Gunny (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 5)

by MariaLisa deMora

  The sheer dress she wore floated around her as she twirled in the space between the end of the stage and the pole. Her face lifted to the ceiling, and his mind went back to the first time he saw her in his backyard, recognizing the pose. He saw she was looking up at the stained tiles above her head as if they held the sun, with its warmth drawing her onto her tiptoes, arms spread wide. Spinning slowly to a stop, she dipped sideways and rested one hand on the pole, eyes closed, touching it tenderly with the backs of her fingers and hand, as if she were reintroducing herself to the feel of a lover. God, I fucking love it when she touches me like that. Swaying in harmony with the music, her face broke into a smile when she leaned close, nuzzling one cheek against the pole, saying hello to a favored friend. That is my smile.

  Arms out, as if playing airplanes with a child, she ran swooping and twirling around the pole, spiraling closer and closer with each circuit until she was standing tall, face-to-face with it. Whirling to place her back to the pole, her head tipped back, her cheek again stroking along the metal.

  His mouth drew tight on a silent groan, watching as her eyes snapped open, looking at him. His breath caught in his chest as he took in her eyes, the look on her face. She’s dancing for me. A sultry smile crossed her face while her chin tilted down, eyes inviting all viewers in on a secret, making each person a participant in her performance. Dancing only for me. Elegantly stretching one hand over her head, she used the other to grasp the hem of her dress, pulling it up and off in one movement, abandoning it near her shoes, and his shout of panic stopped in his throat. Undressed, but still covered in nearly nude shorts and a sports bra, she looked completely accessible, but was fully shielded from the men’s eyes. That is my body, goddammit.

  One hand on the pole, she danced in a curving arc around it, winding around and gaining momentum until she reached up, her hand clasping and lifting herself off the floor, her upper body strength allowing her to pull up the bar, hand over hand. Still twirling around the pole, she flipped sideways, pushing her leg around the pole and locked it into place with her arm, spinning slowly towards the floor. It looked as if she were drifting downward, nothing holding her up but the air beneath her.

  Pausing the descent mid-pole, she continued her spin, moving slowly and gracefully from position to position, legs twisting around the pole, and then spread wide as she whirled. Hands and feet vied for position; she angled her body to gain or lose speed on her spin, maintaining the impression of effortlessness. Fuck me, she’s become my obsession. I can’t wait to be buried deep inside her.

  With a start, he shifted his gaze around the room, realizing he had been staring at Sharon since she came on stage. Looking around at the other men in the room, he understood every man who was the same way, fucking mesmerized. He felt his cut shift and realized he had tightened his shoulders, was clenching his fists. Every one of those motherfuckers was looking at his woman, wanting to fuck her, and he was ready to take them all on. She was seducing the entire fucking audience, and still had her goddamn panties on. That’s my goddamn pussy.

  Gunny realized that damn smile had never left her face. My fucking smile.

  She dismounted twice during the set, the first time climbing back up the pole upright, hand over hand. Her body swayed alongside the bar, as if it were a mast and she the sail in a high wind, flipping and fluttering as she willed. He watched without breathing as she set her arms wide on the bar, effortlessly looking like she was flying free as she whirled in space.

  The second time she mounted the pole upside down, her bare soles looking somehow more intimate than any other part of her body as she flexed and pointed her feet, trapping the bar between them and then releasing it in natural, relaxed movements. He had never been possessive about a woman like he was with Sharon, and it had him feeling out of control, greedy, and mean. If any one of these motherfuckers tried to put a hand on her, he would lose his mind. She’s mine.

  From the way her head whipped around, turning back to him again and again, he knew she kept her eyes where she believed he would be, even if there was no way she could see him through the spotlights. His smile on her face. Dancing for him. My woman.

  She spun faster then shifted to an upright position and pulled herself back up the pole, where she froze in a pose that looked as natural as breathing, simple to hold. He watched her slide slowly down, dismounting a final time to collapse gracefully into a pale puddle on the floor of the stage.

  When the men in the room stood and applauded, he realized not one of them had thrown money on the stage during her performance, which was the highest compliment they could pay. So wrapped up were they in the illusion she wove on the pole, they forgot she was an erotic dancer for their pleasure, appreciating the beauty of her movement for what it was.

  That didn’t stop them from plying her with money now, however, and he felt a heavy scowl fix on his face as he watched her waltz around the stage, cocking a hip out for those motherfuckers to tuck money into the edge of her costume. He heard a desperate groaning sound and realized it came from him as he watched their goddamn fingers plucking at the elastic sides of her shorts. So close to my pussy. He could only watch as their dirty fucking hands glanced across her skin, saw her execute a twisting dance, moving away from men who wanted more than a sidelong touch. Touching what is mine.

  Why the fuck had she done this? Without saying a goddamn thing to him, why had she gotten back on the stage right in front of him? Was it a statement, a question? Does she think I can’t take care of her? Think I won’t want to take care of her? Is she getting off on letting men touch her for money when she is mine?

  Distracted, he nearly missed the buzz of a text. Pulling out his phone, he breathed a sigh of relief, some of the tension rolling off and away as he read the message from Mason: Got them. Bringing everyone home alive.

  He had reached out a hand to knock on the office door when it flew open, DeeDee coming around the doorframe to meet him halfway, her phone in her hand. “They’re alive,” she breathed, and wrapped her arms around him tightly.

  “Did you ever doubt Mason?” he joked, lifting his eyes to see Sharon frowning at him from the stage.

  ***

  “So tell me again why you didn’t go?” Sharon reached out and took a forkful of his potatoes, dipping them into the puddle of steak sauce on her plate before putting them in her mouth. Seated across from him in a booth at the Greek restaurant next to Slinky’s, she watched him carefully as she chewed and then swallowed the bite of food. He shook his head, content to watch her until he saw a flash of uncertainty cross her face. She tried to strike a teasing tone, but failed, a hitch in her voice as she said, “Not gonna answer me tonight? Are you really that mad because I didn’t tell you I was going to start back to work?”

  Shit. I didn’t mean for her to take my silence as punishment. Her working wasn’t something they discussed beforehand, but there was no way for him to tell her no to anything she wanted to do, not after hearing how Elkins had governed her every action. “Might have been nice to have a fucking heads-up, baby.” That was as close to a scolding as she would get from him, and even the gentle tone he used still made her flinch. Fuck. If she needs me to be soft, I can do soft for her. “Sharon, I ain’t gonna tell you what to do, or not do. I might not like seeing their hands on you, but I can deal, baby. We’re cool.”

  He rolled the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip. “And, to answer your other question, there were only so many people Bear could take with him to bring his woman home. I was needed here.”

  “But you’d rather have been there, where you could help out.” Not a question, he treated it as the statement it was and ignored it, forking a big bite of chicken fried steak into his mouth. Frustrated, she frowned at him, curling her lip comically, and then broke into a smile when he grinned at her. She asked for reassurance, her fingers playing with the edge of her plate nervously, “We’re really okay?”

  Fucking hell, she’s cute. “Yeah, baby. We’re okay.” He re
ached out a big hand to cover hers, completely engulfing it in his grasp. He never allowed himself to forget the differences in their size, or his strength against hers, always careful to handle her with care. Using his thumb to stroke the back of her hand, he tugged gently, seeking her attention. When she looked up questioningly, he said softly, “Your dance tonight. I watched you dance before, but this was different, more like your audition. I never have…where did you learn that?”

  Grinning, she took a drink from her water then leaned back, retrieving her hand from his grip, and immediately, he missed the heat from her grasp. “I took lessons, eh? Smarty pants biker guy.” Sticking her tongue out at him, she picked up her fork again.

  “Not from a stripper, you didn’t.” He shook his head, certain in his response.

  “No,” she laughed, “from a dance instructor. I started taking lessons after—” She abruptly stopped speaking, and he saw a too-familiar dark cloud cross her face and knew it was a memory of Elkins that stole her voice. Physically shaking her head and forcing brightness into her tone, she swallowed, taking a deep breath and beginning again. My woman is fucking brave. “From a dance instructor. He taught it as an art form, as if it were any other interpretive dance that used a prop, like ribbons or a hoop. It was fun, and apparently I’ve got the form for it, being short and stubby.”

  “Petite,” he corrected her, “and strong,” happy to see her grin as he intended. He asked, “Did you dance anywhere before you came to Slinky’s?”

  Losing her smile to a frown, she used her fork to stir the vegetables on her plate, pushing them back and forth across the white expanse. He didn’t like the look on her face and frowned. “Only one, a place down in Kentucky. I…I didn’t do well there.” She dropped her fork, reaching up to push her hair back away from her face, calmly stating, “I like Slinky’s though. DeeDee is more than fair as a boss, and no one makes me take off anything I don’t want to.”

  Pushing down the growl that wanted to escape his lips, he turned the intensity of his stare towards the cashier’s station and forced his tone to sound unconcerned as he asked, “And at the place in Kentucky? What did they do?”

  “Their customers expected nudity, but I didn’t wanna. It was okay until this one night, when several local guys decided to try and enforce their demands, and there was only one bouncer on duty.” Her face became impassive as she shut down, what he recognized as her response to remembering something painful. “Taking off my shorts and top was easier than seeing him get beaten up by a bunch of bikers.” She ducked her head, the biker comment apparently slipping out. When he didn’t react, she shrugged and said, “I didn’t go back there to work again. Didn’t even go back to gather up my things. It was easier to leave the few belongings in my locker and simply keep moving.”

  Still feigning casual, he leaned back, keeping his gaze firmly on the cashier, who had begun moving restlessly under his scrutiny. “I hear ya; sometimes easier is better. What was the name of the place in Kentucky?”

  “Most of the customers were actually okay. Some were even funny. The nice bikers kept asking me if I wanted to take a ride, but I knew they weren’t just talking about their bikes. I didn’t want to make them mad, so I always played the silly card when I said no.” Her voice faltered, and then she said, “It was a different group that came in that last night.” She shook her head, pushing her food around her plate again. “The club was called Shinedown,” she scoffed. “Something to do with moonshine and getting down, I guess. John, the owner, was nice enough, but he was hardly ever there.”

  Making note of the name for later, he looked back at her. “We about ready to head home, baby? You have to be tired, even if you only danced the one set. How long have you been exercising and working out to get prepared for tonight?”

  She nodded. “I am exhausted, no reason to try and deny it. Been working out as best I could for the past few days. Even big cans of vegetables don’t provide a lot of resistance when used as weights, but I made do. You should be proud of yourself. It was hard to get in the workouts I wanted. You, my dear mister Gunny, are a hard man to sneak around.”

  “Not gonna get any argument out of me on that. But now I know what you were up to, I don’t think I’ve been paying close enough attention, or obviously I would have cottoned on to the fact you’re so much better.” He stood, reaching for his chained wallet, removing bills to set on the table, and then tucking it back into his pocket. He held out his arms. “Are you too well for a ride, baby?”

  She laughed and stood on the bench seat, shrugging her small messenger bag over her head, the strap crossing between her breasts highlighting the fact she had gone braless under the loose-fitting cotton shirt, a fact he hadn’t realized until now. Fucking killing me. Adjusting things to her liking, she reached out to clasp his forearms and he lifted, the tension of their arms supporting her as he swung her around to his back, where she grabbed onto his shoulders. Her legs wouldn’t come near to going around his waist, but he supported her ass with one broad palm. He smiled when she said, “Never too well for a ride, Gunny. Home, my dear man. Take me home.”

  He paused a half step. That was twice in as many minutes she called me her dear.

  In the parking lot, he backed up to his bike, easing her onto the seat and handing her the helmet, which had quickly become hers. Mounting the bike in front of her, he waited for a signal to start the motor, feeling her snuggle up behind him, her legs spreading wide around his ass, thighs sliding up along the outside of his legs. He smiled broadly when the signal came in the form of her arms slipping underneath his jacket, holding onto the belt loops of his jeans, and her calling out a clear, “Ready.”

  A half-hour later, he pulled into the driveway of his house, waiting for the garage door to rise completely before backing the bike into the sole empty spot. He settled the bike into place and felt the change as Sharon slid off. Without looking, he reached back for the helmet, taking it from her hands and hanging it from the handlebars. This had become a comfortable routine for them both.

  “I can’t get used to seeing all these bikes,” she said, wonder in her voice. He looked around the space, taking in the pieces and parts of his in-progress bikes lying here and there, but what she was looking at were the completed motorcycles, his successes.

  He and Bear worked together on a lot of projects for the club, with Bear doing most of the customization planning, working with machine shops for performance enhancing changes to an engine or suspension. Bear also designed custom paint jobs, which everyone loved; the club couldn’t roll the iron off the line fast enough to meet the demand. Gunny was good at wrenching for someone like him, skilled at working on the bikes Bear needed help on, but his real love remained restoration. He was happiest when he could bring a bike, any bike, back to factory specifications.

  This garage was evidence of that love, filled with uncommon motorcycles from a dozen different manufacturers. There were rare bikes sitting alongside classics, road cruisers parked next to full dressers.

  He turned his head, looking at the project he had been working on over the last couple of years. Finally nearing completion, he still intended the Vincent as a gift for Mason, and couldn’t wait to present it to him. The hand-built series ‘C’ bike was a one-of-a-kind motorcycle any collector would give their eyeteeth to get their hands on.

  Gunny believed the bike fit Mason; it was fast, unusual, striking, and sought after. As he always did when beginning a new project, he had done research on the bikes as well as the people who rode them, and found the Vincent had a more famous than usual enthusiast in the writer, Hunter Thompson. The author had said by simply existing, the Vincent Black Shadow was a challenge to riders, a test of both courage and skill. Mason certainly had the balls to ride it, he thought with a grin.

  Pulling his attention away from the Vincent, he realized Sharon was already standing across the garage, watching him with a look of amusement on her face. “Let’s get inside, baby,” he said, dismounting the bike and
walking to the interior door. There was a scrabbling noise coming from inside the door and he looked at her with a smile. “Somebody’s happy we’re home.”

  In a deep, sonorous voice, she said, “Release the hounds.”

  He laughed, opening the door, futilely using his foot to try to push back the two dogs struggling to get past him to her. The beagle ducked underneath the sole of his boot with a delighted yip, launching itself at her and stretching up on its hind legs to reach her hands better. Unfazed, the rat terrier next escaped his attempt at control, jumping and knocking the beagle to the floor in an effort to gain her affections also. “They crack me up,” she said with joy in her voice, looking up at where he stood in the doorway, her mouth stretched wide in a grin. That goddamn smile gets me every fucking time.

  “Come on, guys. Let’s get back inside. Come on,” he chided the dogs, reaching back to clasp her hand and lead her into the house they had been sharing for the past couple of weeks.

  The dogs followed her inside, watching intently as she lifted her bag over her head, and he narrowed his eyes, staring at her. She had been spoiling the dogs since she could get out of bed without help. “You didn’t bring home leftovers, did you?”

  “Just a potato or two,” she said, digging in the pack and coming up with a soggy, grease-soaked napkin. “Here we are, boys. My good boys,” she crooned then looked up at Gunny, saying brightly, “They love fries.” They get the love, and I get the matter-of-fact voice, he thought testily.

  “Yeah, but people food gives ‘em gas.” He sighed at the disappointment in her face, looking down at the dogs, so completely focused on her. “Go ahead, but only a couple each, all right?”

  “Who’s a good boy? Who wants a fry?” She stuck her tongue out at him, and then looked down at the dogs. “Not Daddy, that’s for sure. Nope, nope, nope. Just my good boys. Who wants a fry? Can a good boy sit?” Both dogs immediately sat, eyes still boring holes in the fry-filled napkin, tails working overtime, enthusiastically flipping back and forth.