Page 1 of Redeeming Rabbit

1

Rabbit

Combat trauma can be the noose you hang from, the cross you bear, or the cliff you scale to survive. I learned that eight years ago from a VA psychologist who’d looked at me like I was dog shit clinging to the bottom of his shoe. The fucking quack hadn’t even bothered to ask why I’d lost my shit and barricaded myself under my bunk during the “episode” that had earned me a medical discharge. Yet the blowhard claimed he knew precisely how to cure me. If only I were willing to do my part.

What a goddamn joke.

No number of forty-five-minute sessions talking about my feelings could fix my condition because PTSD wasn’t the root of my problems.

I was.

Truth be told, I was a fuckup. Always had been, always would be. But at least I owned my shit, making it clear as day I was not to be depended on. Saddle me with responsibilities at your own peril because I will leave you stranded.

And, judging by the incredulous look Tap was throwing my way, I’d done a damn fine job proving what a thoroughly worthless piece of trash I could be.

“You forgot your keys?” he asked. “Seriously, Rabbit? That’s the line you intend to use on her?”

Tap was my brother, not by blood, but by patch. We’d both joined the Dead Presidents Motorcycle Club after our time in the service. He was a good guy. A tad too uptight and self-righteous for my taste, but that was a character flaw most of my club brothers shared. Whenever their raised noses broke the nearly constant Seattle cloud cover, my job was to pull them back down to earth and remind them their shit still stank.

“Line?” I jammed my hands into the front pockets of my jeans and tugged them inside out, showing him they were empty. “No keys, genius. It’s not a line. I left them in her condo.”

His gaze swept back to the upscale apartment building we’d just emerged from. We were on our way to the commercial building next door, where we’d parked in the underground garage. Being in Seattle’s more affluent neighborhoods made my skin crawl. I did not belong amongst white-collar hustlers and stuck out like a… well, a grubby kid on a motorcycle in a sea of starched suits. At least the Queen Anne district wasn’t as bad as Medina, the suburb that housed the Amazon and Microsoft plutocrats. I’d wandered into that district once, only to be immediately detained by one of Seattle’s finest. The bastard had run my license and was sorely disappointed to learn I didn’t have a record. Don’t get me wrong, I’d participated in my fair share of illicit activities, but I’d never been hare-brained enough to get caught. Regardless, he’d escorted me out of the district, following until my tires hit the 520 Bridge. That had been years ago before I’d joined the Army and covered most of my body in tattoos.

Tap frowned at me. “Convenient.”

It took me a moment to realize he was still carrying on about my misplaced keys. Tap rode a Softail Fat Boy and wore a cut, but I doubted the cops ever messed with him. He kept his dark hair and beard neatly trimmed, his jeans were always clean, his boots didn’t have a single scuff, and the bottom of his only tattoo—a club logo—peeked out beneath his shirt sleeve. I’d heard stories and knew black people didn’t always have the best interactions with the law, but something about Tap screamed ‘undercover cop.’ He’d served as an intelligence officer in the Army, and if the rumors around the club could be believed, he’d worked for the CIA. But since he was a private bastard who played his cards close to his chest, he refused to disclose any details about his past.

The man was fucking unflappable.

Naturally, ruffling his feathers was one of my favorite pastimes.

Gasping in outrage, I slapped a hand over my mouth. “You’re accusing me of leaving my keys behind on purpose?”

He didn’t even bother to look at me. “A hundred percent.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

He cocked his head to the side. “Cut the shit, Rabbit. I saw you checking Elenore out. We both know you’re fixing to go back in there and make a move on her.”

Tap was many things, but unobservant he was not. Still, I couldn’t just admit he was right. What fun would that be? “Or… I fucked up and left my keys behind. People make mistakes, asshole. Even you. Unless you got a pair of wings and a fuckin’ halo I don’t know about.”

He blinked, and I could practically see the calculations in his head as he tried to piece together a response that wouldn’t set me off. Like all the Dead Presidents, Tap had a hero complex. I was a veteran, so they allowed me to join their little league of do-gooders, but I wasn’t one of them. No, I was essentially the mascot, the posterchild beneficiary of their goddamn philanthropy. They treated me like a hyena with a broken paw. I was a dangerous animal they wanted to help but didn’t really understand. Link, the club president, had a soft spot for veterans struggling with PTSD, and it would eat at his soul to leave a wounded warrior behind. I wasn’t sure if that made him a good man or a sucker—likely a little of both—but his altruism had gotten my foot in the door. I didn’t belong in their club, but like the critter I’d been named for, I’d burrowed into the safety of its membership and was determined to stay.

“Even if I was going in there to hit on her, what business is it of yours?” I asked.

“None. Look, I’m not telling you what to do. I’m trying to keep you from making a terrible decision. You saw the way Kaos was lookin’ at Tina.”

Tina was Elenore’s older sister, and Kaos was smitten with her. He watched her with fascination and regard, the way many of my brothers looked at their ol’ ladies. I understood the allure since Tina was pretty, but she couldn’t hold a candle to her younger sister.

Tap glanced back at the condo. “If they end up together, you don’t want to make shit weird by fucking with her sister. We’re supposed to be helping to keep them safe, not adding to the shit they have to deal with.”

Tap’s assumption that “fuck with” was the extent of my relationship capabilities should probably piss me off, but he wasn’t wrong. Elenore hadn’t seemed like a one-night gal, and ‘commitment’ was too close to ‘responsibilities’ and ‘expectations’ for my taste. I should probably leave her be, but that option had flown out the window the moment I’d left my keys in her condo. I had no choice but to go back now.

Tap glanced at his watch, causing his duffel bag strap to slide down his arm. Not knowing what security deficiencies to expect at the condo, he’d brought a shit-ton of equipment and supplies. We’d installed new locks, a hidden camera, and monitoring equipment, but she’d refused everything else he’d offered. Well, other than the Taser. “I have time to come with you,” he said.

“To cockblock me?” I’d known he didn’t trust me, but damn. That hurt.

Of course, he wants to cockblock you, dumbass. He knows you’re trash, and he’s trying to protect the club's reputation. Can you blame him?

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