Gunnar

by Aiden Bates

  That was the conversation that scared me the most, even more than talking to Raven himself. How the fuck was I going to explain everything to Priest? If he had any goddamn sense, he’d strip me of my title and kick me to the curb for messing around with his son, who he’d trusted me with in his most vulnerable moments.

  But now, that was a risk I was willing to take. I’d put it all on the line if it’d show Raven I was serious about this. That I wasn’t going to be a defensive, stubborn asshole anymore.

  “What about you?” Raven asked.

  “Ready for this shit to be over,” I muttered.

  “Join the club,” Logan said.

  He and Blade shared a complicated exchange with just their eyes. I let my hand linger on Raven’s nape regardless.

  “Light on the horizon.” Siren called. “He’s here.”

  “Anyone else?” Blade asked.

  “Just the one headlight,” Tex said. “Don’t let your guard down, though.”

  The side door to the garage swung open moments later. Rebel stepped in with Coop’s grip tight on the back of his jacket.

  “Company’s here,” Coop called, a bitter edge to his usually jovial voice. He manhandled Rebel to the center of the garage, backing him up against the grill of a muscle car currently in for repairs. I stood up, standing in front of him, and Blade moved to my side, still flipping his knife menacingly.

  Rebel’s gaze darted nervously around the room, cataloguing exactly how outnumbered he was. He was tense—not like he was going to try any funny business, but like he was tempted to make a break for it. His gaze lingered on Logan, who didn’t meet his eyes.

  The resemblance between Rebel and Logan was striking. They had the same sharp, small features and thick, fine hair, though Rebel’s was a shade darker brown, and he wore it shorter and neater than Logan did. And where Logan’s eyes were a shocking bright green, Rebel’s were deep-set, hazel, and a little less revealing. Rebel was broader than Logan, too, and he carried himself like an enforcer even though he was wearing a plain denim jacket in lieu of his club gear.

  “Weapons, Coop.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Is that really necessary?” Rebel asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Coop patted Rebel down roughly, and thoroughly—a little more thoroughly than I’d expected—moving steadily over his legs, hips, and across Rebel’s torso. For all his searching, he only uncovered a single knife in Rebel’s back pocket.

  Coop handed the knife over. I looked down my nose at him. Coop shrugged.

  Rebel twisted his mouth like the room had a foul aroma. “Unarmed. You happy?”

  “No,” Raven said. He stood up from the couch and fixed his gaze on me, and then Blade.

  Both of us took a step to the side.

  “Did you send me the messages?” Raven asked coolly. He fixed Rebel with a hard stare, barely a foot of distance between them.

  “Yes.” Rebel didn’t shy from Raven’s stare.

  “Did you do it?” Raven asked, his voice low, almost dangerous, unlike any tone I’d heard him take before. “Did you kill my father?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me,” Raven snapped. He grabbed a handful of Rebel’s shirt and jerked him closer. “Who killed him?”

  Rebel, unfazed by the manhandling, didn’t break Raven’s gaze. “It wasn’t me. I wouldn’t be here if it was. But I know who did.”

  Raven released him and took an unsteady step backwards. “Tell me.”

  “It was Dad, wasn’t it?”

  Logan sat at the very edge of the couch, his elbows on his knees and fingers steepled at his mouth. His eyes kept darting away from Rebel, like it physically hurt to look at his brother.

  Rebel deflated. The defensiveness leeched from his body, like he’d suddenly forgotten the rest of us were present. “Hey, Logan.”

  “It’s something he’d do,” Logan said. “Fits the Vipers’ MO. Rotten at the root.”

  “It was Bane,” Rebel said.

  Murmurs rippled through the shop, and then a tense silence descended.

  “The vice president,” Logan said. “Acting on his own?”

  “Yes,” Rebel said. “Independently. Trying to curry favor from Crave. It was like a gift. Ankh’s murder was a big part of the reason he was promoted from enforcer to vice.”

  Raven clenched his fists and turned away. He took a few deep breaths before speaking. “Then why’d you send the photos? Why start this wild goose chase?”

  “I owed Ankh a debt,” Rebel said blandly. “And I want Bane gone. It’s a win-win.”

  Rage ran through me. A win-win? This fucking scumbag had the audacity to call anything related to Ankh’s death a win-win? I lurched forward and socked Rebel hard in the stomach. He choked, keeling forward.

  Logan looked away.

  “You want Bane gone. Why not just take care of it yourself?” Blade asked.

  Coop grabbed Rebel roughly by the shoulder and hauled him back up to standing. Rebel cursed to himself, his face twisted into a painful grimace.

  “I am a Viper,” he said, glaring at me defiantly. “Bane is worthless. The club deserves better. If he’s gone, I’ll get his role.”

  “And you wouldn’t if you took out Bane yourself?” Blade asked.

  “Dad doesn’t tolerate in-fighting,” Rebel said. “Not after what happened with Logan.”

  “And what’s this debt you owe?”

  “Paid,” Rebel said. “Fuck off.”

  I shifted my weight just to see Rebel flinch.

  “If you wanna hurt me more, go ahead and get it over with,” Rebel said. “I’ve told you all you’re gonna get. Let’s pick up the pace here, I need to get back to the city before the road crew returns.”

  The side door to the garage slammed closed as Logan left. Blade’s gaze tracked his movements, but he didn’t make a move to follow.

  “Hell fucking no,” I said. “You’re staying with us.”

  “No, he’s not,” Priest said firmly. His voice was steady, his expression stony, revealing nothing. “Where can we find Bane? I know you wouldn’t come here without a plan.”

  “We’re closing a big deal,” Rebel said. “And Bane, instead of being a decent fucking VP, will celebrate as he always does. He’ll cross the border into Nevada and spend the night at Darlin’s. I guarantee you that’s where he’ll be in forty-eight hours.”

  Priest nodded. “He’ll have backup?”

  “Some,” Rebel said. “But not a lot. He’s cocky like that.”

  “Anything else, Blade?” Priest asked.

  “I think we’ve got what we need,” Blade said. “Thanks for your cooperation, traitor.”

  “I’m not a fucking traitor.” Rebel thumped his chest. “I’m a Viper. I’m putting my club first. I thought you’d understand that.”

  “Club members don’t try to get their leaders killed.” Blade motioned to Coop, and Coop tossed Rebel’s knife over. “I’ll be keeping this.”

  Blade put his own knife away and opened Rebel’s then stepped close to him and pressed the edge to Rebel’s throat. “And if there’s any funny business tomorrow night, I’ll come for you personally.”

  “Logan wouldn’t much like that.”

  “Club comes first,” Blade growled. He shoved Rebel at Coop. “Send him home, Coop.”

  “Roger.” Coop dragged him out the side door.

  “Church tomorrow afternoon,” Blade said. “We’ll finish this shit.” He left without another word. From the deep furrow in his brow, I knew he had debriefing to do with Logan.

  Outside, Rebel’s engine revved noisily, and then faded as he tore away from the shop. I caught Raven’s eye. He looked just as conflicted as I did—and about ten times as exhausted.

  What was Rebel’s goal? For all the big game he talked about being a Viper, he didn’t carry himself like the rest of them. He seemed smarter; there had to be something else at play. His ploy to get Bane out of the picture had
to be part of something bigger—maybe part of a larger plan to usurp Crave’s presidency. The guy who oozed guilt and nostalgia when he saw Logan couldn’t be the same guy who was okay with Crave trying to murder Logan.

  Something wasn’t adding up. But I’d have to wait to pull on that thread.

  “You heard your president,” Priest said. “Dismissed.”

  21

  Raven

  Elkin Inks wasn’t thrumming with business yet, as it was still early in the day, and the jingling bell when I opened the door cut through the near silence of the shop. It was a small business, with just three tattoo chairs and brightly painted walls crowded with photographs and art. Pops was in the chair furthest, a young tattoo artist already hard at work on Pops’ left shoulder.

  “Raven,” Pops said fondly. He tapped the artist’s shoulder.

  The kid popped a headphone out of his ear. “Everything all right, sir?”

  “Yeah, no changes. All right if my son hangs out for a few minutes?”

  “Sure.” The kid stuck his headphone back into his ear, changed his gloves, and then returned his attention back to Pops’ shoulder.

  “What are you getting done?”

  “Just a touch-up,” Pops said. He exhaled slowly as the gun began moving across his skin. Pops had a hell of a lot of tattoos—more than anyone else in the club, I’d wager—mostly because of situations like this. Tattoos were his most reliable stress reliever. He didn’t get them for fun anymore. When he really needed to blow off steam, that’s when new ones appeared. That’s when I knew things were starting to get to him.

  The tattoo on his shoulder was a simple, early version of the Hell’s Ankhor logo, same as the one on the shirt he’d given me. It was one of his first tattoos, faded with age and blurring at the edges. The tattoo artist was tasked with cleaning up the lines and brightening the ink, but not adding anything new. Just detailing what was already there.

  “Raven,” Pops said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired.” I sat on another artist’s chair and scooted it close to the tattoo chair, so the kid and I flanked him. The kid, though, was absorbed in the touch-up, chewing gum as he worked.

  “Yeah.” Pops opened his palm, resting on his thigh. I reached out and grabbed it, careful not to jostle him.

  This whole endeavor had begun out of an intense, almost rabid desire for revenge. Rebel’s emails had filled me with so much rage, so much hate—I couldn’t think about the future. All I could think about was vengeance. I hadn’t cared at what cost.

  “And guilty,” I admitted.

  “Guilty? Why?”

  “I had all this energy for the investigation,” I said. “All this hunger to make it right. But now I just want it to be over. Done with.”

  “Hate will do that.” Pops squeezed my hand. “Drains you until there’s nothing left.”

  “But I can’t let go. That’d be wrong. I have to stay at it. For Dad.”

  “Hey,” Pops said firmly. “That’s not true. I think you know that’s not true. The last thing your dad would want—the last thing he ever wanted—was for you to suffer. Not for him. Not for the club. Not ever.”

  Pops was so calm, so steady, even though I knew he was hurting, too. He’d always been like that, the reliable one, the serious one, the one who always knew what to say. Dad had been a little more impulsive and rough around the edges. Dad always wanted me to take more risks, get into shit, get my hands a little dirty. Experience things.

  Pops didn’t shelter me, but he recognized my potential in school and wanted me to pursue that. Pops saw that my education could be an asset to the club—or a way out, if I so chose. And Dad wanted me to follow my heart, wherever it took me, fuck the consequences. I’d never felt pulled in different directions, though. Rather they’d balanced each other out, encouraging me to take risks, follow my dreams, but to have a backup plan. A safety net.

  And now Dad was gone.

  “I miss him.” My voice broke. “I just really miss him.”

  Tears spilled from my eyes, and I roughly rubbed them away.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m being a baby.”

  “Hey, Kenny?” Pops tapped the artist again. “Mind if we take a quick break?”

  The kid shrugged. Pops thanked him and led me out the back door, onto the tiny patio behind the shop—if a gravel patch with a bench and a tiny, sad tree could be called a patio. More like a smoking section. But it was nice to be outside in the cool air.

  “Let me tell you something,” Pops said. “I don’t ever want to hear you apologize for your grief again.”

  His serious tone surprised me. “What?”

  “You understand me? Tears don’t make you less of a man.” He grabbed me by the shoulder and shook me, roughly affectionate. “They make you more of one. Men feel, and feel deeply. Don’t push that down. It’s what makes you who you are.”

  The abyss of grief inside me threatened to open up and swallow me whole. I tipped forward into Pops and pressed my forehead into his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around me.

  “Ankh would be so proud of the man you’ve become,” Pops murmured, almost to himself.

  Something inside me snapped, and I stopped holding back. I let my grief wash over me, fast and powerful like a wave, and for a few minutes, I just cried. Pops rubbed my back soothingly.

  And then, like a wave receding, the worst of it passed. I sat back and rubbed my eyes hard. “That just made me more tired.”

  “Go back to the house and get some rest before church,” Pops said. “Or spend some quality time with your man.”

  “Pops!” Blood rushed to my face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Son, I’m your father, and I’m not blind. I’ve seen you and Gunnar these past few weeks. Plus, he seemed to be getting pretty comfortable with you before the interrogation at the shop. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

  “He doesn’t look at me any sort of way,” I grumbled.

  Regardless of how he behaved when we were in private, our relationship was still technically unofficial. He hadn’t said a word beyond not sleeping with other people. Part of me still wondered if he wanted to keep the option open to sleep with me a few times, get it out of his system, and then move on.

  But if that were true, why did he touch me like that in Ankhor Works? In front of everybody? His strong hand on the back of my neck had immediately relaxed me, like he’d intuitively known exactly what I needed.

  He wouldn’t do things like that if this wasn’t real.

  I just needed him to say it.

  “All right, don’t hurt yourself thinking so hard,” Pops said. “You really do need to get some more sleep.”

  “I’m fine,” I groused.

  Pops herded me back into the tattoo shop. “All right, Kenny, let’s keep this party going.”

  He sat back down in the tattoo chair. Kenny blinked back into reality from where he was dozing at the front desk and walked back to start prepping the gun again.

  I shoved my hands into my pockets. “But… You’d really be okay with it? If there was something between me and Gunnar?”

  “Of course I would,” Pops said. “In this very hypothetical situation, mind you. You deserve love. I had something really special with your dad. I want you to have that, too.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered. “But. Like I said, nothing’s going on.”

  “Right,” Priest said, with a serious nod. “Not a thing. Now go back to the clubhouse. I have to finish this touch-up before church.”

  Church was short and to-the-point: a welcome difference from the dragging, conversational meetings we’d been having when we were poring over the same documentation over and over again, looking for any hint of information that might give us a push in the right direction.

  Tonight, Blade laid out the plan on a large map of the territory. All the senior members were present and eager, Gunnar especially, chewing his lip thoughtfully as he followed the route Blade planned.


  “He’ll be in Nevada, outside Hawthorne. It’s a six-hour haul—not too bad. We’ll leave before sundown. Road crew is enforcers, Priest, Maverick, Heath, and Raven. Heath, I’m not saying this is a test, but it’s not not a test.”

  Heath, newly patched-in, adjusted his leather jacket tight around his shoulders, unfazed. “Won’t let you down.”

  Gunnar caught my eye and tilted his chin down slightly. I nodded in acknowledgment. Likely Blade hadn’t wanted me to be a part of the road crew at all—I certainly wasn’t part of the club muscle. Had Gunnar pushed for me to be included in the road crew?

  If he had, I owed him a serious thanks. Because if Blade hadn’t included me in the road crew, I would’ve followed them on my own, and no one needed to be distracted with that tonight. Gunnar probably figured out that much.

  “Tune up your bikes,” Blade said. “Get some rest. It’s gonna be a long night tomorrow. But we’re doing it for Ankh.”

  Later that evening, Gunnar disappeared. As sergeant-at-arms, he had much to do to prepare for tomorrow’s action—and I knew he’d wait until late to work on his bike. Gunnar didn’t like to work in the shop when others were doing the same. He liked the quiet.

  I slipped in through the side door. As I’d expected, Gunnar was alone in the back of the shop, working under the overhead lights that cast long shadows around the shop. His low-profile Harley waited in the center of the room as Gunnar picked through the tools on the nearest bench. The bike was immense but understated, coiled with power like a lurking predatory cat. The chrome details, the fork and exhaust, that glinted in the sunlight on other bikes, had been painted matte black. It was a gorgeous, intimidating bike.

  It suited him.

  Gunnar found the socket wrench he was looking for, and then turned back to his bike. He paced a circle around it, checking his work. He’d changed into one of the canvas garage jumpsuits, but had tied the top half around his waist, revealing a thin white undershirt. The fluorescent light above cast him in chiaroscuro, drawing my gaze to his deltoid muscles and the functional strength of his forearms.