Page 6 of Gunner

Looking up at him, then back at Cash, all I felt was sympathy for the man who had lost so much. My lips parted to say something, but I decided against it. Instead, turning on my heel, I walked to the bar.

Grace was waiting for me when I sat down.

“Another rum and coke, Haizley?”

“Um.” I peeked back over my shoulder at the two men I left at the table. “The big one said to put my drink on his tab.”

I didn’t use his name, even though I knew it.

I knew all their names.

When I moved back home after graduation, the only thing that had changed was the motorcycle club that had moved in three years prior.

I wasn’t ashamed to say they fascinated me. For the last two years, I had done what I could to learn all about them. As a therapist, my red flag was my addiction to understanding why people did the things they did.

What made these men join a club instead of following a career? Were they criminals? Some of them were. A few had a 1% patch on their cut. But why didn’t they all?

I knew what that patch meant. Which brought more questions. Had they done time? Did they deal drugs? Prostitute women? Run guns? Why did they choose Nebraska?

I shook my head, trying to clear the questions that were plaguing me. Grace looked over my shoulder and nodded. A moment later, a drink landed on the bar in front of me.

Lifting the glass to my lips, I closed my eyes when the taste of rum washed over my tongue. Grace always knew just how to make it.

“So, what were you thinking?”

Opening my eyes, I looked at Grace.

With a heavy sigh, I set my glass down and shook my head.

“I don’t know. He just looked so sad. And I get it. He needs time to grieve.” I turned to look back again. “But he doesn’t have to grieve alone. I could help him work through it, so he doesn’t need that bottle.”

Grace’s head tilted to the side, and she gave me a small smile.

“I know. It was stupid,” I said. I didn’t need the pity in Grace’s stare to tell me what she thought.

Guys like Cash and Gunner didn’t talk to a therapist.

Like every other person in this town, all they needed to get by was a bottle of Jack or his best friend, Jim.

I should have taken Missy up on her offer to move in. Missy Jefferson was my best friend. We met freshman year of college and became thick as thieves. When we realized we were majoring in the same thing, we petitioned to switch rooms so we could live together.

For eight years, we lived, studied, and ate together. We became sisters. And for someone who was an only child, having a sister was everything.

We both studied psychology. She graduated and became a child psychologist in Oklahoma City. While when I graduated, Ipracticed general psychology holding sessions online back home in Diamond Creek, Nebraska.

What the hell was I thinking?

I was homesick.

I had been on my own since I was sixteen years old when my parents died.

Convincing the old sheriff not to force me into foster care was easy. I had Beverly next door. She was like a grandma to me, and she backed me up. I made a promise I would graduate from high school and go to college if he would leave me be.

He was old, and he didn’t really care if I was alone, as long as it meant less paperwork for him.

The current sheriff would have never agreed.

My parents left me a sizable college fund, and there was no mortgage on the house. So, I got a job, graduated with an associate’s degree through an accelerated program, and worked hard to get a full ride scholarship to the University of Oklahoma.

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