Page 3 of Gunner
Chapter 1
Kade
Summer 2007
Walking into that dingybar was the best thing I ever did. I was lost and alone with no sense of the brotherhood I depended on in the service. Smokey and Bullet sensed something in me. When I pulled up to the storage facility to get my bike, it was Bullet waiting for me. Turned out the MC owned the long-term storage facility, and they had admired my bike when they cranked it up as part of their service.
I sat down with him in the small office, drinking a cup of coffee as he explained about club life and how they always looked out for each other. He realized how angry I was, not only for my circumstances but the shitty childhood I had. Being part of a brotherhood sounded too good to be true, but when I arrived at the clubhouse, I found my new home. I began prospecting for the Death Hounds MC and today was the day I finally got my patch.
I’ve spent the last year doing scut-work for them, along with a younger prospect named Skid, who grew to become my best friend. We cleaned the club’s bikes, patrolled the property, kept the coolers filled during meetings, guarded church, enjoyed the frequent barbeques, and took advantage of the club sluts who always seemed to hang around. Through every action, I gained respect from the brothers and earned my place inside the club. The brotherhood I was looking for found me when I needed it the most.
The celebration started hours ago, and after getting a blowjob from one of the newer sluts—their word, not mine—I was sitting in a chair while a needle jabbed ink into my skin. I was reckless in some of my decisions, and I was glad to have this group of men watching my back. Needles tattooed the club’s colors onto my bicep, and I relished the pain. This wasn’t my first tattoo, but somehow, it held the most significant meaning to me. The ink was a permeant mark of my connection to the Death Hounds, and now, only through death would I be alone. Skid was in the chair next to me, another brother working on him as the party raged on.
He’d had a perpetual smile on his face since they handed our patches to us inside church earlier today. We were watching the bikes while they held a meeting inside the clubhouse. I knew something was up since the hang-arounds and club sluts were nowhere to be seen and a few other chapters had arrived for a party. Skid seemed nervous until they called us into the clubhouse, presenting us with our member patches.
After the ceremony of commitment to the club, we were handed new cuts, and as we slid them on, they popped beers, showering us in the cold foam. Then the music kicked off, starting the party. Hours later, most everyone was drunk, high, or both, and the women had lost most of their clothes, walking around half or completely naked, enjoying the attention of visiting brothers from other chapters. It wasn’t often the clubs united, so the feeling of family ran deep as everyone partied.
Sitting in the small office on the side of the clubhouse, the sounds filtered through the open door, and I looked over at my best friend while he took a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle and then handed it to me.
The guy inking Skid wiped down his back before rubbing ointment on it and covering it with cling film. The tattoo gun became silent, and Needles handed me a mirror to inspect my tattoo as Skid watched on.
“Looks great, man,” I said and handed him the small mirror.
“Welcome to the brotherhood,” he replied, and both men left us to join the raging party.
Skid and I were alone for the first time since this morning. I looked through the open door to see a group of brothers standing around a bonfire as club sluts danced. I could see our President, Smokey, and his old lady swaying to the loud music.
“Fuck, man. It feels good to finally get the patch,” Skid said, his words unusually clear considering the amount of alcohol and weed he’d ingested.
I turned to him and took another swig of whiskey, feeling the burn down my throat. I wanted to celebrate tonight, but I needed to remember my promise to Smokey. When I drank, I let the bad decisions override my rational brain, and sometimes, I think I went too far. “Best decision ever,” I replied to his statement and handed the bottle back to him.
“Better than the Army, Gunner?” His question wasn’t without merit. I loved my time in the service, but the rules of the military were stifling compared to the freedom of the Death Hounds.
I was still getting used to my club name, but hearing someone call me ‘Kade’ was even stranger now. Gunner was the new me. The man who saw war, killed the enemy, and was dumped back on American soil with a limp, a paycheck, and a shitload of anger. Gunner fit where Kade no longer did. Gunner rode hard, fucked harder, and wasn’t looking to be tied down.
“Yeah, man,” I replied. Leaning forward, I rested my forearms across my lap and let my head hang for a moment. Hearing him move, I glanced up to find him studying me like he does. He seemed to know what was rattling around in someone’s head before they did. For someone so young to be so perspective was a unique thing. We’d spent many hours patrolling, working, and talking, so I felt he deserved a level of honesty I usually kept reserved.
“The Army gave me a chance to break the cycle my pops found himself in, working himself to death to barely make ends meet. The club gave me purpose. I still don’t know exactly what it is, but I’ll be ready when the club needs me.”
“I know what you mean. I always knew I wanted to prospect with the club, and to finally have the patch . . .” His words trailed off, and I nodded, understanding what he was trying to say.
“Let’s get something to eat before there’s nothing left,” I reasoned and stood from the chair.
He stood and grasped his head as he swayed side to side slightly, the whiskey and all-day partying finally catching up with him. Skid began prospecting with the Hounds on his eighteenth birthday, and from what he told me countless times, it was the best decision of his life. He turned twenty a few months ago and hit the minimum age for membership in the Death Hounds.
Even though his uncle is a patched member from the old days, Skid worked his ass off to get the nod from the club. No one cut him slack, and he never asked for it. Countless times, I listened to him tell me about his drug addict mother and all the bullshit he endured to protect not only himself but his older sister and younger brother from her neglect.
I never met his siblings, but as much as he talked about them, I felt like I knew them. To him, loyalty and family were the most important markers of being a man. His eyes held a deep secret that motivated him and drove him to work harder every day.
