Page 27 of Gunner

Then I was all alone, lips still pursed, arms clutching air. I blinked my eyes open. Gunner stood several feet away from me, a big scowl on his face, his lips set in an angry line, ire flashing through his eyes.

What the fuck? He’d kissed me, not the other way around. Why was he looking like he wanted to gut me?

“What did you do?” I loathed the pathetic, panicky sound of my voice. I wasn’t a weak man who let himself be bullied and groped against his wishes.

But was it against my wishes?

Confused and hating the way he made me feel, I clipped him in the chin with my fist. Gunner grunted, stumbled back, and spat blood on the concrete.

“You do that again, and I’ll tase you,” I said.

He grinned, his gums bloody. “I might have forced that kiss on you, but I didn’t make you like it. That’s all on you.”

“Get me out of here.”

“I gave you what you wanted. Find your own way home.”

He hopped onto his bike and started the engine.

“You bastard, you can’t leave me stranded here.”

“Order an Uber, hitch a ride. None of that’s my problem.”

“I wouldn’t let you grope me, so you ditch me? What happened to your so-called honor and brotherhood?”

He revved the engine. “You’re not a part of my brotherhood. I owe you nothing. If I hadn’t stopped, you would’ve allowed a whole lot more than just me groping you. You’d have had your pants around your ankles, bent over my motorcycle, whimpering for my cock like a bitch in heat. Don’t ever forget that.”

As Gunner rode off, his words lingered in my head, forming mental images that made me burn with anger…and shame. The goddamn bastard had left me stranded with a half-hard cock.

Had he pushed just a little bit more, had he not stopped the kiss, would I have really gone that far with him?

No fucking way.

And certainly not after this.

8

GUNNER

Tonight I saw the fireworks with Ben. It was romantic, but when he leaned in to kiss me, I turned away. Why do I keep hurting him?

I’d hated the Grimm Reapers for so long, not because they started a beef with us, but because being in their presence reminded me how lacking I was in comparison to their president, Grimm. A man who I’d once called a friend, then betrayed. Had anyone asked me a couple of years ago if I would ever be in the same room with Grimm, the answer would have been a resounding no, but there I was, feigning a yawn at their church.

Surrounded by the haze of cigarette smoke and the low rumble of burly voices, I was begrudgingly impressed by the Grimm Reapers. This was no ragtag meeting of men pretending to have their shit together. Theirs was a well-oiled machine, clearly organized, with members working together in a way that left no question about what brotherhood meant for them.

This is the club I meant to have. What the hell happened?

Grimm had worked the club up from nothing. Seeing him only reinforced what I already knew. The Blood Hounds had failed because of me. I’d fucked up the club through years of hatred and focusing on the wrong shit.

“Bay, what’s the status of the casino?” Grimm asked.

The man sitting two chairs to my right seemed oblivious to the meeting. He was texting on his phone. Saint elbowed him.

“Huh?” He raised his head.

“Status on the casino,” Grimm repeated. “We’ve been open for over a month now.”

“Right.” He sat up straight and tapped the screen of his iPad. “Sorry, I zoned out. Gift’s teething, and I was just checking to see if Gerald’s doing okay, since she’s being fussy.”

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