SUSAN FANETTI
THE FREAK CIRCLE PRESS
Twist © 2017 Susan Fanetti
All rights reserved
Susan Fanetti has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this book under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
ALSO BY SUSAN FANETTI
The Brazen Bulls MC:
Crash, Book 1
THE NIGHT HORDE MC SAGA:
The Signal Bend Series:
(The First Series)
Move the Sun, Book 1
Behold the Stars, Book 2
Into the Storm, Book 3
Alone on Earth, Book 4
In Dark Woods, Book 4.5
All the Sky, Book 5
Show the Fire, Book 6
Leave a Trail, Book 7
The Night Horde SoCal:
(The Second Series)
Strength & Courage, Book 1
Shadow & Soul, Book 2
Today & Tomorrow, Book 2.5
Fire & Dark, Book 3
Dream & Dare, Book 3.5
Knife & Flesh, Book 4
Rest & Trust, Book 5
Calm & Storm, Book 6
Nolan: Return to Signal Bend
Love & Friendship
The Pagano Family Series:
Footsteps, Book 1
Touch, Book 2
Rooted, Book 3
Deep, Book 4
Prayer, Book 5
Miracle, Book 6
The Pagano Family: The Complete Series
The Northwomen Sagas:
God’s Eye
Heart’s Ease
Soul’s Fire
For all who’ve tried to be what others want them to be and have learned the painful lesson that such a life is unsustainable.
But if you tame me, then we shall need each other.
To me, you will be unique in all the world.
To you, I shall be unique in all the world.
~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
THE BRAZEN BULLS MOTORCYCLE CLUB
Tulsa, Oklahoma
1996 Roster
Brian Delaney—President
Oskar “Dane” Nielsen—Vice President
Conrad “Radical” Jessup—Sergeant at Arms
Simon Spellman—Secretary-Treasurer
Fernando “Ox” Sanchez—Enforcer
Edgar “Eight Ball” Johnston—Enforcer
Gary Becker—Enforcer
Maxwell “Gunner” Wesson—Soldier
Griffin Hayes—Soldier
Neil “Apollo” Armstrong—Soldier
Richard “Maverick” Helm—Soldier
Andrew “Slick” Zabek—Prospect
Walter “Wally” Hansen—Prospect
CHAPTER LIST
AUTHOR’S NOTE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
ABOUT SUSAN FANETTI
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This story includes some very limited BDSM elements and discussion of same, and I feel it’s important to clarify that Gunner’s attitudes about, and experience of, BDSM reflect his character and his experiences—and, to an extent, the era in which the story occurs—and not my own attitudes about BDSM. Gunner’s feelings, experiences, and statements are his and are not intended as commentary about that culture itself.
s—
(If you saw the words “Author’s Note” and thought, “Oh shit, who did she kill this time?” you can let out that held breath now.)
CHAPTER ONE
“C’MON, MOTHERFUCKER!”
Gunner shouted the dare and then laughed and spread his arms wide in invitation, and the idiot he was fighting charged in at him. He locked his knees, taking the impact with a grunt, and swept his arms under and around the shithead’s arms, yanking sharply upward. He felt both shoulders go, almost simultaneously, and the guy screamed. When Gunner let him go, he fell forward and screamed again as he hit the broken pavement of the alley.
He loved getting these bouncing gigs. Whether it was country rednecks or grunge mosh pits, there was always somebody’s ass that needed kicking. Like frat boys on too much Jägermeister, thinking they were God’s gift to women and looking to prove it. The Brazen Bulls were happy to show them the truth.
While the heavy beat of the music inside made the air pulse, Gunner laughed and spun, looking for more fight. Eight Ball and Apollo were on two others, in need of no assistance. In addition to the dude with two freshly dislocated shoulders, they’d disabled two guys already, who were both still down.
That was it? Damn. That hadn’t been much of a brawl at all. Talk about a prick tease.
Then one of the down guys—the first one Gunner had put down—started working toward getting on his feet. While Eight and Apollo continued beating on their guys, Gunner grinned and watched. When frat boy got the soles of his Jordans flat on the aged asphalt, he rose up like a preppy hunchback, his pink Polo shirt besmirched with back-alley grime. He was holding a splintery piece of board. Just a one-by-two, but it had a nasty jagged point on one end.
Gunner gave him time to feel like he was steady and ready to use that wannabe spear. He wanted a good reason to go for the kill. Well, the hurt. There would be no killing tonight. He hadn’t been on Delaney’s shit list for like two months, and he was trying to keep it that way. Nothing beyond line-of-duty mayhem.
But if a motherfucker was going to start wielding sharp sticks, then, well, some extra hurt was in order. And right on! The guy turned and looked ready to come for him.
“Okay, Alpha Delta Gayboy. Come and get me.” He stood still and let the guy shove the pointy end of the stick at him. At the last second, he cocked his head, so it shot past him—not quite past him; it scraped his cheek on its way by, and he felt a sliver of wood go through. But no more damage than that, and the guy’s forward momentum, not stopped as he’d expected by Gunner’s head, brought him into full contact instead with Gunner’s uppercutting fist. He flew backward and landed on the pavement.
Jesus, these guys were easy. Rowdy frat boys were the fucking worst. Well, with no better options, Gunner dropped onto the guy who’d given him a splinter and got out his aggressive tendencies as best he could.
The fucking heavy bag at the clubhouse gave more fight.
“Enough, Gun!” Eight Ball grabbed his kutte and pulled him back. “Back off before you—” He cut of
f as Gunner came up to his feet and turned to face him. “Holy shit! Gun!” Eight’s eyes went wide.
Apollo was there, too, also gaping at him like some mutant trout. “Damn, dude.”
“What?” They were both looking at his cheek, so he put his hand there and—“Oh. Shit.” He laughed, and felt his tongue brush against rough wood. His mouth, now that he was paying attention, was full of the taste of lumber and blood. “Thought it was a splinter.” He took hold of the piece of wood going through his face and prepared to yank it out.
“No!” Eight waved his arms. “Leave it before you fuck yourself up worse. Fuck man, don’t you have pain receptors?”
He shrugged. His cheek hurt, sure. But pain wasn’t really a thing for him. Not like normal people, anyway. He felt it; for all he knew, he felt it just like anybody else. But he didn’t feel it. For him, physical pain was an objective experience. It hurt, but it rarely got past whatever part had been injured, rarely made it to his head.
He tried, man. He really tried. There was a certainty inside him that if he could find the right pain, and enough of it, he could bring his head and body together and make some fucking sense of himself. So far, no luck. The constant chaos banging against the inside of his skull made any pain in his body basically irrelevant.
None of that was getting shared with his brothers, however, so a shrug was going to have to do.
The frat boys were struggling to their feet, leaning on each other and moaning. Apollo scared them off, down the alley. The thunder of bass suddenly cut off; the band inside must have just finished its first set. These guys did a ten-minute intermission to reset the stage.
The bouncers needed to be inside the damn venue for intermission. That was when shit could really start flying. Gunner nodded toward the stage door. “Gotta get back in.”
Eight Ball, who was on point for this gig, set a beefy hand on Gunner’s shoulder. “We got this. Go back to the clubhouse. Don’t fuck with that thing until you can get Willa or Griff to look at it.”
“There’s still a set left.”
“We got it, bro. You need to get your face fixed.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, dude,” Apollo agreed. “You look like something out of National Geographic.”
~oOo~
“You are out of your goddamn mind. Call Griff.” Rad’s voice on the phone was rough with sleep and irritation.
“Willa’s better.”
With his tongue, Gunner prodded at the splinter piercing his cheek in two places. He couldn’t seem to leave it alone. When he’d gotten to the clubhouse and a couple sweetbutts had gasped and squealed at the sight of him, he’d gone back to the john to take a look. It was like he had a pencil shoved through his face—one of those chubby ones they gave little kids just learning to make their letters.
“Unless you’ve been shot or stabbed, or you need a goddamn feedin’ and diaper change, I am not wakin’ up my old lady who just laid down an hour ago. We got a newborn over here, shithead. Emergencies only. Call Griff.” He hung up.
Gunner put the phone back on the base and pouted at it, poking the splinter with his tongue. He liked the stinging charge that went through his cheek each time the wood shifted. Like sticking his tongue on the connectors of a nine-volt battery.
Willa really was better. She was an actual nurse. Griff was…not. He’d worked at a vet’s office for a few years, sticking needles in Fido and Fluffy’s asses.
Besides, Willa had soft hands, and a nice smile, and she made him laugh. She also had a great rack, which was often right at eye level when she was sewing him up. And pretty eyes. And she smelled really good. Like almond cookies.
Okay, yeah. He had a crush on the SAA’s old lady. A pretty bad one, actually. Like, he’d had the occasional fantasy about Rad biting it and him being there to comfort Willa in her grief.
Man, he’d be right there, shoulder at the ready. No shit. Arms, too. The whole package, whatever she needed. He loved his brother and didn’t want him to die—obviously. But if Rad did happen to punch out, he’d take care of Willa for him. Her and their new little rugrat.
Okay, maybe it was more than occasional, that fantasy. What could he say? She was hot and nice, and she took good care of him when he was bleeding. How could he not love her?
No. Not love. No way. Falling in love with a brother’s old lady was some bad shit. Falling in love with Rad’s old lady would get him missing body parts, if he was lucky. He had a crush. Just a crush, that was all. Probably most of the Bulls had one. She took good care of them all.
“You…uh…you need help with that, Gun?” Tyra, one of the sweetbutts who’d squealed at the sight of him when he’d come in, was at his side, looking like she’d drawn the short straw to come over and offer assistance.
“Nah, Ty. I’m callin’ Griff. You can get me a bottle of Jack and a glass, though. That’d be cool.” He needed to wash the taste of blood from his mouth and the thought of Willa from his head.
She smiled and went around the bar.
He was the only patch in the place. Everybody else was working or with their families or off playing somewhere else. There were three sweetbutts lazing around, waiting for patches to come in. Eight and Apollo would probably show up after they were done at the show, but that was an hour or more off.
On a better night, he might have seen what he could get up to, with three moderately hot chicks all to himself. But tonight, he was still buzzing from the unsatisfying fight, and that was dangerous—it was like blue balls, when his violence got up and he couldn’t get it all out, and sometimes when he was feeling this way, he got too wild with chicks. These chicks, anyway.
Besides not wanting to hurt a girl, he didn’t want trouble from the club. Delaney would fine the fuck out of him if he hurt a girl in a way she didn’t want to be, even if he didn’t mean to do it. He couldn’t afford that.
After last year, when he’d started a brawl that had torn the hell out of Terry’s Billiards, he’d spent months paying Terry and the club back. Months living on nothing but the crap wages of the service station, where he was just a pump jockey. He’d about gone fucking broke.
He was finally square with the club and everybody else, and flying more or less straight. So he’d sit here and just drink.
Anyway, he had this thing in his cheek. He ought to just yank it. What was the worst that could happen?
After he tossed back the whiskey Tyra had poured, sloshing it against his cheek until the sting of the alcohol maxed out, Gunner gave the splinter an experimental tug, and then yanked the fucker out.
Part of it sheared off and shoved newly into his cheek, and that pain was enough to make him wince. The rest came out and left a bloody mess in its wake. While Tyra squealed some more, he grabbed a bar rag and shoved it against his face. Then he picked the cordless back off its base and dialed Griffin.
Willa would have been better.
~oOo~
Griffin had been the club medic before Rad had brought Willa in. Though his work at a veterinarian’s office wasn’t exactly medical school, his tenure with the MC had given him ample experience sewing up wounds and doling out drugs. Still, he was pretty shit with a stitch. He had a prissy little snit when Gunner wouldn’t let him shave away any beard to get to the holes in his cheek.
He’d been working on his beard for more than a year; no way was he going to shave it off now, or let it get mangy spots.
But Griff managed to work around the hair and close up the holes. When he was done, Gunner asked Allie, one of the girls, for a mirror. She gave him the one out of her handbag; it was pink and had some kind of sweet-smelling wax on one side, like hard perfume. Girls had some weird shit.
He held up the mirror and checked Griff’s work. “Not bad. You can’t tell there was a splinter there.” He poked at the sore spots and could sort of feel the ends of the stitches mixed in with his beard. Giving the waxy stuff a sniff, he snapped the mirror closed and handed it back to Allie.
Griff
laughed. “That was not a splinter, bro. That was a fuckin’ tree branch. You want a couple pain pills? We’re stocked with some good shit.”
He probably should have said yes, taken the pills, washed them down with Jack, and gone up to sleep in one of the crash pads. That would’ve probably taken the edge off. But he didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to move. The buzz of thwarted aggression was still on him, and his cheek didn’t hurt nearly enough to distract him from it. He needed to burn off the energy.
There was a time he’d have gone to the fights, but since he’d torn up Terry’s and they were on the outs with the Dyson crew from Northside, Delaney had banned him from the underground fighting scene. Too much opportunity to come into contact with Dyson boys and blow up the fragile new cease-fire between them and the Bulls.
Besides, the fights hadn’t been the same since Maverick had gone inside. That had been their thing. Fuck, he missed that dude. He’d gotten into a shitload less trouble when Maverick was on the outside. Gunner sighed and shoved his tongue against his cheek until one of the new stitches stretched and made some fresh pain.
Twist (The Brazen Bulls MC Book 2) Page 1
