Page 3 of Gunner

Chapter 2

Gunner

Ihave the door to my room at the clubhouse shut tightly, but that doesn’t stop Tyrant from busting his way in. He stands in the doorway, surveying the neat triage kit I’ve spread out over the bed. If you don’t count the scars on his face and his missing finger—both compliments of his daddy dearest—he’d be a sun bronzed, golden streaked, tousled hair, green eyed god of a poster child for modeling underwear or some shit.

Other than his tattoos, which cover most of his body, Tyrant looks more like a high school quarterback than a biker, He’s got the size of his father, but at thirty-one, he’s just now growing fully into those broad shoulders and getting bulkier muscle.

Gray is Gray to his old lady, his best friend, and anyone else who wants to call him by his name. He’ll always be Tyrant to me, even though that name couldn’t be further from his character.

It’s fitting that Tyrant’s best friend and virtual brother, Raiden Gardener, is our VP now. They’ve known each other since kindergarten and belong together as a pair.

I occupied the position for five hot seconds, and grudgingly at that. I was more than happy to move out of. I don’t like men looking to me for guidance or any sort of wisdom unless that instruction is about weapons. I took the position because at the time, there was a lack of scary motherfuckers who couldhave their arm twisted. But I’d much rather remain amongst the shadows, virtually invisible.

How’d that work out for you tonight, dumbass?

Tyrant’s light green eyes survey the bandages, ointment, gauze, disinfectant, and suturing supplies. “I followed the trail of blood in here.”

“Alas, that’s why you deemed knocking to be pointless.”

“Thought you might be bleeding out and in need of real help. If the door isn’t locked…”

I know what he’s really asking. What the fuck kind of trouble did I get into tonight and is it going to land straight on the club’s doorstep?

“I went for a hike and fell.”

“A hike.” He doesn’t have to say it. All dressed in black, wearing shit kickers, in the dead of night? Where? Unless you drive past Seattle, there aren’t any mountains.

“Fine. It was more of a walk. To clear my head.”

I’ve already cleaned the wound. It’s deep enough to need stitches, an ugly channel carved across my forearm. No wonder it bled like a motherfucker.

My Prez crosses his arms. “Most of the guys are scared shitless of you. They think you’re a psychopath or a sociopath.”

I get the gist of that. My club president probably thinks I’m up to some shady kind of shit. I guess I was, but he doesn’t need to know that. What I’ve been doing in my private time doesn’t impact the club.

I choose to ignore his comment, and instead pick up the needle and thread. I’m going to have to sew with my left hand, but it’s important in any line of work to be somewhat ambidextrous. I’m not worried about the scars, just bursting open the stitches later because I did such a shit job.

Tyrant is one of those men that feels the need to fill silence. “We let you join this club, same as anyone else, my father used to believe that every man deserved a chance. Zale used to be a good man and he took what my grandfather built and made us a real brotherhood with a clubhouse and a means to survive in the world. He solidified this club as a family.”

And then he betrayed it.

Zale Grand is in prison now. He confessed to arson, theft, and took responsibility for several murders. He’s going to be in for life. He made his choice. He put some of his own club brothers in prison because he thought they were going to try and overthrow him as Prez. When the guys discovered what he’d done, they took a secret vote. No president who could set up his own men was a president worth having. Tyrant was supposed to put his father to ground, but instead, he let him go. A mistake that nearly cost him his life. When his father resurfaced, it was nearly the end of Satan’s Angels. It ended up with a standoff at some shit motel on the edge of town after he kidnapped his own daughter. He had two options. Death for real this time or turn himself in and take responsibility for the dead body mess he’d left behind during the kidnapping so that our club didn’t have to.

That’s the thing about men at the top. If they were good to start, that’s not how they finish. Most wind up dead in various ways, good or bad. There’s not much in between in the industries I’ve circled. Power gets to a man and starts having its way withhim instead of the man mastering it. So far Tyrant treads the line as a man of his word, I hope that’s how he’s gonna stay.

Tyrant’s voice softens. “I was trying to say that I don’t care what’s going on with you personally, but we keep the peace in this town. We aren’t here to cause fear, and we don’t bring trouble to our backyard. If there’s something that I need to know about because it affects these men who trust me to safeguard them and their families…”

His eyes fall to the wound. I’m trying my best to tune him the fuck out while I concentrate on not making a mess out of my own flesh.

“Christ, are you using numbing spray on that?”

I snort. Does that even deserve a response? It’s not like I’m sewing my own intestines back in.

“Gunner?”

“No, boss. I’m not. And it was just a walk,I tripped and fell. That’s it.”

He rakes a hand through his shoulder length hair and sighs. “I’m your Prez, but that doesn’t make me above anything or anyone.” Translation—don’t fucking call me boss.

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