Gunny (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 5)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Eyes flying open wide, she looked up into a face that could harbor no evil; no monsters lived within this woman. Green eyes set in a round face, dark hair framing the features split with a nervous smile. “Sweetheart, are you hurt?” There was a strong, generous hand reaching out to lift her up, fingers invitingly curling into the clean, soft-looking palm. All she had to do was take it, grab hold…place herself into it, accepting the help.

  Shaking her head, she turned to look up the road, seeing the taillights of the car still receding into the distance, becoming smaller and dimmer with each passing second, with every breath losing their ability to control her, to keep her…to imprison her. “Come out of the canal, hon. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” At the declaration, her gaze slammed back to the woman’s face, taking in the sincerity and honesty there. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  She didn’t know when her teeth had begun chattering, when her body began to respond to the environment surrounding her, stealing her heat even as it fed her freedom. She again looked at the outstretched hand, suddenly terrified it would be withdrawn and frantically she stretched one arm up, desperation accompanying the mud-slickened slap of her palm against the clean one. She gasped, feeling the smallest of slips before the hand closed over hers, the grip firm, holding on tightly and beginning to draw her up and out of the muck. She managed to quell her shuddering muscles long enough to whisper, “Shar. My name is Sharon.”

  6 - Moving forward

  She smiled, dipped her hands back into the steaming heat, and searched around, exploring with her fingertips for the last piece of silverware lurking in the wash water. Looking out the window set in the wall over the sink, she let her gaze dance across the backyard, taking in the unrelenting ordinariness of the view. The blessed, treasured normality of the child’s swingset tucked into a back corner of the yard, the averageness of an asphalt-shingled doghouse roof, the mundane back gate, which led to an unremarkable empty field lying alongside an extremely unnoteworthy section of woods. Normal, ordinary, sane. Safe.

  There was a noise behind her and she twisted her head to see Savannah walk into the room, followed by a boy of about fourteen. She was looking up at Shar, and he was looking down at the game in his hand, their postures indicative of their very different personalities. Vanna was always looking outward, seeking interaction, eagerly in search of the next stray she could collect and care for. There were few days that passed where she didn’t set an extra place at the table for one or more meals, or bring home a crated animal for care.

  Kitt, on the other hand, was painfully withdrawn, hardly bearing the touch of even the friendliest of hands some days. Vanna was religious about exposing him to experiences though, creating opportunities for him to explore. It wasn’t uncommon for them to spend a day by the creek, Kitt waiting eagerly on the bank for the waterlogged treasures his mother brought him. Him on the bank, because while he loved the crawdads and smooth stones she found, he was powerless to look for himself, unable to stand the sensation of running water against his skin. It wasn’t that she ignored or denied his diagnosis of autism, but more she didn’t see it as a defining aspect of her son. She often said he would never be able to find his niche in life if he didn’t have a chance to discover things, so she made certain he at least had the chance.

  In the time since she literally pulled Shar up out of the mess and mire that was her previous life, the two women, who couldn’t have been more different, had become close friends.

  Vanna was originally from Texas, but had settled in the panhandle of Florida years ago, following her job when it relocated. She had been divorced for a long time, Kitt’s father unable to handle the reality of their son’s disorder. He cheated, and when Vanna discovered his unfaithfulness, she hadn’t hesitated to kick his ass to the curb, confident in her ability to care for herself and her son.

  Shar smiled at the pair, and with a glance towards the window, said, “Looks like a hiking day to me,” earning a broad smile from Vanna and a twitching shrug from the boy. “I’m done here,” she said, pulling the stopper to drain the water, using the spray nozzle to rinse the remaining bubbles from the sink. “Y’all want fanny packs or daypacks?”

  “God, don’t do that again.” Vanna laughed. “A Canadian saying y’all is completely wrong, eh?” Kitt snorted a laugh, and without looking up, wordlessly reached out for the daypack his mother held out to him.

  “Okay, eh?” Now Shar was laughing along with them, thinking, This is normal, too. “Hand hug,” she told Kitt brightly and held out her arm, fingers spread in a ‘stop’ motion as she waited patiently. He glanced up at her then looked down before placing his palm against hers, their thumbs and little fingers curving around the other’s hand in a loose grip he could break as soon as he needed. “Thanks, buddy,” she said. “I needed that.” She pulled open the door, making a ‘go ahead’ gesture with her hand.

  Walking along the worn path on the way to the woods, she found herself looking around cautiously. The house might have become a place of safety and calmness for her, but open areas still held fear, and even if she knew he wasn’t here, alertness had become an ingrained habit. In the time since her escape, she never attempted to find out where he had gone, what he had done when he found her missing. She had been too afraid of somehow bringing his attention down on them, and even knowing it was a dangerous blind spot, she had left it alone. That ignorance meant he could be anywhere and she would never know, so for more than a year she had tried every day for invisibility. Until this week, when she tentatively approached a lawyer. He said it would take time, but after hearing her story, promised to do everything in his power to keep her safe while severing ties with him legally. “He could be anywhere,” she muttered without thinking, and the verbal affirmation of her vulnerability sent the beginnings of panic to place a hitch in her breathing.

  “Or nowhere.” Vanna spoke quietly, reassuringly, letting her know she had caught the slip.

  “I know,” she said quickly, clamping her lips closed on a sigh. They hiked in silence for a while, the noise of the insects and birdsong gradually increasing in volume, their movement through the woods slowly accepted by the forest’s real inhabitants.

  “You sure you’re going to be okay with Kitt while I’m gone?” Vanna had been planning and preparing for a hike in Virginia for weeks. Now the days were ticking down and she was fretting over every detail, especially the wellbeing of her son while she was out of state on-trail.

  Shaking her head, Shar stepped over a fallen branch and smiled at the woman walking in front of her. “You know I will be. He’s my best buddy, and we get on passably well. He’s gonna be fine, Maum. Stop worrying.” Vanna had been working on sectioning the long trail stretching from Georgia to Maine along the eastern states, doing forty or fifty miles for each of the past several years. Last year, Shar accompanied her on a small hike up in Tennessee, marveling at the confidence of her friend. Vanna was in her element no matter where she was, whether working in a soup kitchen, digging a drainage ditch in the garden, or hiking up a four-thousand-foot mountain. “I worry more about you,” she lied, knowing her friend would laugh.

  “How are the classes going?” Vanna asked, changing the subject and then muffled a curse as Kitt released a branch exactly in time for it to whip his mother in the face.

  Ducking her head safely under the offending branch, Shar said, “Hmm. Is there a word for better than good? Great? Wonderful? Excellent? Yeah, excellent. Classes are excellent.” Her gaze tracked up the trail and she experienced a strange sense of unease as she watched the heels of Vanna’s boots moving relentlessly forward, leading the way up the path. Deja vu. She shook off the feeling and said, “The instructor is so good. He’s using a pole, but doesn’t call it pole dancing, says it’s more like vertical gymnastics.” She heard another muffled curse, ducked under the still swaying branch, and grinned. “I love it. Feels like flying.”

  ***

  He sat on the edge of the couch cushion, staring at
his friend. “Deke, man, don’t do it.” His breath came hard and fast and he hated the pleading tone in his voice. “Mason already knows how fucked I am, man. He doesn’t need no reminders.”

  Deke sat on the coffee table, his knees touching Gunny’s, the firm warmth of that contact the only thing keeping him grounded. He felt as if he was about to explode, and at the same time wanted to slink back into the darkness within the house, the obscurity of anonymity that had been his refuge for so long. He needed to make his friend understand he would be okay; this was simply another rough patch to traverse. He would make it through; he always did.

  “You call Mason and tell him what you found when you walked into my house uninvited, he’s going to ask for my patch, man. I can’t…you can’t take the club from me. I need…fuck, this is hard.” He shook his head, driving the demons clamoring for attention from the front of his thoughts. “The club is the only thing that keeps me going, man. For so many years now, it’s been the club, pups, and bikes. You take one of those things from me, and unbalanced doesn’t come close to being the right word.” He stared at Deke, trying to determine if his words had the expected effect.

  “Lane,” Deke shook his head, “I can’t keep something like this from Prez, man. You know it. He’s not going to ask for your patch—no how, no way. Man loves you like a brother. I think he’s as close to you as he is Slate.” He glanced down at the object held loosely in his hands, watching as he absently turned it over and over with his fingers. “You say you weren’t going to do anything. Well then, why the fuck did I walk in to find you spinning this on the wood where my ass is now sitting?”

  Deke held out his hand, the small pistol balanced on one broad palm.

  “It’s just something I do.” He shrugged, not believing his own words. “Like that motherfucker Tug always grooming his face with his fingers, or Myron counting ceiling tiles. It’s only a habit.”

  “Not buying it, brother.” Deke spoke softly, but his words hit hard, like the concussive wave of an IED exploding next to the truck ahead of you in a convoy. Gunny rolled his neck, listening to the tendons creak and crack, pushing back the tension along with the memories. Deke said, his voice shaking with intensity, “You need to talk to someone, Lane.”

  He stood in a rush of movement, rubbing his palm across the top of his head, feeling the drag of rough stubble on his skin. He was afraid to look down at Deke for a minute, afraid he would see pity in place of the compassion his friend had shown so far. “You fucking think I haven’t done that? Haven’t talked my throat dry? I’ve been dealing with this for ten years, man. Ten goddamned long years. I know what trips me up. I know, and I. Fucking. Deal.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “I just fucking deal.” Yes, you do, brother, he heard the murmur in his mind, stealing his strength. You fucking deal. Let the man help you deal. Deal with getting real. Shaking his head, Deke opened his mouth, but stopped when Gunny’s legs folded, dropping his ass back on the couch, disturbing the sleep of the beagle and rat terrier curled up on the cushions beside him. He reached over and dragged his fingertips along their sides, soothing them. His voice so hoarse with emotion he could barely recognize it, he said, “You take the club, you might as well pull the fucking trigger for me.”

  Deke said, "Then let me help you. Give what I came over here to tell you a chance. I talked to Slate, explained the gun range isn't a fit. Fuck, man, you should have told him that yourself.” He gestured between the two of them, his movements impatient. “You and I both know that's probably what triggered you."

  Be real, brother, Kincade murmured again.

  He nodded, exhaling in a rush. "I know, but the club needed someone to work that cop party. Only people available were prospects or me, so I raised my fucking hand. It’s what we do, man. We just take care of our own shit. No excuses."

  Deke laughed humorlessly. "My fucking brother's shoot 'em up? Hell, he coulda worked the thing himself. But, here's the thing, Lane; you fucking knew it'd trigger you, and you did it anyway. Without even saying a word, you put yourself into a place that was gonna fuck you up. Prez and I, we sorted it out, which is what I was coming here to tell you. We're going to shift you to Slinky's."

  "The strip joint? Watching skanks and hos shake their tired pussies for quarter tips? Jesus, man, you do hate me." He wouldn't admit it, but Deke's solution made sense. Working with DeeDee would be good, they had found their way to an easy friendship years ago, and it only deepened after Winger passed. Being around her wouldn’t be a hardship at all, so this sounded good. Sounded nearly too good to be true. "What's the catch?"

  "No catch, brother. Just…"—he looked down at the gun still in his hand—"you gotta promise to fucking talk to me."

  7 - Duty calls

  Gunny tensed and shifted, rolling his shoulders as he stood along the inside wall of the club, watching the men who were there watching the dancers. He had been working at Slinky’s off and on for a while now, and out of all the jobs Slate had offered him, this one as bouncer of the strip club still seemed like the best fit. Recently, he was up in Chicago helping Bear with some bikes, but then the motherfucker had to go and nearly get himself killed in Iowa. Gunny worked on all the bikes they had in the queue as best he could, but knew his talents didn’t lie in overstroking engines or creating café racers out of reclaimed frames. No crotch rockets for him, his thing was still restoring back to stock. He had a full cadre of bikes in garage rot-mode at the moment, because, except for his lone long-term one, he lacked inspiration for his next project.

  His gaze swept across the crowd again. Tonight, it was nearly all citizens; only a few of the patrons were bikers, and most of those were members of a different club here in town, the River Riders. That sector of the audience understood it was worth their blood to start trouble in a Rebel business, so he mentally dismissed them and scanned the room again, impassively skimming over the girls dancing, turning back to them only when a note of discord registered. Something ain’t right, he thought, noting with growing disgust the jerky movements of the girl on the stage closest to where he stood.

  Since she took over management of the strip club, DeeDee had been working hard to keep the girls with habits off the stage, but it looked like she misjudged this one for sure. He pulled out his phone, flipping it open and dialing without taking his eyes off the girl. Her movements were fast becoming less coordinated, and with her rapid deterioration, he suspected they would be dealing with an overdose soon. “Slate. Hey, Prez, it’s Gunny. I’m at Slinky’s. Got a girl needs Goose, looks like she’s using.” He had a lot of respect for Slate and hated to say what he thought was going on, since the man’s little brother Ben had barely left rehab from his recent issues, but he needed Prez to know how serious it was. “I think we need Goose fast, Prez. It won't surprise me if she’s in the early stages of an OD.”

  “Fuck me.” Slate’s harsh mutter came through the phone, followed by a question. “She passed the screens?”

  “Dunno about that, Prez. I’m just sayin’ what I’m seein’ right here, right now.” He shook his head as she stumbled, barely catching herself from toppling off the stage. Glancing around the room again, he confirmed his previous assessment of the patrons. “I need to get her to the back, but there’s no one here to cover the door. I got some Riders, but no Rebels.”

  The outside door opened and he saw Hoss, the Fort Wayne vice-president, walk in, his arm wrapped around Mercy, one of the club whores who occasionally danced. “Scratch that, I got Hoss. Can you call Goose for me?”

  “Yeah, I’ll call Goose. Get the girl in the back before she pukes on somebody,” Slate said, and the call ended.

  Hoss looked his way, giving the girl a swat on her ass and directing her towards the bar as he walked over to Gunny. With a chin lift, Gunny asked, “You mind watching the door for a bit?”

  “Naw, don’t mind it. What’s up?” Hoss tilted his head inquisitively.

  Tipping his head towards the girl on stage, Gunny said, “Need to take care of so
mething.”

  Hoss looked at her and frowned, looking back at Gunny with hard eyes, asking with surprise in his voice, “What the fuck, Gunny?”

  “She’s not my gash, man. I’m only taking her in the back until Goose can get here. Prez was my first call when I saw the score, and he’s calling the cavalry.” Shaking his head, he sneered at the man in front of him regardless of his rank in the club, pulling himself up to his full height, towering over the other man. “Fuck you. You don’t know me. I got years in the club, and you do not fucking know me.”

  Without another word, he turned and strode to the stage, reaching up a hand and clasping the girl’s wrist loosely in his palm. Quietly, he told her, “Come with me, now,” then sighed at the blank stare she gave him. Wrapping one arm around her waist, he scooped her off the stage and set her feet on the floor, ignoring the looks and questions from the men nearby. She wobbled on her heels, hands clutching at his arm for balance.

  This bitch is a fucking piece of work, he thought as he steered her stumbling steps towards the door leading into the back of the building. No goddamn respect for herself. I sure ain’t gonna waste my fucking time on her, or any other woman like this.

  ***

  She lowered her head, staring at the dingy three-inch by three-inch tile directly in front of her toes, her gaze tracking first along one edge, then another, trying to slow down the pounding of her heart. In through the nose, and out through the mouth, she thought, taking measured breaths as her eyelids flickered closed. She felt her sense of hearing expanding, rolling outward from where she stood on the edge of the raised platform.

  From over by the bar came the clink of highball glasses, the delicate rims kissing the sides of the glass beneath it as the bartender placed stacks of the clean tumblers on the shelf. She made out the buzz from the speaker system and the hum of the air conditioner, feeling a steady draft of cold air dropping down from the overhead vent. Cars drove down Lima Road, past the club; there was a melodic bell sounding somewhere in the distance, signaling the end of the school day.