered with barely any sound, then waved Gunner and Griffin close. When they were nearly touching, he said, “Dog goes down only as a last resort. I’ll try to subdue it. It’s on you boys to subdue the men.”
Gunner and Griffin nodded.
“Okay.” Rad pulled his gun, and Gunner and Griffin followed suit. “Gun, do your thing.”
Pulling his pick kit from his jeans, Gunner eased up onto the deck, taking his steps slowly and carefully, guarding against creaks in the redwood boards. He got to the door—a steel half-light model that every hardware store on the planet kept in stock and usually had on sale for about a hundred bucks—and took note of the lock. Basic Kwikset. He had it picked in about five seconds, but he didn’t turn the knob until he had Rad’s okay.
Getting it, Gunner eased the knob around and pushed the door in.
He stepped into the dim room, and Rad was right on his heel. Before Griffin could enter, their ears filled with the frantic, unmistakable baying of a beagle. Sheriff had himself a Snoopy.
The dog bolted from across the space—a living room, Gunner knew despite the dark; single-wides were all laid out the same—and Rad dropped to his knees. He grabbed the dog as it lunged, wrangled it, and had it under control and muzzled with his fist in a flash.
If there were such a thing as a dog rodeo, Rad would be its st
ar. He hadn’t even hurt the pup.
Light flooded the room, and Gunner, already aimed, focused his attention on the direction the dog had come.
Sheriff Lucas stood there in tightie whities and a white beater, a revolver in his hand—but not fully aimed. “What the fuck?”
As he lifted the revolver, Gunner, with his Glock aimed at the man’s head, said, “NO. Drop it.”
Lucas hesitated, still taking in the scene. Rad said, “I’ll snap Rover’s neck.” He tightened his grip around the struggling dog’s snout. When it whined, Lucas set his gun on a nearby end table.
“This is so fucking stupid. You know that, right? I will have all your asses for this. Your whole piece of shit club.”
Rad chuckled. In his arms, the dog struggled, but ineffectively, and Rad seemed almost relaxed. “Big talk. Tell your buddy to get out of the hallway and hand over his weapon.”
After a few seconds of standoff, Lucas called over his shoulder, “Cal, come on.”
The deputy who’d pissed on Gunner’s bike came up from the hallway. He wore only a sagging pair of sweatpants. His revolver was aimed right at Gunner, but when he saw the scene, he set his weapon down as well.
If this trailer was set up like every other trailer this size Gunner had seen, then there was only one bedroom in that direction. The other would be on the other side of the trailer. Lucas and Cal were coming from the same bedroom? Interesting. Not Gunner’s concern, but interesting.
“Step back to the wall,” Rad ordered. When they had, Rad tipped his head toward the end table. “Griff, get those guns, put ‘em back here safe.”
“Right, Sarge.” Griff did as instructed. This caper was meant to be retaliation for Gunner’s beating, but Rad was in charge.
When the guns were safely away, Rad turned to Gunner. “I’m gonna lock the pup up in the bathroom. You decide how you want this to go. Right?”
He nodded, and Rad crossed the room, headed for the hallway, where the bathroom would be.
Gunner watched him go, thinking about what would happen next. He’d spent some time imagining his payback, but in his mind, he’d always come up on the sheriff unawares—at a bar or something. This situation, with the sheriff and the deputy standing there barely dressed, looking weak and, yeah, scared, had not been part of his revenge fantasy.
Still, he wanted the revenge. Two fucking weeks in the hospital. Three surgeries. Pissing in a goddamn bag. If he’d gone looking for a beating, if he’d been free to fight back and had simply lost so badly, that would be one thing. But being made helpless, with no control, no choice—that shit tore him up.
He hadn’t even done anything except give Leah a ride home.
Yeah, he wanted revenge.
The beagle started baying as soon as Rad closed the bathroom door, but that wasn’t a bad thing. The loud little dude would drown out any other noise that might carry through the night.
When Rad got back, he asked, “You figure it out?”
“Yeah. I want them both, one at a time. Just me. I want to fight ‘em.”
“Fight ‘em?” Griffin frowned. “They held you down, Gun.”
“Well aware. I want to kick their asses square.” Neither the sheriff nor the deputy was small. In fact, the sheriff was bigger than Gun, and considerably heavier. But that didn’t matter. He’d take the advantage of the clothes they weren’t wearing, but nothing more than that.
“You want to fight both these guys square? You healed up enough for that?”
Gunner hated that question being asked in earshot of the sheriff, and he glared at Griffin so hard that he stepped back like he’d taken a blow.
At Gunner’s side, Rad uttered a single syllable which might have been a stunted chuckle. “You are a crazy motherfucker. Okay. Sheriff first?”
He wanted to be freshest for Lucas. He leveled a stare at the sheriff and hoped he could read all the meaning Gunner meant. “Yeah.”
“Griff, let’s get ‘em outside. We’ll tie up Deputy Dudley so he can wait his turn. Gun—you’ll fight in the yard. That too dark?”
“Nah. Perfect.”
~oOo~
The yard was dark, but no darker than most of the alleys he’d fought in. Gunner pulled off his hoodie and t-shirt. He preferred to fight bare-chested, so there wasn’t anything for his opponent to grab onto and constrain his movements. He left his rings on. This wasn’t a friendly fight.
The sheriff stood there in his underwear, far more pissed than afraid, despite the two Bulls holding guns on him. Out of his uniform, that barrel-shaped body looked more fat than muscle, and he was a good twenty years older than Gunner, but Gunner knew precisely how hard the motherfucker hit. Like a Union Pacific train.
“You think because you caught me by surprise and got me out here in my shorts, you can take me, you skimpy asshole, but fuck you. I’m happy to deal you out another schooling.”
Gunner grinned and spread his arms. “Take the first shot, then, Gramps.”
Lucas did, and Gunner took it. He went low, slamming his fist into Gunner’s gut, right in his tender, just-healed core. Pain fired through him, and he nearly doubled over. Somewhere almost beyond his notice, Griffin made a noise of empathetic pain.
But that punch was what Gunner had wanted. He wanted to feel that pain again. It centered and focused him. When the sheriff came in again for an uppercut, Gunner dodged and drove his fist into his cheek. He’d aimed for the cheekbone, knowing it would hurt his hand, but also knowing that his ring—a grinning skull—would cut the shit out of Lucas’s face.
And it did. Lucas reeled back, nearly losing his footing, and blood—black in the creepy light of the dusk-to-dawn—painted his face and dripped from his jaw to spatter his shoulder and beater. A gash opened like a new eye just below one of his regular ones. He’d have a scar.
Gunner had several, courtesy of the sheriff.
He held back, waiting for the sheriff to assess the damage. “You shithead. You’re gonna do real time for this, you know that.”
It was an empty threat, they wouldn’t have come out here if that had been a real danger, so Gunner just grinned. “You done already?”
With a furious grunt, the sheriff put his shoulder down and barreled forward. Gunner locked down and took the impact, driving his fist up and into Lucas’s throat. His knuckles sank deep, and he felt something give. Lucas dropped to his knees, wheezing. His hands clutched at his throat.
“You’re fucking killing him!” yelled Cal, the deputy, hands bound, kneeling by the deck steps.
With Lucas still on his knees, sounding like his air was forced in and out through a broken bellows, Gunner stepped back, and Griffin charged forward and rolled the sheriff to his back. He went over without a fight and let Griffin help him.
Two punches? Two punches?
In the house, the dog bayed and bayed.
The sheriff went still. Fucking shit, had he killed the sheriff? Gunner turned to Rad, who was watching Griffin work.
“Sarge?”
Rad stepped over. “Easy, Gun. Breathe.”
Fucking hilarious choice of words just then, but Gunner took a breath and tried to be easy.
“If he’s dead, there’s gonna be nothing but scorched earth where your clubhouse stands, I shit you not.”
Rad walked over to Cal and coldcocked him with the butt of his Sig. When the deputy sagged over and lay quietly on the ground, Rad called to Griffin. “Report, Griff.”
“I think his larynx is fractured, but that shouldn’t be causing this. I think the fucker is having a heart attack. His pulse is all over the place.”
Gunner felt sick. He’d killed before—fuck, in the desert, from the copter, he’d probably killed scores. But they’d been enemies. Bad guys. As a Bull, he hadn’t had to kill anybody yet. He’d been guarding the clubhouse last year when the club had had the roadside shootout with the Dirty Rats, which was the most violence they’d seen in as long as he’d worn a patch.
Rad turned and grabbed his arm. “Gu
n, go. Now. Back to the cabin.”
“What? Sarge—”
“We got it. We’ll handle it. You git. Now.”
The SAA’s tone didn’t brook argument, so Gunner nodded and grabbed his hoodie and t-shirt off the ground. He yanked them on while he trotted alone back to his bike.
~oOo~
Rad had told him to go back to the cabin, so he had to go back there. If they needed him, they had to be able to get him with a phone call, not deal with the lag of paging him.
Twist (The Brazen Bulls MC Book 2) Page 21