Gunny (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 5)

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Babe?” His questioning tone drew a wordless, humming response from her. “You okay?” When she didn’t answer, he lifted his head and opened his eyes, searching her face for any indication he had hurt her. Eyes closed, there was a gentle smile curling up the corners of her mouth, and as he watched, she brought her arm up, fingers curling around his wrist, holding his hand against her breast when he would have moved and released her. “Babe?” he repeated the one-word inquiry and was relieved when she moved to snuggle against him as best she could with him wrapped around her like this.

  “I’m better than okay, Gunny. I’m great,” she said softly, pressing her lips against the dip in his throat. “That was amazing, eh?”

  He chuckled, and she must have found the rumbling in his chest amusing, because she laid her ear against him, laughing along with him. “Better than okay?” He simply wanted confirmation, pressing her for an answer. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “No, baby. Other than the pleasurable stretching to take all of your enormous cock, there was no pain I didn’t welcome.” Eyes still closed, she laughed again. “And note my use of the word ‘pleasurable,’ because it was all of that. I don’t think I’ve ever come quite so hard.” She made a noise in her throat, tunneling her face against his chest as she said, “We fit, you know?”

  “Yeah, babe. I know. We fit,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “We do fit.”

  ***

  Head propped up on her hand, she watched him as he slept. Her gaze traced his features, relishing the calmness she found there. She watched the way his nostrils flared on each intake of breath, how his lips pursed slightly as he breathed out. Lying flat on his back, he didn’t move much as long as he had a hand on her, as long as she lay pressed against his side. As from the first night she remembered them sleeping in the same bed, it was only when she tried to move away that he became restless, breath coming faster, his large hands seeking, groping the sheets. She glanced down at where his arm wrapped around her back, possession evident in his hand resting on her hip, fingers curling around to her belly. Once she nestled back into his side, he stilled, peaceful again, his breathing becoming deep and even.

  His other hand lay relaxed on his chest, and she reached up to curl her fingers around his wrist, silently laughing at her efforts when she failed to span the thickness by several inches. She remembered she couldn’t encircle his cock, either, her pussy tightening at the memory of being filled by him. God, she never felt so cherished, loved. When he said he was going to love on her, he meant every word.

  Using one fingertip, she gently traced the veins in the back of his hand, marveling at the size and strength of the muscles and bone bound by soft skin. Stretching out her hand, she laid it on top of his, smiling again at the difference in the size…the length of their fingers, the width of their palms. They were an unlikely pair, so different, but they fit. She knew they did.

  It was unbelievable to her that someone so strong could be so gentle, caring for her in a way that left her feeling secure, not frightened. To think, he could crush her with one hand, probably without breaking a sweat, but for all his size, she knew he would never hurt her. In her heart, she knew he would die before hurting her. For days now, she witnessed firsthand his attention to her comfort, his concern for her safety. Even with how aroused he was tonight, how frustrated he had to have been, considering he had an erection pretty much since she woke in bed with him the first time, he had been careful with her. Considerate. Loving.

  She frowned, trailing her fingers up his arm to his bicep. He had a tattoo high on his shoulder and, distracted for a moment, she traced the outlines of the ink, her mind wandering. When she had been with Derek, she had been taken without being prepared before, and it hurt…badly. When she ran away from him the last time, when Vanna found her, saved her, she swore she was done with men. Snorting softly, she remembered telling her friend her own fingers had been a better lover than her husband ever thought about being, and the echo of sentiment in what Gunny had told her earlier wasn’t lost on her.

  Gunny was…different. It was as if her enjoyment mattered more to him than his own. Pulling back in the shower, when she would have been happy to please him with her mouth, he stopped things because he wanted it to be good for her. And, even as hard as he had been, as ready as he had been to make love, he had taken the time to prepare her, made the effort to make sure she was primed. By the time he pushed inside her, she didn’t think she had ever wanted anything as badly. In this bed, there was only good, no fright, and no paralyzing pain. I know he’ll never hurt me, she thought then frowned again. I trust him. The only way he could hurt me will be when I have to leave, when he gets tired of me.

  That thought startled her, because it hinted at a deeper feeling than she expected. Leaning forward, she pressed her mouth against his chest in a soft kiss, running her nose back and forth across his skin. She liked the way he smelled, loved how his mouth tasted. She reached up, tracing the seam of his lips with a fingertip, grinning when he frowned slightly and his mouth gave the smallest twitch.

  Why would it hurt me to leave him? He’s just my rescuer, isn’t he? Did she think there was more? Was she saying…did she love him? Silly woman, it’s too soon, she thought, kissing his chest again. Pulling back, she looked into his face, seeing beauty there. She knew he believed he wasn’t attractive, which she never would understand. Would you look at him, she scoffed in her mind. Gorgeous. Combine that face with the body, and then throw in the gentleness? My gorgeous, gentle giant. What’s not to love?

  Laying her head on his chest, she sighed when his arm tightened around her, his hand slipping down to tightly cup her ass for a moment then moving back up to settle on her hip. Maybe he liked her a little. Even DeeDee thought he had feelings for her; she as much as said so last week.

  “You need to take care, sweetheart. He’s been hurt,” DeeDee said, leaning over and pulling bottles of beer out of the cooler, handing them to her by twos and fours. Since she couldn’t dance, she had been helping around the club, and they were rotating stock before opening for the day.

  “He’s hinted, but never come out and said what happened.” She nudged the full bucket out of the way, sliding an empty one into easy reach. “I got the impression he hadn’t had a girlfriend for a while, though. Was I wrong?”

  “No, not wrong. He hasn’t had one for as long as I’ve known him.” That response surprised her, and DeeDee must have seen it, because she laughed and straightened, using the back of one wrist to push her hair from her face. “He doesn’t have any girlfriends, and he doesn’t take free dances, if you know what I mean. His troubles lie further back in his past, and the little bit I know is ugly.”

  “When the club put him to work here at Slinky’s, I questioned it. I’ve always liked Lane, but he seemed particularly…unstable, at the time. Talked to Deke, found out he’d been in Iraq. I figured he saw some bad shit there. When he joined the Rebels, some days he would show up at the clubhouse—this was before Winger passed—Gunny would show up at the clubhouse and some days he looked completely lost. In those days, he was Lane, not Gunny. Sometimes he would want to talk, and I’d sit and listen for as long as he had words.”

  “You know he didn’t want to quit the military? Said he was a Marine for life. Planned to die a jarhead, but they kicked him to the curb. Told him he was ‘undeployable,’ the bastards. Gave him a medal…have you seen his scars? Did he tell you the story?” She paused, and Sharon shook her head, praying she would continue talking. “Those are from the ambush that took his team, took his military family from him. He got shot three times, saw his entire team die in front of him. He said it took him over three weeks to make his way back to safety. Then they took it from him. Everything.”

  She stared at DeeDee. She had seen the scars, but had only asked him about them once, and when he glossed over her questions, she stopped, giving him the same space he gave her when she didn’t want to talk about things.

  She moved
slightly, hoping DeeDee would keep going. This was the most she had ever heard the woman say, and it was everything she wanted…needed to hear.

  “When you were first hurt, did you know he didn’t leave the room for four days? Scratch that—he came out and got the pain pills, but other than those few moments, he stayed with you. Stood in the shower and held you while I washed your hair. Growled at me when he thought I was taking too long. Got pissed off at Jase when he wanted to sit with you.” DeeDee laughed and leaned back into the cooler, pulling out the last few beer bottles. “I’ve never seen anyone react like that before. I was worried so I spoke to Deke and Goose about his behavior because I thought maybe it was a PTSD episode. I knew he had some bad ones in the past. They both laughed and told me it ran much deeper than that.”

  She twisted her head and looked at Sharon. “I know what they were talking about now. He likes you, Sharon. Whenever you’re in the room, no matter what else is going on, it’s as if you are the only thing he can see. The man likes you a lot. Just…tread softly with him, okay? Don’t hurt him. He matters to more people than he knows. He matters to me.”

  She smiled, pressing another soft kiss to his chest and felt him stir, his sleep roughened voice asking, “Babe?”

  She nuzzled into him, sighing again, and repeated the words he had so often given to her, “Sleep, baby.” Yeah, I love him, she thought. He just doesn’t know it yet.

  12 - Rebels ride

  From a table along the back wall of the clubhouse, Mason watched members as they moved through the main room into the kitchen or up the stairs to where the bedrooms and suites were located. He had been seated there for about two hours, entering the clubhouse during a slow time of day when only a couple of prospects were present, and he silenced them with a look, wishing to retain anonymity as long as he could, even if it were only for a brief time.

  As he sat there relaxing after the long ride, he turned recent events, and their causes and repercussions, over in his mind. Things had begun to fall into place over the past year or so, and every chapter of the club had stable, legit businesses turning a profit, which meant all the members were being taken care of; his brothers were secure. In the twelve official chapters chartered as of last weekend, he had more than two thousand brothers ready to ride at his back with no more than a phone call.

  This was what he sought all those years ago, what he wanted when he went against the deep-seated loyalties that had become an essential part of his life. It was what he needed when he wrestled the club out of his president’s grasp, when his takeover had stripped Deacon of control, putting the binders on the slow, precarious slide into collapse that the club had been courting for a long time. This is what he prayed for when he put his best friend in the ground to save his brother’s life, when he killed Ripper and then had been betrayed by blood. Maybe, after working towards it all this time, he would be able to see his way to everything being worth it, and finally reckon his penance paid for decisions long in the wind.

  After the events of several weeks ago, when he took a handful of brothers to California to retrieve one of their own, nearly losing a brother in the process, he wanted that for himself. He wanted to lay it all out there and have people he trusted tell him he’d done good,

  that—as Ripper had often said—he had found the win. That was his intent with being here tonight, his mea culpa, because in the end, it was all on him. He had done what he had done, and believed they were the right things for the right reasons, but his brothers needed to understand what was still to come.

  He watched as a group of several men came in through the hallway leading from the outside door, saw them enjoying an easy, comfortable camaraderie with each other. There was a definite level of confidence present between the members, and he found this rewarding to see. No more looking over their shoulders, and no more eyeballing each other, trying to catch the knife before it found its mark.

  Over the years he had learned a lot about how to run a club, first with the Chicago chapter, of course, but then in how to expand into new chapters with St. Louis, then Kansas City, Memphis…Fort Wayne. A couple of the lessons had been more of the ‘what not to do’ variety, but everything sorted out in the end. The roads before them might not be paved with gold, but they were solid and rideable; the club was stable. He had somehow managed to get the critical things right, making sure the correct people were in place at the precise time needed, for the most part, and was proud of this outcome.

  Like any typical Saturday night, the clubhouse was filling up quickly, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to remain in the shadows much longer. Frankly, he was surprised no one had noticed him yet. As the thought crossed his mind, there was a startled shout of his name.

  Looking up, he saw Tug walking his direction with a beautiful, dark-haired lady at his side, one strong arm slung around her shoulders. Drawing in a deep breath, Mason stood, slipping his beanie into his back pocket and sticking out an arm for their usual warrior’s greeting. He pulled his friend close, bumping shoulders with the old man and thumping his back twice, three times with his other fist. Moving back, he inclined his head towards the woman, saying softly, “Maggie, how you doin’, hon?”

  She stepped forward and wrapped her arms firmly around his waist, hugging him tightly and not even flinching when her hands grazed across the gun holstered at the small of his back. He smiled, because, for someone who had only been introduced to the lifestyle a few months ago, Bear’s mother was awfully nonchalant about such things. “Davis Mason, I didn’t know you were in town, but it is good to see you. I’m doing fine, son. How about you?”

  Mason warmed at her use of the word; it had been a while since a woman had called him that. He told Bear a long time ago to cherish his mom, because not everyone had the kind of sweet she brought into the world, and now he was reminded of this when he looked into Tug’s face and found him gazing down at the woman, seeing the expression of deep affection written on his features. Mason thought to himself, Looks like the old man found something worth keeping.

  Slate had stepped out of his office at the exchange and stood across the room, a pleased smile on his face before it disappeared behind his cupped hands. His shout amplified and rang through all the rooms of the clubhouse, drawing members and their women to the main room. “Motherfuckers, our Prez is in our house. Give the man some hospitality, and for fuck’s sake, get him a goddamn beer!”

  Striding across the room with his hand outstretched, Slate’s smile slipped a notch when the wavering tones of a baby’s cry rose from an upstairs hallway. Greeting Mason, he ducked his head a little and appeared to be waiting for something. Mason cocked his head, looking at him curiously, and Tug laughed, saying cryptically, “Five, four, three, two—” Before he could finish the countdown, Mason heard a voice he recognized, and at the words yelled from upstairs, he found himself laughing along with Tug and all the brothers.

  “Slate…Prez, did you have to shout like that?” A second baby’s voice joined the first, and the doubled volume caused Slate’s shoulders to rise another inch as the woman’s voice rolled down the stairs again. “Oh goodie, now Dani is up too.”

  “Fuck me,” Slate muttered.

  Mason reached over, tapping his fist on Slate’s shoulder. “Twins, man. That’s crazy shit. Y’all going for round two anytime soon?” He paused and laughed, “I guess actually that’d be round three, huh?”

  “Fuck you, Prez. Ruby says not yet, but you never know.” He laughed in response, and Mason watched him turn to look at his wife walking down the stairs with a child held securely in each arm, pride bright on his face at the sight. “Wanna see my babies again?” his friend asked with a broad smile, kissing Ruby’s forehead before taking the blue-swaddled infant from her. “I’m told I make pretty babies, Prez.”

  Ruby rose on her toes to kiss Mason’s cheek. “Hey, Mason,” she said quietly, and then turned to Slate, her next words drawing more laughter from the gathered Rebels and their women. “I made pretty babies
. You provided the fertilizer.”

  Later in the evening, after the old ladies and babies had gone home, Mason sat behind closed doors in the office with his inner circle of confidants and looked at the faces arrayed around the table. He knew the men had unasked questions, one of which would be about the location for this meeting, because it was one that normally would be held in Chicago, the mother chapter.

  He told himself he had called the meeting here tonight, because it was convenient. But, more and more frequently over the past few months, he had found himself making his way to the Fort…because of a woman he first met in the clubhouse of a rival MC. Events set in motion that night had eventually wound up settling in his favor, including his pursuit of the woman. He didn’t always seek out Willa Shipman when he was in town, but simply knowing she was within easy reach eased his mind somehow.

  Willa, he thought and shook his head. The quick-witted beauty he first saw nearly two years ago was a topic that could wait for another day. This meet was for a different reason, so with difficulty, he put her from his mind.

  The club would always be based out of Chicago, having been chartered there in a bar after everything went down the way it did so many years ago. The Monaco had been renamed Jackson’s once the blood was all washed away, honoring the memories of everyone left standing. That bar was still the location where the club had their wall of honor, displaying pictures of all their fallen brothers, and Jackson’s picture was at the top of that wall, fitting, because the bar was where he died.

  Mason smiled fondly, remembering how proud the old man had been to be from Jackson, Mississippi, the town Johnny Cash and June Carter immortalized with their song. Jackson, better known to his family as Phillip Michaels, had been transported back home for burial, with all honor from the club. He had been a loyal member of the Rebel Fiends, and one of Mason’s most staunch supporters. Authorizing and organizing his motorcycle escort to Jackson was one of Mason’s first acts as the president of the newly renamed Rebel Wayfarers.