GUNNER
Lords of Carnage MC
Daphne Loveling
Contents
Mailing List
A Note on this Edition
1. Gunner
2. Alix
3. Gunner
4. Alix
5. Gunner
6. Alix
7. Gunner
8. Alix
9. Alix
10. Gunner
11. Alix
12. Gunner
13. Alix
14. Gunner
15. Alix
16. Gunner
17. Alix
18. Alix
19. Gunner
20. Alix
21. Gunner
22. Alix
23. Gunner
24. Gunner
25. Alix
26. Alix
27. Gunner
28. Alix
29. Gunner
30. Alix
31. Gunner
Epilogue
Bonus Book
1. Jenna
2. Jenna
3. Cas
4. Jenna
5. Jenna
6. Cas
7. Cas
8. Jenna
9. Cas
10. Cas
11. Jenna
12. Jenna
13. Cas
14. Cas
15. Jenna
16. Cas
17. Jenna
18. Jenna
19. Cas
20. Jenna
21. Jenna
22. Cas
23. Jenna
24. Jenna
25. Cas
26. Jenna
27. Cas
28. Jenna
29. Cas
30. Jenna
31. Cas
32. Jenna
33. Cas
34. Cas
35. Jenna
36. Cas
Epilogue
Other books in the series
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About Daphne Loveling
Books by Daphne Loveling
Dedication
Copyright
Mailing List
One of my favorite things about writing is the relationships I build with readers. I occasionally send newsletters with details on new releases, special offerings, and exclusive bonus material to readers who subscribe to my mailing list.
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Please note: This edition of GUNNER: Lords of Carnage MC contains a bonus novel.
GHOST: Lords of Carnage MC is the first in the Lords of Carnage series. I’ve included it just in case the Lords of Carnage are new to you!
GHOST starts at about the halfway mark in this edition.
Love,
Daphne
1
Gunner
“All right, fuckers,” Beast says to Thorn and me as we grab our stools and sit down. “Which one of us is payin’ for the first round?”
The three of us just arrived at the Smiling Skull, after a long ride on a late summer day. The Skull is a biker bar a few towns over from Tanner Springs — where we live, and where our club, the Lords of Carnage, is based. It’s one of the few neutral territory biker bars in the area. Apart from the occasional bar fight, the Skull is a place where rival clubs come to drink in mostly peaceful coexistence. This uneasy truce is largely due to the vigilance of Rosie, the diminutive, brassy sixty-something woman who owns the place. She’s barely five feet tall, and looks like she weighs less than my arm. But somehow, she manages to keep a bunch of huge, tattooed and drunken men from killing each other.
“I think it’s your turn to pay, brother,” Thorn smirks at Beast with a gleam in his eye. “Seeing’s how Gunner managed to beat your ass at arm wrestling back at the clubhouse earlier.”
Beast’s face turns instantly stormy. It’s a look that would send most able-bodied men running for the damn exits. Beast is fucking huge, a monster at six-seven, and close to three-hundred pounds of solid muscle. It’s a major coup that I managed to beat him arm wrestling. It’s a feat no one else in the club has managed — and I’m not about to tell him or anyone else how I did it.
“He’s right, brother,” I nod, twisting the fork in just a little more and enjoying the hell out of it. “You owe me one. At least one.”
Beast blows out a disgusted breath. “Fine. I’m buying. Goddamnit,” he says gloomily.
“Jack and coke for me, spiked with vodka,” I say, standing. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
“Why the fuck do you gotta drink that vile mixture?” Beast complains. “Why can’t you just drink a goddamn beer or a whiskey or something?”
“Who knows?” I grin at him. “Maybe that vile mixture is the secret to how I beat your ass at arm wrestling.”
“Fuck you, brother,” Beast growls.
“Love you, too,” I shoot back.
Thorn starts laughing uproariously as I make my way toward the back of the bar. Scanning the crowds as I move, I notice various clusters of men from most of the MCs around the area. Some of them raise a finger or lift their chin at me in greeting. A few others, from clubs we’ve pissed off in the past, glower and turn away from me. It’s all good. Like I said, the Smiling Skull’s neutral ground. And besides, it’s still pretty early in the evening. Most fights start later on, when people are drunker and looking for a way to blow off steam.
One noticeable absence from the bar is any representation from the Iron Spiders. I make a mental note to mention this to Rock and the rest of the Lords of Carnage later. The Iron Spiders are — or were — an MC to the south of our territory in Tanner Springs. They were making some pretty serious attempts to fuck us over and destroy our club. They almost managed to inflict some serious damage. Until we took matters into our own hands and cut off the Spider’s head, that is. We ended their president, Black, and took out a few of their other officers in the process. Ever since then, the Iron Spiders MC has gone completely underground. No one’s seen hide nor hair of them in months, as far as we’ve been able to determine. Which may mean that the Iron Spiders are no more. Or it may mean they’ve gone silent while they regroup.
The second option is more likely.
And when they do, the Lords of Carnage will be waiting for them.
In the meantime, though, fuck ‘em. I ain’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. And the Iron Spiders being wiped off the map is one hell of a goddamn gift horse.
Inside the men’s room, I take a much-needed piss and think of a couple other one-liners to roast Beast with. I’m already cracking myself up as I push the door open and walk back out into the bar. Across the room, I can tell that Thorn’s regaling Beast with some bullshit story to try to cheer his ass up. I’d almost feel bad that I’m planning to go back over there and keep rubbing his nose in his defeat. If it wasn’t gonna be so damn much fun, that is.
As I pass by the near end of the bar, the sound of an argument makes me turn my head. A high-pitched, angry voice pierces through the other noise in the room. It’s a girl, probably in her early twenties. She must have just gotten here while I was in the head, because I can’t imagine how I would have failed to notice her if she was here before that. She’s about the furthest thing from a typical biker chick or club groupie I’ve ever seen in a bar like this. She’s petite, not much taller than five-two or five-three. She’s got shoulder-length wavy light blond hair that actually looks like it isn’t a dye job. She’s wearing a simple white T-shirt dress and flat sandals, and no makeup except for maybe some pale pink lipstick on her soft, full lips.
She literally looks like a breath of fresh air in this smoky, din
gy dive. She sticks out like a sore thumb.
The chick is talking with a rough-looking guy who she can’t possibly have come in here with. She’s flailing her arms, looking agitated and frustrated as the guy shrugs his shoulders and takes a swig of his beer. She’s a brave one, I’ll give her that. He could crush her with one arm, if he had a mind to. As I pass by them, I can’t tell what she’s upset about, but I make out a couple of words.
“…Know where she is…”
“You can’t… her away…”
Frowning, I mentally shrug and put it out of my mind. This shit is none of my business. People get up to all sorts of crazy-ass bullshit, and if this girl wants to hang out in a biker bar and argue with the local wildlife, that’s fine by me.
I get back to my brothers and grab my seat. My jack and coke is sitting there, waiting for me. I lift the glass at Beast and Thorn.
“To Beast,” I announce. “He may not be the strongest guy in the world, but he’s still my brother.”
“Goddamnit, Gun, are you gonna fucking let this go?” Beast explodes.
“Christ, I hope not,” Thorn sputters, laughing so hard there are tears in his eyes. “This shite is priceless!”
“Sorry, brother, but Thorn’s right,” I chuckle. “It is pretty goddamn funny.”
Eventually, I let Beast change the conversation, mostly so I can bring it up again when he’s not expecting it. He and Thorn start shooting the shit about some biker wannabe they saw in town the other day who drove up on a tricked out rice burner, wearing so much Harley shit it looked like he bought out the whole store. “I mean, Christ, with all the shite he was wearing, he could have just used that money and put up a down payment on a real bike,” Thorn says, shaking his head. “It was comical, though, I’ll give him that.”
I’m nodding and laughing along with them, stealing occasional looks at the blond chick at the other end of the bar. She’s still arguing with the rough-looking dude. From behind, I can see the curve of her ass through the fabric of her dress, and the back of her shapely thighs, which look toned and muscled. I take a swig of my jack and coke, and think about how good it would feel to grab that ass and pull her onto my cock, sinking myself deep inside her. I imagine the sounds she’d make in her throat when I fisted my hands in her hair and started fucking her for all she’s worth, and how her pussy would tighten around me as she came, right before I exploded inside her.
Jesus. I’m hard as a rock.
I try to pay attention to Beast and Thorn long enough to make my cock go back down, but the girl’s a flash of light in an otherwise dark bar, and she’s goddamn distracting. As I continue to cast glances in her direction, another guy joins them — of the same dirtbag stock as the first one. He’s shaking his head and giving the girl a leering grin. Even from here I can he’s being patronizing as fuck. Whatever she’s mad about, they seem to find it more amusing than anything. Eventually she throws up her hands, sets down the beer she’s been drinking, and stalks off in the direction of the bathrooms. The first dude leans over to the other one and says something to him that makes him laugh out loud.
Then, as I watch, the first dude slides his arm over toward the girl’s beer and slips something small through the opening of the bottle.
Oh, fuck no.
There is no goddamn way someone is going to roofie a woman on my watch.
“Gentlemen,” I mutter at Thorn and Beast. “I have a little business to attend to. Watch my six in case I need backup.”
2
Alix
Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse than they already are, I come out of the bathroom of the Smiling Skull to see some guy punching Gonzalo.
Not that I really mind that part. Gonzalo is a freaking asshole. He deserves to be punched more than anyone I know. But right now, what I need from him is to tell me where the hell my sister is.
He knows. I know he does. But he’s acting like he has no idea what I’m talking about. He doesn’t even seem to give a damn whether I believe him or not. Which I guess he doesn’t have to. I’m at least a foot shorter than him, and probably a hundred pounds lighter. I can’t make him do a single thing. I don’t even know why I came here in the first place, thinking I would ever be able to change any of this. Tears prick my eyes and sting my throat. I’ve never felt so helpless and alone in my life. And given the life I’ve had so far, that’s saying something.
So, even though I came back out here to continue pleading with Gonzalo, I let myself have just a couple of seconds of pleasure and satisfaction watching the other guy land a blow to his face that sends him reeling backwards into a table.
“Fuck!” Gonzalo’s asshole friend screams, and lurches toward the biker. Gonzalo’s on the floor now, and so the biker easily has time to pivot, grab the second guy by the shirt, and launch him face first into the bar. His skull makes a sickening crack against the surface. I flinch and take a step back, instinctively reaching for my beer for something to hold in front of me. The bottle’s cool and soothing in my hand. I take a long drink to calm my nerves, then wait to see what will happen next.
Gonzalo gets to his feet, rage in his eyes and blood on his lips. But before he can charge at the guy who hit him, two more men wearing the same patches on their leather vests are there. One, an enormous hulk of a man, grabs Gonzalo and pulls him backward so hard that he lifts him completely off his feet. The other, dark and handsome with a strong, square jaw, grabs Gonzalo’s buddy by the neck and hauls him to his feet, his forehead bleeding profusely.
“If my brother punched you,” the huge biker says to Gonzalo in a low, menacing tone, “it means you deserved it. So I’d advise against continuing this fight, unless you want to carry your teeth home in a bag.”
“What the fuck?” splutters Gonzalo, blood and spittle flying from his mouth. “I’ve never seen this fucker before in my life!”
“Steady on, my friend,” warns the other biker in a brogue I think is Irish.
No one is paying any attention to me at all, which is just fine by me. Watching Gonzalo get owned by a bunch of toughs is quite entertaining. I decide just to enjoy the show while it lasts.
“What the fuck did I ever do to you?” Gonzalo yells. “I’m serious! I have no fucking idea what the hell is going on!”
“You didn’t do a goddamn thing to me,” the first biker snarls. “But you know damn well what you did to the lady here.”
I take another swig of my beer, finishing it, as they all turn to look at me.
The biker who punched Gonzalo’s eyes lock on mine. Then they slide down to the now-empty bottle in my hand.
“Oh, shit,” he groans.
“I am not going to stick my fingers down my throat,” I protest as the biker pulls me toward the bathrooms. “What the hell is going on?”
“That fuckbag roofied you,” he growls.
“What?” I ask in confusion. “You mean the date rape drug?”
“He slipped it into your beer when you were in the bathroom.”
A thread of panic starts to weave itself up through my consciousness. “You mean, it’s already in my system?” I cry.
“Not if you can get it out in time.” He pushes on the door to the women’s bathroom, but it’s locked. He lifts his large fist and pounds on it so hard I’m afraid it will splinter. “Get the fuck out of there, now!” he yells.
A few moments later, a frightened looking woman in tight red leather comes tottering out. “Jesus, hold your horses!” she starts to complain, but goes silent when her eyes lock on the furious-looking biker. “Sorry,” she squeaks, and skitters away. The man pulls me roughly through the door and locks it from the inside.
“Go on,” he urges. “You don’t have much time.”
I have no idea how to do this. I know it’s supposed to engage your gag reflex if you stick your fingers far enough down, but I’ve never tried it. Uncertainly, I stand in front of the toilet and lean over just a little, then stick my index finger inside my mouth until I touch the back
of my throat. Instinctively, I recoil and start coughing. It’s too hard; it’ll never work.
“I can’t do it,” I wheeze.
“Yes you can,” he bites out. “Do it, or I’ll do it for you.”
Ugh. Okay, having a total stranger — especially a very hot one, I’m starting to realize — stick his finger down my throat is not something I want to experience tonight. And judging from the fierce look on his bearded face, he’s not kidding around. Gingerly, I stick my hand back in my mouth, close my eyes, and ram my fingers down my throat.
And promptly throw up all my beer into the toilet.
“Good girl,” the biker growls as I gag and sputter. Some of the beer has gone up through my nose, and a little bit is running down my chin. Gross. I grab at the toilet paper dispenser, pulling off a long length, and blow my nose, mortified. Then I grab another length and wipe at my eyes, which are watering.
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