And like that, I’m on the road. Looking forward to this opportunity Duncan has for me and to see if it’s really possible to feel normal ever again.
Epilogue
Lucy
“Oh, no. Oh, shit,” I sigh, looking at the identical boxes and their contents laid out on the table in front of me.
This wasn’t the plan.
My phone rings and I frown at the number but remember Owen telling me that he’d call me when he got his new number. I pinch the bridge of my nose and answer it.
“Owen, how was your trip?”
“My trip was fucking awful, Lucy.” Anthony’s voice is calm which is never good and I start shaking immediately. “Now, are you going to tell me who Owen is, the easy way or the hard way?”
Without thinking, I throw my phone against the wall, immediately following it to see the damage. Not smart.
I hurriedly get dressed and grab my keys, deciding the office will be the safest place for me. Plus, I have Keith’s number in my file there.
Sparing a last glance at my phone, I run out and hope I’m not making a bigger mistake.
Lucy and Owen, plus other stories based on my book, His Touch, will be released starting in late 2021. Please follow me on Amazon for updates.
For fans of His Touch, please note that this book takes place before Duncan and Sadie’s story.
XO, Merin
Gunner’s Redemption
Death Hounds MC Prequel
H.J. Marshall
Gunner’s Redemption- Death Hounds MC 0.5
© 2020 H.J. Marshall
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
The characters in the book are creations of the author and any similarities to people living or dead is coincidental. The author acknowledges copywritten business, places, and movies that may or may not be mentioned in the book should in no way be seen as an advertisement or endorsement. Trademarked names are used in an illustrative manner and with no intention of trademark or copyright infringement of owner or authors’ works.
Created with Vellum
Move past the things that tried to destroy you. You’ll be surprised how strong you really are when given the chance to shine.
Kade joined the military to escape the hellish nightmare of life in the Flats of Portstill. Needing more than the dismal surrounding, he served his country with pride and honor. An accident ended his enlistment, and he found his way back home, unsure of what his future would be. After meeting the Death Hounds MC, Kade found a place that gave him the brotherhood he craved and an outlet for his anger.
Sadie hid herself away, running from the pain of her past, and working to provide for her younger brothers. One night, a random stranger forced her to run to the MC for protection and there, she found more than what she was looking for. When the Death Hounds say you’re family, you’re family for life.
Can two broken souls heal each other or will the pain from their past keep them on their solitary path? When death comes knocking, who do you want on your side?
This is the first installment of the Death Hounds MC, a new series from Author H.J. Marshall.
Chapter One
Kade — 2005
The bus slowing down woke me from my restless nap and I blinked away the light shining through the dirty window. Being home should foster some warm feeling of relief and love, but home was always a place I tried to avoid. My mom split when I was still in diapers and my pops worked his fingers to the bone, just to keep a crappy roof over our head and barely enough food in our stomachs.
I don’t know why I chose here to complete my rehab, but something called for me to come home. Even though I had no place to live and no family to speak of, there was one thing that brought me back and tomorrow I planned to retrieve it from storage. The bus pulled to a stop, and I stood from my seat, stretching my aching back. Grabbing the seat next to me, I squatted down and stood straight, helping to ease the throbbing pain in my thigh.
Walking down the small aisle, I exited and waited for the driver to grab my duffel bag from under the bus. My trip had been the longest, which meant they tucked my luggage in the back, so I waited while he pulled the other passengers’ bags off. Looking around, I saw familiar buildings and shook my head, wishing I was still in the Army.
“Thank you for your service,” the driver said as he handed my bag to me. “We’re glad you’re home.”
“Thanks,” I muttered and looped the green strap over my shoulder, walking away with nearly all my possessions in one bag.
My painful steps pushed me further away from the bus station and closer to the motel down the street. Portstill wasn’t a bad city, per se, but it left a tremendous amount to be desired. The jobs left when the mill burned down a few years before I enlisted, taking away the town’s hope for prosperity. Slowly the town was finding its way back but there was a small section of town, three square miles to be exact, that was the worst of the worst.
The Flats.
If you wanted drugs, women, guns, or if you were simply looking for trouble, the Flats was the first place to look. I should know. I lived in the middle of its hellish borders until my eighteenth birthday when I raised my right hand for Uncle Sam. Since I left, the only time I came home was to bury my dad and departed immediately after the funeral.
I was a few blocks from the bus station and all I wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep. It took me three days on the bus to get here, and I needed a shower, clean clothes, actual food, and the company of a woman. Knowing the latter wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, I kept walking, hiking my duffle further up my shoulder, and pushing through the discomfort in my leg. The blinking red vacancy sign was a beacon, urging me to keep moving through the pain, reminding me I was still alive, even if I felt part of me was dead. Opening the door, I found the place to be nicer than what I expected, and I rented a room for a week.
I wasn’t worried about trouble, but my Glock .45 was discreetly tucked into my waistband as I moved down the sidewalk. Taking the stairs to the second level, I unlocked the door and found the room appeared nice and it didn’t smell, so I was taking this as a win. Tossing my duffle onto the second bed, I fell onto the other one, exhaling into the semi-comfortable mattress. Laying there for a moment, I resisted the urge to go straight to sleep when my stomach growled, reminding me it was this morning when my snacks ran out.
Thinking of the last three months of hell, I felt the walls close in on me and I worked on the breathing exercise the counselor gave me. I took a round from a friendly fire incident when I was stationed in Iraq. The shot shattered my femur and destroyed my military career at the same time. The pain from the bullet was excruciating, but not nearly as much as losing the one thing I grew to need. Brotherhood.
Shaking off the loneliness that seemed to surround me, I took a hot shower, allowing the water to ease the ache in my thigh and untangle the knots in my back. Pulling out a cleanish pair of jeans and a t-shirt from my bag, I quickly dressed and slid my gun into my waistband. Pulling on my jacket, I left the room in search of food and a stiff drink.
There was a bar a few doors down from the motel with a line of bikes parked out front. Shiny chrome glinted in the moonlight, and I admired the machines as I walked past them. Opening the door, I was met with the smell of stale cigarettes, beer, and greasy food. It was exactly what I needed, so I found an empty table away from the jukebox and sat down, making sure there was a wall at my back, and I could observe the happenings.
“What can I get you?” an older woman with bright red hair asked, her faced weathered and her clothes too tight.
“Whatever you have on draft and a burger with fries,” I replied, leaning back, and lifti
ng my leg onto the chair in front of me.
She nodded and turned away without a word. The music was too loud and the raucous laughter from the men playing pool along the far wall was becoming too much. A beer was set in front of me as she scurried to another table. Swallowing down the cold brew, I closed my eyes and felt some of the tension in my shoulders release.
A tall man with a long gray beard walked past me and I noticed the patch on his black leather vest said President. I could see in the reflection of a mirror across the room that the back had a huge patch on it but wasn’t able to see what it said. I only recognized a large dog’s head and tried to think of any clubs that were around here when I left. Drawing a blank, I waited for my dinner and motioned for the waitress to bring me another beer.
The man walked past me, returning to his friends when he paused and turned his head to glance at me. He smiled and faced me before walking back to stand near my table. I didn’t want any trouble, and I was severely outnumbered, but I refused to let him see me sweat. Too many tours in Iraq rendered me numb to threats.
“You serve?” he asked, nodding to the dog tags that were hanging out the front of my shirt.
“Six years,” I replied as the waitress placed my food down and turned to the man.
“You need another beer, Smokey?”
“Yeah, darlin. Bring us another round and put it on my tab,” he replied and gestured to the chair in front of me.
I pushed it out with my foot and dug into my food. Smokey sat down and waited until I came up for air to speak.
“You from around here?”
“Born and raised.” I fought not to roll my eyes as I finished the last of my fries.
“How long you been out?”
“Four days. I’m here to get something, then I’m moving on,” I replied, draining my second beer and finally feeling the buzz from the alcohol. Looking him in the eye, I spoke clearly, “I’m not looking for any trouble.”
“Where you headed?” I shrugged as another beer was placed in front of me. He grabbed his and held it up, waiting for me to lift mine. I lifted it and he clinked the necks together. “Welcome home. I’m Smokey. President of the Death Hounds MC.”
“Kade and thanks.”
Taking a swallow from the cold bottle, I glanced at the men across the room and saw a man about my age, tall with shoulder-length blonde hair, walking over to join us. He pulled a chair up and turned it around, sitting across the seat like he was riding a motorcycle, and draped his arms over the back.
“This is Bullet. My VP. This is Kade. He just got out a few days ago.”
“Good to meet you. I remember my transition back to civilian life. It sucked ass trying to figure out my next move.” He chuckled and reached his fist out.
I tapped my fist to his and leaned back, curious about their intentions.
“You know how to ride?” Smokey asked, and I smiled.
“Yeah. My pops taught me to ride. That’s why I’m here. To pick up my bike from the storage facility before I take off.”
Bullet chuckled, and I wondered what the joke was but decided my prickly attitude with them would only get my ass kicked so I kept my judgements to myself.
“Where you headed?” Bullet asked, and I shrugged again.
“Not sure. I’ll let the road tell me where to go next.”
Honestly, I had no destination in mind for my future and somehow, I sensed these two men understood that. I craved the feel of the wind on my face and the freedom from riding, but I couldn’t ramble forever.
“Why don’t you stop by the clubhouse tomorrow afternoon. We can have a few drinks and maybe we can help you figure out your next step,” Smokey explained, and I realized I had nothing to lose.
“Sure. I’ve got to pick my bike up at ten and I was planning on hanging for a few days.”
Both men stood and as they walked away, Bullet looked over his shoulder and asked, “What do you ride?”
“95 Harley Evo Softail,” I replied with pride.
I didn’t have much, but I bought my bike from a junkyard and worked my ass off to get her just perfect. It was the only thing I spent money on during my time in the service. I stored it here after Pops died and I was set to deploy again.
The two men smiled and Smokey smacked Bullet on the back as they returned to their friends and I finished my beer, wondering what I just got myself into.
Chapter Two
Kade - 2006
Walking into that dingy bar 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. It 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. We cleaned their bikes, patrolled the property, kept the coolers filled during meetings, church, and the frequent barbeques, and took advantage of the club sluts that 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 party started hours ago, and after getting a blowjob from one of the newer sluts, their word not mine. I was sitting in the chair; the needle jabbing ink into my skin as Needles tattooed the club’s colors onto my chest. Skid was in the chair next to me, another brother working on him as the party raged on.
He has had a permanent smile on his face since they handed our patches to us inside church earlier today. We were watching the bikes while they had a meeting inside the clubhouse. I knew something was up since the hang-arounds and club sluts were nowhere to be seen. Skid seemed nervous until they called us into the clubhouse, presenting us with our member patches.
They popped beers, showering us in the cold foam, and the music kicked off, starting the party. Hours later, most everyone is drunk, high, or both, and the women lost most of their clothes, walking around half or completely naked, enjoying the attention from visiting brothers from other chapters.
Skid took a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle and handed it to me. “Fuck, man. It feels good to finally get the patch,” he said, his words unusually clear considering the amount of alcohol and weed he ingested.
The guy inking his back wiped down his back before rubbing ointment on it and covering it with cling-film. He leaned back in the chair as Needles finished my ink and the two artists rejoined the party, leaving Skid and I alone for the first time since this morning.
I turned to Skid and took another swig of the whiskey, feeling the burn down my throat. I didn’t drink much, but tonight I wanted to celebrate. “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. 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.
“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.
“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.”
He clasped my arm and nodded before grasping his head and swaying side to side slightly, the whiskey and all-day partying finally catching up with him. Skid prospected 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 into the Death Hounds.
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 them, but I felt like I knew them as much as he talked about them.
To him, loyalty and family were the most important markers of being a man. My twenty-fifth birthday was last month, and the club threw me a hell of a party, showing me they welcomed even the newest member like family. There were a few aspects of club life that I wasn’t completely comfortable with, and for that reason, Smokey and Bullet put me in the gun store to work.
Illegal activities kept the Death Hounds coffers full, but legal businesses kept us under the feds’ radar. Local cops in the cities we had chapters in looked the other way, realizing our presence alone drove out the drug dealers, wanna-be gangsters, and most importantly, kept the cartels away. Growing and selling weed was legal in half the country, and no one cared that we were the supplier for most of the state. The club paid taxes on our grow operation, or at least the amount we showed them.
The Portstill chapter wasn’t the biggest, but we had a large section of the state that we patrolled, worked, and lived. From Rockhampton to Pierce Bluff, we had just under fifty square miles of territory. We gave back to the community, having charity poker runs and volunteering our time where we could. We weren’t choirboys, but we also refused to live by the laws society deemed right. If someone or something needed to be handled and the law couldn’t or wouldn’t provide, we handled it our own way.
No Man Left Behind: A Veteran Inspired Charity Anthology Page 8
