- 1 To Fight or to Fuck, Definitely, Fight
The sun began to crest above the tree line as Archer “Bulletproof” Woods squeezed his hand around the water bottle he wished was an ice-cold beer or a glass of bourbon. The plastic crinkled and threatened to collapse in his big hand. It was ten years, two months and thirteen days since his last drink. Most days he got through it without thinking about it, but moments like tonight it clawed at his gut and was a rage he barely suppressed.
Every night at work he ended his shift by staring into a double of his favorite bourbon. Reminding himself of why he was sober. Repeating the count and adding a new day, yet tonight he’d almost taken that drink. Imagined savoring the smoky burn as aged liquor flowed over his tongue and down his throat. Bull would let it warm all the places that were cold inside him—the dead places.
At eighteen he’d done what was expected of him. He’d married his high school sweetheart. Polly, a beautiful blonde with a figure most men would’ve drooled over, but not him. Bull had loved her like a friend, even after all these years they were still friends. It wasn’t long after the wedding he’d enlisted in the Marines. He had hoped it would have saved them from a miserable life together. That was nineteen-seventy-nine, he’d hopped a bus to boot camp and left a pregnant, frightened wife behind.
He’d served his country for twenty years before he’d retired and followed in his father’s footsteps as a blacksmith. Bull had been an asshole for most of his life. Muscular and macho, his sexuality above reproach. All the while he’d made him and his family suffer.
Forty-three years he’d lived in the closet, drank away his pain and denied to everyone including himself what he actually wanted. After over two decades of marriage, he’d asked for a divorce and drunkenly confessed to Polly he was gay. She’d accepted it quicker than he’d thought. They’d both lived in the hell of his making. Even if he couldn’t be happy, he wanted Polly and their son Hank to have a chance.
It had been thirteen years since he’d made the confession. The first couple of years he had stumbled his way along, one hookup after another, and it wasn’t what he’d expected. His coming out should have brought him a sense of freedom, but that’s not what he got.
He had been an alcoholic in his early forties; Bull was passed his prime and only trying to move on.
Over a decade later, Bull consisted of harsh, rough edges. A face that told his journey in deep lines and faded scars. He wasn’t pretty or soft, neither was he handsome. Bull was just homely and old at fifty-six. Security in a gay biker bar, nothing especially noteworthy. He played father to a group of men who lived in his house who were just as damaged as him.
The warmth of the sunrise touched his face, and he squinted his eyes. Bull should go inside and get some sleep, yet he didn’t want to crawl into his empty bed only to await his nightmares which never stopped raging inside him. Taunted by his regrets and where he thought he should be.
With a deep exhale, he pushed up from the rocking chair, turned to jerk open the screen door and walked inside. He made a detour in the kitchen to toss his water bottle in the recycle bin. The beautiful Twitch ran the house like his own. Twitch was a bartender at Brawlers and was married to the Head of Security, Crave. Their bosses, Scary and Tank stepped down to spend more time with their husband.
He headed for his bedroom on the second floor and once he was in his room he kicked the door shut behind him. Bull pushed his unbuttoned jeans off his hips and down his legs, then kicked them off. He crawled into his unmade bed and laid down, crossed his arms under his head.
His home turned into a Brawlers’ Crew halfway house. For a decade, he’d given the crew with no family or place of their own a home. He wouldn’t admit it, but he liked having other people in the house. It wasn’t so quiet. It was the distraction he needed.
Hunter was the newest member of the crew. He hadn’t quite figured out that boy yet. The man could fuck up breathing.
Psycho who lived up to his name most of the time moved into the cottage on the other side of the fence with his boyfriend a few months before, along with Bernie, Psycho’s ex-wife, and Bernie’s wife. They’d decided to co-parent a brood of potential kids. Stacey found out a few months ago she was pregnant. Shocked the fuck out of them all. They’d tried once. Apparently, Psycho wasn’t shooting dust like Bernie accused.
To be honest, how the fuck Crave and Psycho found men baffled him. Bull had gotten to the point he couldn’t even find a fuck for the night. Although a few months of abstinence had turned into two years without more than his left hand to get off. He’d come out to have more than that, but it hadn’t worked out as he’d thought. His sobriety hadn’t given him the opportunity to find a man of his own.
He yawned wide until his jaw popped and flipped over onto his stomach. Bull wrapped his arms around his pillow and tucked it under his head. Hopefully, he was tired enough the nightmares wouldn’t come. He felt himself slowly drift to sleep.
# # #
“There better be coffee left,” Bull grumbled as he shuffled into the kitchen at a little before one.
It sounded like Crave, Twitch, and Hunter were up for lunch. Psycho’s voice also joined in. Psycho’s boyfriend would be at his bakery at that time. Bernie and Stacey worked during the day.
“I made a fresh pot.” Twitch held out Bull’s huge mug. “I heard you coming.”
“Thanks,” Bull muttered and turned to lean back against the counter. “What’s with the house meeting?”
“Landon and Zerk’s anniversary party is tonight. We’ll have some new faces, but most of the guest list was familiar names.” Twitched answered from his position on Crave’s lap.
“Shit, the fresh meat gets the fuckers all worked up.” Bull hated working the party nights. Mainly it was only the Twirled Crew who brought in strangers. Mostly their guests were laid back—didn’t cause shit.
“Let’s cut capacity in half, keep out the hardcore fighters.”
“I’ll need Psycho inside with me.” Bull sipped at his strong coffee.
“Got no problem with that. Crave can take care of the shit at the door. Ben’s coming tonight. I won’t have anyone else watching my boy.”
Psycho was obsessive about Ben’s safety. Ben didn’t seem to mind one fucking bit. Psycho grew up in a community who fought for hierarchy, the weakest were tortured and used on a daily basis. No one fucked with Psycho’s boy.
“We’ll figure out more of a plan when we get to work. Right now, Twitch needs some attention.” Crave smirked as he stood and tossed Twitch over his shoulder.
“Gag him this time, his screams could fucking break glass,” Hunter complained but never looked up from his coffee or laptop.
Crave loudly laughed as he took off at a run. Bull shook his head.
Hunter arrived at his farm with no past or work experience, the man didn’t try to share or hang out all that much. His secretive nature grated on Bull’s nerves. Bull could sense trouble, and Hunter screamed it loud and clear.
“I’m going to go shower.” He turned and topped off his coffee, then headed back to his room. Psycho and Hunter quiet behind him, at least those two knew how to not fill the silence with useless conversation.
He groaned at the sound of what had to be Crave’s hand connecting with Twitch’s ass and then the infamous squeal. He just hoped like fuck his shower drowned it out. He set his mug on his dresser and stripped out of his pajama bottoms. Maybe he should move into Psycho’s trailer behind the barn for some peace and quiet.
Dammit, they were going to drive him from his own damn house. He stepped into the shower, turned on the water and as he feared it didn’t drown out the grunts and screams or the sound of a headboard banging against the wall. He was kicking Crave’s ass for that later—that was fucking guaranteed.