His phone buzzed again, and he saw a picture of Sharon, her lips pushed far out in a pout. Unlocking the screen, he saw he’d missed a text and scrolled back up to read, Just bring the big guy home already, big guy.
“You talk to my woman today, motherfucker?”
He typed out, The fuck you talkin about?
That got him another picture in response, one of the sad-eyed mastiff staring through the wire grate of the crate.
“I didn’t speak to her, nope.” Deke’s lie was plain, and Gunny couldn’t help but laugh. “Might have texted her a couple of pics.” On cue, another picture came in, one of him in the backyard, mastiff on the laughable leash, Gunny bent over and scratching the dog’s massive head. “And might have suggested y’all need another furbaby.”
“Asshole.” Gunny sighed. “Lemme put him in the yard, and we can load his crate in the van. Gonna eat me outta house and home, and I got another kid on the way, man. You’re cold, brother. Cold.”
***
“Jesus,” Gunny groaned and rolled into Sharon, curling his arm to pull her closer, listening to the rolling advance of thuds up the stairs towards their bedroom. “He can’t even walk quiet.”
He’d gotten home last night, and per his texted request, Sharon had their two dogs sequestered in the den, locked behind a gate. He’d kept the mastiff on the leash, letting Deke wrestle the crate in single-handedly, Sharon seated on the bottom steps of the staircase, Cade in her arms.
One of his fears had been put to rest immediately when his dogs didn’t react to the strange animal except with calm interest. Even Tank, who could get wound up tighter than a yo-yo, had stood with a wagging tail and snuffling nose, waiting. Introducing the dogs through the gate had been a success, but Gunny hadn’t released his two smaller dogs until later, waiting for the rest of the greetings to be done. Isn’t it interesting, he’d thought, that I’m already thinking of them as a trio of large and small. As he’d walked the dog across the room to where Sharon sat, Gunny had watched as her eyes widened.
“He’s huge,” she’d whispered, one corner of her mouth quirking up. “It’s gonna be like having a pony.” The other corner of her mouth had lifted, and he’d watched her smile at the dog. “I always wanted a pony.”
Shaking his head, he’d grunted in amusement. “You’re fuckin’ funny, woman. Reach your hand out, let him smell you.” She had, and the mastiff hoovered her hand, snuffled all over it, and pulled on the end of the lead for the first time. A thread of fear had snaked through Gunny’s gut at the relentless strength shown with these movements.
The dog had forced another step forwards, then another, willing to choke himself to get closer to Sharon, and Gunny had found himself along for the ride, watching as the dog lifted first one and then his other front foot to the bottom step where he immediately laid his broad head across Sharon and Cade’s laps. The dog had taken a big breath that Gunny’d echoed, and something in Gunny’s chest had twisted painfully as he saw lines of stress and strain flow out of the dog’s muscles. Relaxed and easy, the dog had taken in another huge breath and then blown it out on a loud sigh that had made Cade laugh. At the sound, the dog’s ears picked up, and he’d shuffled a half step closer to the pair he’d pinned on the stair step, gaining a couple of inches in a clear effort to get as close as he possibly could to the mother and child.
“He likes me,” Sharon had whispered, trailing one hand over the dog’s head, pushing and scratching at the loose skin around his ears. Cadence had squealed and thumped her tiny fists solidly on the dog’s head, and the only thing that moved were tiny muscles around the mastiff’s eyes, squeezed tightly shut. “You think he likes me?”
“Fuck, yeah.” Gunny had matched her whisper, not wanting to break the spell, enthralled watching the scene in front of him. A tiny woman and smaller child, massive dog positioned protectively in front of them, taking comfort from their every touch. “He’s home.”
The first good-natured disagreement about the dog surrounded a name. Sharon wanted to pick something immediately, just pluck it from the air, but Gunny wasn’t in favor of that. She’d thrown out word after word, some of them hilarious, trying to find anything that Gunny or the dog would latch onto, and came up dry.
Cadence had been in her highchair, Sharon positioned at her side to assist with the more difficult spoon-fed portions of dinner when Gunny had realized they had a problem as he called the dogs over for treats. Before leaving the house-turned-horror-kennel he’d ascertained the dog knew basic commands of come, sit, and stay, as well as down and wait, but beyond that hadn’t found anything that triggered interest in the dog’s attitude.
So when he’d called the dogs, he’d spoken a general, “Sit,” letting them array themselves in a seated semi-circle in front of him, amused that they’d placed their asses in order, smallest to largest. “Rocky, down.” A quick prone position earned the rat terrier a finger-fed snack of dry kibble, and the dog’s crunching satisfaction had been loud in the kitchen as he’d eaten his reward.
Next in line had been the beagle, and when Gunny had said, “Tank, down,” he’d been nonplused as two furry bellies hit the floor. “Good down,” he gave verbal encouragement, then bent to offer kibble to each dog in turn. Back to a general, “Sit,” he’d watched as all three dogs returned to their haunches, attention fixed on him.
Pointing with a finger, he’d indicated the mastiff, and said firmly, “Down.” The dog stretched out, paws in front, weight balanced on bony elbows against the hard floor. “Good down,” he’d rewarded verbally as he handed over the kibble treat. “Sit.” Reaching out, he’d ruffled the dog’s skin, fingers working through the folds under his chin. “Good dog.”
Turning to the beagle again, Gunny had grinned to see him sitting patiently for a change. Usually, the little dog was a tornado of activity. “Tank, down,” he’d ordered, and again the beagle and mastiff landed on the floor. “Fuck me,” Gunny had muttered as Sharon laughed. “His goddamned fucking name is Tank.”
Now it was morning, and Tank was apparently headed up the stairs. Stairs he shouldn’t have been able to get to because he had spent the night in his crate. Gunny sighed, squeezing Sharon again, feeling her body starting to shake. “You laughin’ at this shit, woman?”
“No,” she said, the laughter in her voice giving the clear lie to her word.
Gunny’s focus shifted, and he lifted on one elbow, twisting to look at the door. “It’s quiet.” He waited, listening. “Too quiet.” The infant monitor sparked to life, sounds and noises coming from a room down the hallway. Thumping and then a loud giggle, Cade was awake and happy. “Fuck.” Tank had turned the other direction and gone straight to their little girl’s room. Another giggle, then the sound of furniture legs moving across the wooden floor, then the bouncing of mattress springs and bright laughter from Cade.
Gunny released Sharon and swung his legs off the bed. Out the door in two strides, he headed up the hallway. Cade’s door was open, and he could hear her giggling through the opening. Reaching out, he palmed the wood and shifted, pushing the door open wider. Standing in the doorway, he looked around the room to see the mastiff lying inside the crib on the mattress, Cade draped across his back. She was pushing with her feet to rock back and forth as if the dog were a kid-sized teeter-totter. The ottoman for the rocking chair had been shoved over beside the crib, and the dog had clearly used that to give himself access to Cadence. “Jesus.”
At his voice, Tank’s head lifted swiftly, and the dog shifted so he could see the doorway. Gunny watched as the dog recognized him and relaxed again, laying his head down with a soft groan. Gunny felt a hand at his waist and shifted slightly to one side so Sharon could squeeze in beside him. “Awwww, he loves her already.”
“Yeah, he does.” Gunny sighed. “Wish we knew his background. Where he came from. I like how he is with her,” Gunny shifted, pulling Sharon in front of him, “but we need to keep our guard up, baby.”
Twisting in his arms, Sharon
looked up at him with a confused expression on her face. “Why, honey?”
“They’re a great breed, mastiffs. Protective as shit. Calm, good natured. Loyal.” He paused a moment, looking for the right words. “But we don’t know what’s happened to him. We don’t know anything about him, except he’s a good dog.”
“He’s a good dog, and he loves Cade.”
In the crib, the big dog had eased onto his side, giving Cadence a larger playground on his ribs. She was taking advantage of it, dragging herself up so she could tug and pull at the dog’s ears.
Gunny grinned. “That he does.” Clicking claws sounded from the hallway, and he felt the brush of fur as Tank pushed past him and into the room. Paws to the side of the crib, the beagle surveyed the scene and wagged his tail, clearly approving. Back on four paws, he turned in place twice before throwing himself to his side, tongue lolling out in another doggie laugh.
***
“Tank the Larger, that’s what Sharon’s calling him now.” Gunny shook his head, transferring the phone to his other hand, wiping greasy fingers on the leg of his jeans. PBJ laughed, and Gunny grinned. “You should come over and check it out. He’s hilarious to watch with my other pups.”
“And he’s still good with Cadence, yeah?” Wonder, not concern, colored PBJ’s voice, and that made Gunny grin, too.
“Gentle as a lamb. Smart as fuck, though. Motherfucker opens his crate like nobody’s business, and Sharon’s convinced he’s figured out how to open doors, too.” The dog probably had. That was the only real explanation for how he’d managed to get into Cadence’s room every morning through a door Gunny knew he’d closed securely. “You have any luck with finding where he came from?”
PBJ had spent the past couple of months reaching out to mastiff breeders he knew of, trying to find one who had placed a male in the Fort Wayne area. Gunny wanted to check with local vets, but Sharon had stoutly refused to look for Tank’s owners, arguing he was safe and cared for, and loved, so why should they look to get rid of him?
“Not a bit of it, man. Looks like you’re stuck with him.” Gunny smiled at PBJ’s words. Not stuck so much as gifted. “You coming to the clubhouse tonight?”
“Yeah.” Mason, the club’s national president, had called an all-member meeting to go over changes he was putting into place for one of the chapters out west. “Cleaning up now. I’ll head over in a bit.” He shifted, leaning one hip against the workbench. “Gotta say, I’m a fuck of a lot easier leaving Sharon here with Cade knowing that big motherfucker’s in the house with my two girls.”
“How long until you’ll have three?” Barking on the phone followed by a quiet command of sit told him that PBJ was doing his own chores before heading into town. He lived on a ten-acre farm with a huge barn he’d converted to a kennel, transforming several of the paddocks into arenas for agility and obedience training. PBJ’s facilities were in constant use by 4-H and youth clubs, as well as breed and event teams.
“Doc said he’ll let her go another six days before inducing. She’s not having it, and started walking laps around the house as soon as we got home this morning.” She’d exhausted herself within minutes and was currently napping alongside Cade on the couch. “She’s ready. I’m ready, too.”
“I bet. See you at the clubhouse.”
Call disconnected, Gunny pushed off from the counter and looked down to where Rocky was curled up on his garage bed, eyes opened a slit and angled up to see what his master was doing. “Let’s go inside, boy.” With a sigh and a stretch, Rocky trotted to the door, looking over his shoulder as if to say, What’s the holdup? “I’m comin’, gimme a fuckin’ minute, Rock.”
***
Gunny stood against the back wall, shoulders propped against the surface as he looked out across the sea of faces. Most were known, men he’d offer up anything if they asked because he knew he’d get the same in return. Those were his patch brothers, lined up shoulder-to-shoulder with every member of the club. Some were closer yet, like Deke, and Captain, Sharon’s brother. Men he trusted no matter what was going down, he’d run uncaring into the breach knowing they wouldn’t just have his back but would be striding beside him. He eyed a man standing near the front door of the clubhouse, meeting late arrivals. Mason was a man he was oathbound to protect, and someone he willingly followed.
The men Mason currently greeted with lifted chin and arm clasps weren’t club; they weren’t brothers. They were friendly, a club with roots down in Florida who wanted to foster better relations between the clubs. Mason had recently found family in the panhandle and, with all due respect, reached out to the dominant club in the area, letting them know he’d be in and out of the area while he built a relationship with his newly discovered sister, Justine Morgan.
A Fed in the family, Gunny thought with a snort. Jesus wept. Justine worked for the FBI, and until she’d recused herself from the case, had been investigating the motorcycle club founded by their father and grandfather, Shooter and Morgan. Tangled webs. Gunny lifted his beer, sweeping the room again over the top of the bottle.
“How you doin’, brother?” PBJ settled in next to him, raising his own beer to his lips, using the bottle to mask his words. “What the fuck do you think he’s doing here?” The emphasis was for Pike, a Rebel chapter president from St. Louis who’d walked in the door in front of their special guests and was currently pouting near the bar because he wasn’t the center of attention.
“Fuckin’ diva needs his ass handed to him.” Gunny had made no secret that he didn’t like Pike, didn’t trust the man, and wouldn’t work with him unless forced.
“Why you got such a hate on for the man?” PBJ glanced over, tipping his chin to a prospect roaming with a bucket of cold beers, grabbing two from the container when offered. “Never seen you take a dislike to someone like that.”
“You know Harddrive, right?” PBJ would, the old school biker had come to town last year when a revered Rebel member died, his blood brother, Bingo. For most members, it had been the first introduction to the old man, but Gunny had been buying motorcycle parts from Harddrive and his son for years. PBJ nodded. “Pike is his brother-in-law.”
“Serious?” Frowning, PBJ shook his head slowly, side to side. “Mason ejected Pike from the wake for Bingo.”
“Yeah, because Pike got sideways with Harddrive.”
“Don’t make no sense, brother. Pike’s a patch. Harddrive, good man he is, ain’t Rebel.” PBJ held out one of the beers and Gunny reached out and took it. He spun the lid off, catching it in his hand before shoving it in his back pocket. Old habits, he thought, remembering the times spent picking up his brass.
“Makes all the sense when you know the history. Pike’s always had a problem keeping his dick in his pants. Way I understand it, he tripped and stuck his dick into some strange pussy at Harddrive’s boy’s wedding, but there was a mixup, and Harddrive’s old lady got told it was him who did the fucking. Caused a rift that lasted years.” Gunny felt his face heating. Asshole shouldn’t be here tonight. Don’t need his brand of shit. “Years, man. Pain on pain, piled on Pike’s doorstep. Wasn’t until Bingo’s wake that Harddrive’s girl, Dixie, learned the truth of what happened. She told her momma, and by Christmas, Erin and Harddrive were back tight. Still.” He shook his head, sucking hard on the bottle, swallowing a mouthful of beer. “Years. Pike’s a motherfucking piece of trouble waiting to fuckin’ happen.”
They stood in silence for a moment, then PBJ said softly, “Jesus. Had no idea.”
“Yeah, motherfucking diva piece of shit.” Gunny flexed his hands, stretching his fingers wide, then clenching around the beer. “Wonder what the fucker’s doing here tonight. Guests we got, it can’t be a call-in from Prez.”
“Yeah, I hear ya.”
Mason looked up and gestured, pulling members, and officers close. Lifting his voice, he told the group, “Officers in the back now. We’ll be out in a bit. Let you know what’s decided.” When Pike made a move to head with the rest of them, Ma
son called out, “Pike, local and nationals only, man.” The exclusion wasn’t softened by any additional information, and no honorific followed Mason’s short words. Pike’s nostrils flared, and Gunny thought he could hear his teeth clenching from across the room.
“Sure, boss,” Pike said finally, turning away and giving Mason his back, something that made Mason’s face go hard. “I’ll get the lowdown on local pussy from the boys here.”
Gunny, along with the dozen other Rebel officers, dropped his phone in the metal box held open at the entry to the room. Slate stood next to Hurley, ready to intervene if anyone balked. When all devices had been deposited, Hurley locked the box and handed the key to Slate. Inside, Gunny waited near the outside windows, visually ensuring Myron’s tech devices were in place and humming along, blocking any listening from outside. Hell of a thing we got here.
“Brothers, friends.” Mason stood at the head of the table, and Gunny felt the weight of his gaze when it fell on him. “We got business to deal with. Pull up a chair and get comfortable. From my perspective, we’re here for the duration.” The group milled around another moment or two as friends greeted each other warmly, the men from Florida more cautiously, finally settling into the chairs arrayed around the table. Gunny kept his feet, as did Slate, positioned on opposite sides of the table, bracketing where Mason sat.
One of the men from Florida made a noise and Mason gestured towards him, inviting speech. Lifting his chin, the man whose nameplate said Sparks over the word President got straight into the reason for the meeting with his opening words. “You came on my plot and shit. Didn’t know better, woulda thought you were shitting on me. As it was, you left me a hella calling card with your name all over it. Then”—he made a move with his hand, fingers exploding away from his thumb—“poof, like it never happened. But you and me—” Sparks leaned forwards, angling his body towards Mason. “—we know that kind of shit never really goes away. Tell me what the gain was and I’ll decide if I’m gonna leave it alone.”
Gunny's Pups: #10.25 (Rebel Wayfarers MC) Page 2
