Page 14 of Gunner

“Come on, boy. Inside.”

The jog had cleared my mind. My earlier irritation had vanished, allowing me to think better. If I stopped pursuing Gunner for answers, his ploy would work. His club was linked to the baby farm. I couldn’t eliminate the pressure from that angle. Maybe if he saw how serious I was about finding answers, he would stop fucking with me and work with me like he’d promised.

An hour and a half later, I left Zeus napping on his bed. He would be good for a few hours on his own. Bloody Hell, the bar owned by the Blood Hounds, was less popular than I’d thought it would be. Only a handful of motorcycles and a couple of cars were parked outside. I parked next to Gunner’s bike, which was hard to miss with its custom paint job in matte black, but what set it apart from the others was the airbrushed image of a snarling, three-headed dog on the fuel tank. Each head had glowing red eyes with reflective paint that came alive under the streetlights. Flames encircled the creature, extending toward the seat, which gave the illusion that the beast was emerging from hell.

The motorcycle was so him. Impressed by the custom finish, I inspected the hog far longer than I should. How sweet it had to be to ride on a bike that powerful.

The door to the bar opened, and I stepped away from the motorcycle. Last thing I needed was for one of them to get the wrong idea that I was a bike thief.

A man and a woman walked out of the bar. They were barely outside when the biker lifted her and walked her around the side of the building. As I neared the front door, her cries were getting louder. Either the biker was indeed that good, or she had the vocal cords of a porn star.

I’d hinge my bet on the latter.

As I pushed open the door to the Bloody Hell, a rush of cigarette smoke, beer, and the musky scent of men greeted me. The atmosphere was more subdued than I would have thought. In the background, classic rock played low. Vintage motorcycle memorabilia, neon bar signs, and an American flag hung from the ceiling. The bar took up much of the space to the right. A biker stood at a dartboard, teaching a giggling woman in a short red skirt how to throw the dart. She missed the bull’s-eye by a mile, but that could be a result of the biker’s hand groping her backside.

To the left was a pool table where most of the men congregated. A bet seemed to be in play, given the excited hum. They spared me a glance, then returned to their game.

A skinny, tattooed biker slouched in a booth with his arms spread along the back, his head thrown back, and his mouth open. Feminine legs and heels poked out from under the table.

Jesus.

I continued my way to the bar, which had been empty, but Gunner appeared behind the long wooden counter. My mouth went dry. His wavy black hair was loose down to his shoulders. Tattoos snaked up from his left side over his bare muscled torso and disappeared beneath his cut.

“Are you stalking me now, Mr. Acting Chief?” He smirked. Son of a bitch was using the title to humor himself rather than anofficial address for my position. I bit the inside of my cheeks to stem the scathing retort.

“It’s just Ben tonight. Whatever you have on tap is fine.”

4

GUNNER

Gunner's touch is electrifying, yet Ben's kiss haunts me. I'm living a lie with both.

The cop was persistent. I had to give him that. He didn’t bat an eye at the watered-down beer I’d handed him. He took a sip, placed the mug on the counter, and surveyed the room like all was right with the world. His stance seemed casual, but I would never underestimate him again. He was probably filing away information about each person in the bar.

While he was preoccupied with the game of pool that was going on, I grabbed a rag and scrubbed the counter. Not that any amount of scrubbing could erase the fact that years of wear and tear, countless beer spills, and more than a few brawls had marred the surface. The wood was gouged and scarred to the point its only purpose should be as firewood.

Ben picked up his mug and drank. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. He had a thick neck, one perfect for grabbing without needing to be too careful. His lips were plump and tinted a pale pink hue. The beginnings of a five-o’clock shadow graced hisjawline, adding a touch of roughness to his otherwise clean-cut appearance, giving the impression that there was more to this Goody-Two shoes cop who couldn’t be bought.

So, this was what Mason had wanted in a man? The cop was good looking enough with an honest boy-next-door face. He had a nice body too—built like a tank. Would he have a six-pack under that jacket, or would he be soft around the middle?

“You missed a spot.”

I blinked. How long had he been watching me watch him? I straightened up from the counter.

“Thought I told you I’d keep in touch if I had anything to share.”

“Just making sure you don’t forget.” He placed his forearms on the counter. “So tell me, Gunner, do you really have nothing to say?”

I clenched my teeth. “You don’t want me to tell you what’s going through my mind.”

“I’m not sucking your dick for the list.”

That had been the farthest thing from my mind, but since he brought it up— “Then you must not want the list badly enough. What a pity.”

“You know I can have a warrant by tomorrow morning to hand over the records, right?”

I chuckled. “Presuming we have records.”

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