Pushing the man to the ground, he followed up the quiet directive with a finger to his lips, obscured behind the sand camouflage scarf. Giving the man a ‘stay down’ motion with the palm of his hand, he moved to the front corner of the car in a crouch, settling to one knee. Looking around the corner, he saw the shadow remained in the same position, same place…waiting.
With a powerfully explosive rush, he charged the corner of the garage and grappled with the person he found there, wrapping his hands around their neck and shaking them hard, rocking them viciously back and forth to entirely disorient the enemy. There was a shout from behind him, followed by the thud of rapid footfalls, and he risked the distraction of a quick glance, his gaze barely in time to see scuffed leather soles of shoes and the flutter of the man’s coat hem as he ran back into the house. Whispering beside his ear, Kincade told him, Complete the mission, brother.
Twisting to look at the enemy in his hands, he was surprised to find the canvas of a duffle bag instead of the expected keffiyeh-covered face, dark eyes peering from between the folds of the fabric. Fucking shit, he thought, throwing the bag to the side in confusion. Bloody Hell, an accented voice filled his head, sweeping him suddenly back to the pain of the med unit at Camp Chesty, feeling the prodding instruments dragging sickened balls of metal from his skin. Shaking his head to clear it, he scanned the area, dropping flat to the floor to extend his gaze underneath the vehicles, but could find no threats now. Nothing out of place, except him. Fuck, he thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He stood for a moment and looked contemplatively at the gaping door leading into the man’s home. Kincade was, thank fuck, now silent, no longer urging him into another bad move. With an indrawn breath, he tucked the keffiyeh more tightly around his head and decided not to compound his errors of the day by following the man inside. He sighed and lowered his head, but continued to scan the area, his eyes the only thing moving in his face, hidden by his deeply furrowed brow. Might be time to take a hike, he thought and then snorted, maybe in more than one way.
The scene in the clubhouse weeks ago kept weighing on his mind, and he struggled every day with the feeling he needed to continue to earn his place in the club. Forget that they trusted him enough to slap an officer title on him, he had to prove his worth, time and again, even if for no one else but him. He had not suffered through an episode like this in a long time, and these past minutes were probably an indication of even more stress he hadn’t yet realized he was carrying. Seemed he only ever had twenty-twenty hindsight when it came to his PTSD, and could only map out the puzzle leading to the break after he had fixed himself yet again. Gunny lifted his head and straightened his shoulders, walking out of the building and into the street, hearing the sirens approaching, alarm the sounds should have roused felt as if from far away.
4 - Working the bikes
“There’s an auction coming up, Myron. I need to take a few thousand in draw, man.” Gunny leaned back against the wall of the clubhouse and switched the phone to his other ear. He listened for a couple minutes, and then closed his eyes as he cut off the never-ending spew of words from the club’s bean counter in Chicago. Treasurer was his official club title, controller was the legal one, but bean counter fit how Gunny felt most of the time. “Six or seven should do me; let me know the particulars so I can get registered for the auction.” There was squawking on the phone, Myron’s voice rising in anger, but he simply hit the disconnect button. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself, leaning his head back against the wall. “I know I’m not in Bear’s league, but I make the club enough money.”
“Yeah, you do,” Deke said from beside him, and Gunny simultaneously jumped and moved sideways. His hands came up and seized Deke’s cut in an instinctive hold, preparatory to either throwing him away or pulling him close; even Gunny wasn’t sure which.
As quickly as he grabbed it, he released the leather, hissing another quiet, “Fuck,” before yelling, “Goddammit, Deke. What the fuck, man? You know better than to slip up on me like that.” He rubbed a shaking hand across his jaw, taking an unsteady breath as he tried to bleed off the energy zinging through him. “You don’t know what nearly happened.”
“What are you doing hiding out in the hallway?” Deke ignored what he had said and done, setting his reactions aside, which helped to settle him somewhat. “You coming in for church? Bingo called a few minutes ago and said he was ready to start as soon as you and I get in there.”
“Yeah, I’ll be in. I needed to talk to Myron beforehand. Got to get finances lined out for the auction next weekend. The list shows they’re going to offer a bunch of nice classics. I heard this was some farmer’s barn collection on the block. Who knows what I’ll find in the mix if that’s true?” He shrugged, settling his muscles on his frame, consciously attempting to release the last of the tension from his shoulders.
“Nice. Let me know if you need any company.” Deke never made a big deal about it, but over the years, his friend had learned most of Gunny’s quirks, and he knew a popular auction would bring in a lot of bidders. Crowds were still somewhat of a problem for him, but he hoped he could handle a bike sale without bringing Deke along.
“Yeah, if I need my security blanket, I’ll give you a call.” He shrugged when Deke gave him a wry look. “Time to hear how badly we’re doing, man. I saw Slate in the main room a bit ago, and I have a feeling Bingo’s about to step down. With the shit going on with Rabid, and over at the gun range, I believe we might be looking at a management change here in the Fort, brother. Let’s get in there and get church over with.”
***
Standing with his back to the barn wall, Gunny closed his eyes tightly, listening to the movement of the people milling in swirling crowds around him. Easy, brother, Kincade muttered. Easy does it, brother. His anxiety amplified all sounds, internal and external, noise swelling larger than life and pressing relentlessly in on him. He could hear the pounding, rhythmic beat of his heart echoing in his ears. The loud sound of his uneven breaths whistling in and out of his nose. The ratcheting click of his suddenly dry throat as he swallowed. Fuck, he thought. I can do this, dammit. I can fucking do this. I can beat this shit. Dammit.
The announcer read the card on the next bike up for auction, and the make name jarred him out of his head. This was a bike he had long been on the lookout for, but never expected to find. He was shocked, because the bike wasn’t on the published list. Opening his eyes, he quickly scanned the paper in his hand to confirm, then looked up and experienced an unanticipated pleasure at the familiar profile and outline of the bike on the raised stage. He didn’t move a muscle, didn’t give any outward indication of his inward excitement. A Vincent Black Shadow, one of the rarest bikes, and unless he was wrong, it was a C-series, handmade in England in 1948. Jesus.
The crisp frame, gracefully bent chrome exhaust pipes, and slightly swept-back handlebars hinted at the power and speed the motorcycle had offered riders right off the line, but the condition of the bike was rough. Rough enough, he hoped it would work to his benefit and hide the real value from the rest of the bidders. Looking at it again, in between blinks, he imagined he could see Mason perched on the seat of the fully restored scoot, and anticipated the pleasure he would take in giving Prez something like this. While Slate might be his local president now, Mason would always be his Prez. The man who saved his life.
Mason was a rider to the core, a man who would appreciate the bike for the classic it was. He knew Mason would take that into account, while still loving the experience enough to ride the fucker like it was meant to be ridden, hard and fast. He wasn’t someone to park it in a darkened garage and cover it in silk, waiting for its chance to be trailered to a show and trotted out for the masses to ooh and aah over. He turned to look at the lot following the Vincent, still attempting to mask his interest, and found his efforts validated when he saw several local buyers also turn away from the Vincent and towards the chopped café racers, which would soon be hitting the stage. He grinned at those bikes without ac
tually seeing them, thinking to himself this particular snipe hunt was going to be fun.
When the gavel fell for the final time of the day, he made his way to the cashier’s table. Waiting for the closing tally, he gave a private snort when the cute brunette told him somewhat apologetically he owed the auction service nearly five thousand dollars for the fifteen bikes he had won. Making a show of being disgruntled, he paid and then accepted the offer of a nearby day laborer to help him load the bikes.
“What kind of bike is this?” The guy pointed at the Vincent they had loaded in the middle of the pack of bikes. He had given Gunny a questioning look when told to cover it with a tarp, but shrugged and helped him pull the covering taut.
“That bike is a one of a kind,” Gunny said shortly, handing him a couple bills before turning to climb into the truck. Seated there, he paused for a moment, looking into the rearview mirror with satisfaction, and repeated to himself, “One of a kind.”
***
“Negative. No fab if I can find original. Did you not hear me say what kind of bike it is?” Frustratedly rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers, he felt a headache gathering on the horizon and frowned, moderating his tone and repeating his words in a slightly different way. “It’s a fucking Vincent. Negatory on the fab, man. Check your shelves for me, okay? I can hold.” He had been calling junkyards and dealers for four solid weeks and still hadn’t found one of the last parts needed. While he could begin the refurbishing project without the part in hand, it wasn’t how he liked to work. His preference was to work in distinct phases, beginning with parts acquisition. If he followed his normal process, he would finish the first stage before he moved on to the next.
Glancing across his garage, he looked at the tarp-covered bike leaning against the workbench. There were color-coded bins on top of the bench, each holding bits and pieces for a number of bikes scattered around the garage in a range of restoration stages. The Vincent’s assigned color was black, and the open, unfilled mouth of the bin gaped at him accusingly. Every time he looked at the bike, he knew it belonged to Prez, knew that’s where he would eventually get it, so now he simply had to get it ready for him.
There was a scratching on his leg, and without looking down, he reached out a hand, gently grabbing his assailant by the scruff of the neck and picking it up. Winger’s widow, DeeDee, had talked him into attending a run the club sponsored to raise money for the no-kill shelter in town, and he had seen the tiny puppy there. By the end of the day, he had adopted the dog, bringing him home tucked inside his shirt, curled and sleeping against the heat of his belly.
Moving with an ease born of repetition, he cradled the puppy belly-up in his arms while he shifted the phone to make the position more comfortable. The beagle blinked up at him, mouth open in a doggy grin with its tongue lolling out the side. He muttered to the dog, waiting for the dealer to come back to the phone, “Hey there, Tank. You bein’ good, pup?” Tank wiggled his ass, whipping Gunny’s side with his tail in support of his agreement that he had indeed been a good dog. Scratching and rubbing the dog’s chest and belly, he grinned as the puppy’s eyes sank half-closed in delight at the affection. “Yeah, you are, ain’t ya? You’re a good pup.”
“Gunny, you won’t believe this.” The Wyoming drawl came back on the phone and he sighed, waiting for the delivery of yet another disappointing answer. “My old man remembered a box of parts he got about twenty years ago. Pops went digging, and I am standing here, holding the front fork for a 48 Vincent Black Shadow in my hands right now.”
“No shit?” He straightened, placing the puppy carefully on the floor, watching as Tank ran over to a spare pair of boots lined up along the wall. He tackled one of the shoes and began dragging it back towards Gunny with sharp tugs on the loose laces, growling furiously. “What condition?” He paused, rubbing a hand across the top of his head. “You know what? Never mind. Just pack it up and mail it to me. You should still have my card on file; just charge the card, man.”
“Don’t you even want to know how much Pops wants for it?” The voice on the phone was teasing and Gunny snorted, shaking his head.
“Probably not, but go ahead and hit me. Harddrive is usually pretty fair.” He waited for the information stoically. The parts thus far had cost nearly four times what he paid for the bike, but he counted it money well spent, every dollar getting him closer to seeing Mason’s face when he gave him the bike. Idly glancing at Tank, he grinned when he saw the pup had nearly made it across the width of the garage with the boot trailing behind, alternately dragging and tugging it, grunting little puppy growls with each sharp yank.
“A picture.” The man laughed. “That’s it. Pops said he wants a picture of you on the finished bike, wants you to sign it and send it over. He’s gonna frame it and put it in the shop, crow a little bit about having a hand in the restoration.”
“That I can do,” he said. Reaching down, he rescued the boot from the puppy, watching with a smirk as it ran across the garage again to tackle the other one, the animal running wildly into the side of the boot when it couldn't stop in time. “Thanks, man. Tell your old man I owe him big time.”
“Will do, man. He said tell my sister hello from him, give her a kiss and a hug next time you see her.” His voice had gentled, become soft, love for the woman he was talking about clear in his tone.
“I can do that, too.” Disconnecting, he laughed aloud at the dog, who had managed to turn the boot over and was now trying to climb inside it headfirst. Patting his leg encouragingly, he called the puppy back to him. “Tank, I think you need a friend. Let’s go talk to our man PBJ. He’s got some pups he thought we might find interesting. I got the bikes, man, but you need a buddy.”
***
Frantically, she grabbed at his wrist. Attached to the hand wound tightly in her hair, he was dragging her across the studio floor and she twisted, trying to use that grip to pull herself up, hoping to lessen the pain in her scalp. Keeping her mouth clenched tightly, only the barest of whimpers escaped her lips in response to the brutally rough handling. The back of her pants began to slide down her ass, threatening to expose her, sudden fear evoking another cry from her. The heels of his boots impacted her back solidly with every step as he walked, effortlessly striding across the space as if he were not weighed down by her mass at the end of his arm. She was the least of impediments to his advance.
He dropped her in the middle of the floor, walking around her to sit on the wooden chair he had been dragging with his other hand, the legs of the chair scraping noisily across the hard surface. She scrambled to her knees, desperately straightening her clothing as she fought the urge to run with every fiber of her being. Running was what had landed her here; it wouldn’t do to compound those errors while in his presence. Facing away from him, towards the camera, she drew her arms in tight against her body protectively, waiting in stillness for what was coming.
When she heard the sibilant sound made by the slow slide of leather through his pants loops, she swallowed, closing her eyes even before the first blow across her back bloomed into pain. Not moving except when the force of the strikes pushed her forward or sideways, she shoved herself into the room she long ago created in her mind and slammed the door, visualizing her hands engaging a lock to keep everything out, a lock only her fingers could turn. She could stay there forever, it seemed, everything happening to her body removed and far away, outside noises receding as the sound of her breathing filled her ears. Even, smooth rasps drawn in, sipping at the air…count to three…lips pursed and slowly breathe out…count to three…
She unwillingly came back to herself, startled when he grabbed her hair, his vicious grip yanking her head backwards, causing her body to arch towards him. He leaned over her, staring down into her face, his eyes scanning her features. She saw a grim smile break the line of his lips as he drank in her open-mouthed expression, her lips parted in a silent scream as awareness of the pain and the panic of her helplessness crashed in on her.
The bowed and repentant angle of her neck telling everyone he had taught her the error of her ways.
The sway of her spine as she buckled, rounding down, drawing herself in small, accepting her insignificance.
The open gape of her mouth as she begged forgiveness, traitorous tongue speaking the words he so desired. Required.
The clasp of her fingers twined together, threading into prayer shapes of blasphemy, apparitions of his disappointment still searing her skin.
He would stop only when she evidenced belief it was futile to try and escape, to try to leave him. Not until then. After all, she belonged to him. “Fucking look at me, bitch,” he gritted out, his breath coming hard with the exertion he was exercising on her behalf.
In response to his demand, her gaze involuntarily darted upwards, and she was barely in time to see the clenched fist flying towards her face, then everything went blessedly black.
5 - No girls, no way
“Fuck that,” he told Deke. “You know how I feel about club pussy. Just ain’t going to touch it, man.” He made a circle with the thumb and finger of one hand, plunging the first finger of his other hand through the hole several times. Laughing, he said, “You wanna hit that loose shit, you go right at it, brother. Be like a hotdog skating side-to-side in a wide hallway, but you go right at it.”
“Bastard. I could have done without the visual.” Deke laughed then gripped his crotch, shaking the half-hard cock tenting his pants. “Plus, my dick ain’t no hotdog; it’s a bratwurst, a fucking fat sausage.”
Gunny (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 5) Page 5
