Gunny’s Pups
Gunny
“Sharon.” Gunny bellowed his old lady’s name up the stairs. Where the fuck has she gone? “Gotta get my ass in gear and out the goddamned door. Need my fuckin’ kiss. Get your ass down here.”
“Coming.” The single word was soft and sweet, and the sound of her voice had his cock at half-mast in a moment, thinking of how she’d called out this morning as he rode her hard. Gunny, I’m coming. Muffled into the pillow, he’d still heard her, had known it wouldn’t be long once one of her shoulders dipped to the mattress. Then he’d felt the heat from her touch against his slapping sack as she’d worked her clit, the combination of his slamming thrusts and her clever fingers pushing her over the edge.
“Fuck.” Tipping his head back and closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, trying to will his erection away. “Don’t have time for this.” The moment those words hit the air, his eyes popped open and then he was taking the stairs two at a time on his way back up to where Sharon was. “Fuckin’ liar. Always have time to play with my woman.”
Forty-five minutes later, as he made his way slowly back down the stairs, he reached behind him so he could cup Sharon’s ass. Her head rested on his shoulder blade, legs wrapped as far around his waist as they’d go, arms twined around his neck. “Love you, big guy.” Her languorous murmur was soft but sweet, and when he squeezed her cheeks, she giggled. He heard that and felt it, the shaking of her body echoing through his chest.
“Love you, too, baby.” Backing up to the couch, he released his hold, letting her slide down to stand on the cushions. “I seriously gotta get goin’ now. PBJ’s gonna be waiting on my ass as it is.”
“Did he give you any idea what he wanted?” She tugged at his arm, pulling him around so he faced her. From her position on the couch, she was still shorter than him, so he swooped down the few inches to capture her mouth with his. Silenced by his kiss, her question went unanswered as he slanted his head and touched his lips to hers softly.
“Gotta go. Call me if you need me or if Cade needs anything.” Quick clicking noises came from the kitchen, and he glanced in that direction to see one of their dogs trotting through the door. Squinting slightly, he thought the dog’s head looked odd, then as the beagle came closer, he realized the trash can lid was stuck around its neck. Shit. “Baby, thinkin’ you might wanna check the kitchen. Tank’s been in the trash again.”
“Not my Tank. He’s a good dog.” Loyal to a fault, Sharon defended the clearly guilty culprit, then peered around Gunny and got a look at the canine. “Is that green on his face? Green, smushy…avocado?” She sighed, giving up on the pretense that Tank wasn’t the world’s worse sneak. “Bad dog.” While Rocky, the rat terrier, could pick goodies out of the tall garbage pail without making a mess or leaving any evidence, Tank was true to his name, always bulldozing over obstacles like trash cans. Gunny knew Sharon would find a mess when she went into the kitchen and decided it wasn’t the time to answer her earlier question, given what he knew about PBJ’s ask.
Gunny stared down at Sharon, taking in again the beauty that smiled up at him. Hair flowed down her back in sleek sheets, her bright eyes curving with the grin that stretched her full lips wide. “Love you, babe.” Pressing his palm against her belly, he gently stroked the swell that protected their second daughter. “Fuck, but I love you.”
Now her eyes were bright for a different reason, and she sniffed when she scolded him, “Don’t be sweet to me. You know how I am these days.” She’d become more sentimental the closer they got to the date, which was only a couple of months away. “You make me cry, you need to make me come again to make up for it.” Shaking her head, she sniffed again. “And while we’d both enjoy that, you’re already late.”
Leaning in, he kissed the tip of her nose, then stepped back. “Wouldn’t wanna have to make you come again.” His fake grousing made her smile, her broad grin matching his. “See you in a bit, baby. Call me, yeah?”
“Yes, sir.” Snapping a salute, she stepped off the cushions and to the floor. “Who’s a bad boy,” was directed to a thoroughly garbage-rumpled Tank who’d thrown himself in front of the couch and had a nearly-matching expression on his face, tongue lolling out in his doggy grin. She was still reprimanding the dog as Gunny closed the door leading into the garage, cutting off her voice in midscold.
***
Lifting a fist, Gunny turned the doorknob with one hand while he pounded on the door with the other, walking in and announcing himself in the same movement. “PBJ, where ya at, brother?” A wordless call barely audible over the cacophony of barking from deep in the building gave him a direction, and he allowed the door to swing shut, darkness enveloping him.
The address hadn’t been one Gunny knew, and from the outside, the house didn’t look remarkable. A sprawling single-story ranch, it had several outbuildings and one large pole barn out back.
Inside, it was a nightmare. Dark doorways leading into shadowed rooms, dim hallways that went five strides and turned deeper into the house. A hundred enemies could be hiding within ten feet of him, and he wouldn’t see them. Not until they were close enough to touch, close enough to strike. Close enough to kill.
Back pressed against the wall nearest the door, Gunny stood and fought the same demons that had chased him for so many years. Fought and won, as he did more often these days.
Sharon, he thought, letting his eyes close so he could better remember the scent and feel of his woman. Body in front of him, little spoon curved into the crook of his legs, the slow, smooth way they shifted and moved together, cock buried deep inside her, pulling out to the tip before smoothly rocking forwards again.
Her hands on his face, drawing his mouth up to hers as she rode him fast and hard, her weight no burden at all. Him thrusting up into her even as she was dropping her ass against his thighs until the sound of their flesh slapping together echoed in the room.
Hair matted with sweat, eyes fixed on their tiny daughter, her exhausted face radiant with love and a determined satisfaction at giving him something they’d both wanted so badly. Sharon. He let the knowledge that she loved him seep into his bones until he could move again.
Licking his lips, surprised at how dry they were, Gunny opened his eyes to see Deke and PBJ standing across the room. From the wary expressions on their faces, he knew his struggle had been apparent, which would be one of the reasons they were over there and no closer. “Hey,” he grunted, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension from his muscles. “Got a beer?”
“Pope wear a funny hat?” PBJ grinned before he turned and walked up one of the hallways leading off the room. A living room, Gunny realized. Large and made for a big family, it had to be half the length of the house. To his right was a wall of windows, papered over now, blue painters tape securing the newsprint in the opening, protecting glass and woodwork from whatever would be slapped on the walls.
“You good, brother?” Deke’s quiet question wasn’t a surprise. He knew how deep the scars dug into Gunny’s soul, and seemed to have a knack for popping up at the moments he was most needed. “Bad?”
“Not too. Just a…momentary lapse.” Gunny wiped at his sweaty face with the crook of one elbow. “I’m good. You know what PBJ needs us for?” Pushing off the wall, he went to follow PBJ, stopping when Deke’s hand gripped his bicep. “Brother, I’m good.”
“Sharon okay?” Deke shook his head, stopping Gunny’s response. “Of course she’s okay, or you’d be there and not here, but…are you okay with…fuck, man. You cool with having two little ones?”
At that stupid, senseless question, Gunny finally found it inside himself to laugh, chuckling aloud at the expression Deke wore. “Yeah, I’m good. More than good. Can’t wait for Cade’s little sister to be sleepin’ down the hall. Kitten brings us full circle, man. It’s all good.” Hoping Deke understood the emphasis, he knew his friend got it when his grip tightened on a squeeze and then fell away.
Before Sharon, the lasting effects from Gunny’s time serving in the military overseas had nearly overwhelmed him on a daily basis. Episodes would drive him to the forest for weeks at a time, in a useless effort to escape.
Post-traumatic stress disorder was so much more than an acronym to him, and Deke knew more than most the stress Gunny had lived with for years. Since finding Sharon, Gunny’s entire world had changed in so many ways. Not the least was him moving her into his house, a sanctuary that only a few had seen before she’d instigated the first barbecue thrown in their backyard. Heavily pregnant with Cadence, their first daughter, Sharon invited everyone she knew mattered to him, and they had shown up with platters of food and baby gifts in hand.
So many memories with her, he thought, following Deke to the back of the house, frowning at the growing level of sound as they got closer to the source of the barking.
“Fuck.” The exclamation was pulled from him as he looked around the large room off the kitchen. Row upon row of crates and cages, nearly all of them filled with dogs. The smell was overwhelming, so many of the animals had been left contained too long, forced to urinate or defecate in their living space, some of them multiple times. “Fucking hell, PBJ, what kind of bullshit is this?” Angry on behalf of the helpless dogs, Gunny swung to look at his friend’s face, some of that emotion falling away as he saw a matching rage exposed on PBJ’s face.
“Bitch ran off.” Gunny shook his head, not understanding the statement. “Gal I was fucking,” PBJ elaborated. “This was her deal, she told me she was dog sitting for people.” He swept his arms out to the side, indicating the cages and animals. “Fuckin’ dog sitting, and I didn’t question her. She’s run off, got herself sideways with a goddamned dealer, so she bailed and hit the road. Bitch called me this morning to ask me to come over and,” he scoffed, the sound rough and angry, deep in his chest, “let the dogs out.”
Deke spoke up, “We’d just gotten here, Gunny. Had no idea what we’d be walking into. Backyard is worse, man. She hasn’t picked up shit in weeks, maybe months. Some of the cages aren’t big enough for the dogs, man. We gotta do something.”
“Pound?” Gunny made the obvious recommendation. “They can try to match pups to owners from her paperwork, right?”
“Ain’t found paperwork on anything except a couple of the dogs. Ain’t sayin’ there aren’t folders in some drawer, but we call the pound, and then we gotta explain how we got here.” PBJ shook his head, disgust clear on his face. “I was fuckin’ her, man. I feel responsible.” He would. PBJ was a respected breeder and the source of both of Gunny’s pups. “I wanna make this right.”
Gunny studied the room for a minute. “Gotta be forty dogs, man. Where you gonna find homes for alla them?” He walked to a cabinet and picked up a lightweight slip leash, threading the fabric of the lead through the ring, making a loose noose. “Gonna start walkin’ ‘em.”
He pointed a thick finger at PBJ. “You think. I’ll do the grunt work. Deke.” He glanced across the room to where Deke was making the same motions. “Sounds like we’re keeping this local. Wanna call the clubhouse, get some prospects out here to clean up the shit?”
With a grin, Deke nodded, pulling his phone from a pocket. “Good job for Hurley, man.”
Gunny shook his head. “You needa stop ridin’ that boy. He’s a keeper.”
“Don’t I know it,” Deke agreed, laughing. “He’s stepped up and done everything we’ve asked. No demand too big, no chore too shitty. He makes it through this, I’ll know it more.”
***
“Jesus, man. I’m beat.” Gunny leaned his elbows on the countertop that separated the kitchen from the rest of the huge room that spanned the back side of the house. “We’ve done a fuck of a lot today.” He cataloged the few crates still in the room, only six out of forty-five. Thirty-nine dogs had gone home with Rebel Wayfarers members and friends today, and while he couldn’t be certain they were all long-term homes, they were at least clean and loving ones.
“No doubt.” Deke walked towards the counter and bent over. Gunny heard a liquid swishing sound, and then Deke came up with a dripping can of beer in each hand. “We got a few left to deal with, though.”
“Yeah.” Gunny let his gaze sweep the crates. Six dogs, each offering a unique challenge that meant not just any owner would do for them. “Vet’s picking up three of ‘em, right?”
Deke nodded, popped the top on his beer. He lifted it to his mouth and took several long swallows. “Shepherd’s got dysplasia, bad. If he can’t be made comfortable, vet’ll put him down. Maltese has an eye infection. Treatin’ that, and then he’ll try to place him.” The veterinarian was a friend of PBJ’s, and willing to look the other way at how these dogs had been acquired, having been briefed on the full situation. “Dalmatian might be blind. Vet’ll decide what to do with her.”
Gunny looked down, opening his own beer. “Hate that shit, man.” He shook his head. “Coulda been worse, I guess.” The sheer number of dogs that had been in the house would have overwhelmed the county facilities, and they weren’t anywhere near a no-kill shelter. Most of the animals would have been considered unadoptable and given the barest amount of time to sit in a row and watch people pass them by. Many people adopted puppies, for obvious training reasons. With a puppy, you didn’t have any bad habits to fix. With an adult dog, you might get a winner or a nightmare. He shook his head again. “Outta forty-five dogs, only three in question. Not the worst odds. Leaves us three to place, though.”
He lifted the can, letting the nearly warm liquid wash away the dryness in his throat. Having to look at the crates had been running the edge of his nerves all day, bringing up harsh memories of an endless ride across a foreign desert, cooped up in the back of a truck, covered with a tarp. As helpless in his own way as these dogs had been, carried to a place where he had no friends. All control stripped away, subject to the temperament of the man driving the truck. Thank God he’d been friendly and had helped Gunny get back to Camp Chesty in short order.
“Sucks to be left behind.” The bitch who’d run off had honestly been dog sitting, because every animal looked and behaved like a pet, but they’d only found a few bits of info on a bare handful of dogs. That meant that any of the dogs that had family out there were probably forever lost to the ones who had entrusted their pups to the bitch. Racked up a debt she couldn’t fix and then bailed. “Abandoned.” Like he’d been, behind enemy lines, his entire patrol killed in a firefight they had no hope of winning, ambushed from behind as they worked their way to the extraction point.
Gunny rolled his shoulders, feeling the hard tenseness of his muscles in response to the memories. Doesn’t do any good to get worked up like this, he reminded himself. His phone buzzed, clattering on the counter in front of him, laid there after his last text exchange with Sharon. Just checking in. He smiled. All good, big guy.
Be home soon, he responded, and then grinned wider at the string of smiling face emojis that were her response.
“I’m gonna take the Great Dane,” Deke said suddenly. “Mercy agreed, fuckin’ finally. She was scared Graham is gonna be afraid of him, but I talked her around.” Mercy was Deke’s woman, and Graham, their young son. “PBJ’s takin’ the Swissie, said he’s got a line on a rescue organization that’ll be all over the beast as soon as he can get word to them.” If PBJ was taking the Swiss mountain dog, that left only one final problem pup.
Gunny turned his gaze to where the enormous lump lay in the shadows of a large crate. Standing almost three feet tall at the shoulder, the Mastiff had to weigh upwards of 150 pounds. Intelligent eyes had studied Gunny earlier as he approached the crate with a leash in hand. He’d looked from the tiny leash to the massive dog with a laugh that had the dog perking up his ears. The pooch had walked like a prince on the lead before politely waiting while Gunny got the door open and then paced patiently outside until he found a section of yard that was appealing. He hadn’t balked at returning to the crate, either, which was in contrast to how many of the dogs had reacted to having their moments of freedom curtailed.
His phone buzzed again, and he saw a picture of Sharon, her lips pushed far out in a pout. Unlocking the screen, he saw he’d missed a text and scrolled back up to read, Just bring the big guy home already, big guy.
“You talk to my woman today, motherfucker?”
He typed out, The fuck you talkin about?
That got him another picture in response, one of the sad-eyed mastiff staring through the wire grate of the crate.
“I didn’t speak to her, nope.” Deke’s lie was plain, and Gunny couldn’t help but laugh. “Might have texted her a couple of pics.” On cue, another picture came in, one of him in the backyard, mastiff on the laughable leash, Gunny bent over and scratching the dog’s massive head. “And might have suggested y’all need another furbaby.”
“Asshole.” Gunny sighed. “Lemme put him in the yard, and we can load his crate in the van. Gonna eat me outta house and home, and I got another kid on the way, man. You’re cold, brother. Cold.”
***
“Jesus,” Gunny groaned and rolled into Sharon, curling his arm to pull her closer, listening to the rolling advance of thuds up the stairs towards their bedroom. “He can’t even walk quiet.”
He’d gotten home last night, and per his texted request, Sharon had their two dogs sequestered in the den, locked behind a gate. He’d kept the mastiff on the leash, letting Deke wrestle the crate in single-handedly, Sharon seated on the bottom steps of the staircase, Cade in her arms.
One of his fears had been put to rest immediately when his dogs didn’t react to the strange animal except with calm interest. Even Tank, who could get wound up tighter than a yo-yo, had stood with a wagging tail and snuffling nose, waiting. Introducing the dogs through the gate had been a success, but Gunny hadn’t released his two smaller dogs until later, waiting for the rest of the greetings to be done. Isn’t it interesting, he’d thought, that I’m already thinking of them as a trio of large and small. As he’d walked the dog across the room to where Sharon sat, Gunny had watched as her eyes widened.
“He’s huge,” she’d whispered, one corner of her mouth quirking up. “It’s gonna be like having a pony.” The other corner of her mouth had lifted, and he’d watched her smile at the dog. “I always wanted a pony.”
Shaking his head, he’d grunted in amusement. “You’re fuckin’ funny, woman. Reach your hand out, let him smell you.” She had, and the mastiff hoovered her hand, snuffled all over it, and pulled on the end of the lead for the first time. A thread of fear had snaked through Gunny’s gut at the relentless strength shown with these movements.
The dog had forced another step forwards, then another, willing to choke himself to get closer to Sharon, and Gunny had found himself along for the ride, watching as the dog lifted first one and then his other front foot to the bottom step where he immediately laid his broad head across Sharon and Cade’s laps. The dog had taken a big breath that Gunny’d echoed, and something in Gunny’s chest had twisted painfully as he saw lines of stress and strain flow out of the dog’s muscles. Relaxed and easy, the dog had taken in another huge breath and then blown it out on a loud sigh that had made Cade laugh. At the sound, the dog’s ears picked up, and he’d shuffled a half step closer to the pair he’d pinned on the stair step, gaining a couple of inches in a clear effort to get as close as he possibly could to the mother and child.
“He likes me,” Sharon had whispered, trailing one hand over the dog’s head, pushing and scratching at the loose skin around his ears. Cadence had squealed and thumped her tiny fists solidly on the dog’s head, and the only thing that moved were tiny muscles around the mastiff’s eyes, squeezed tightly shut. “You think he likes me?”
“Fuck, yeah.” Gunny had matched her whisper, not wanting to break the spell, enthralled watching the scene in front of him. A tiny woman and smaller child, massive dog positioned protectively in front of them, taking comfort from their every touch. “He’s home.”
The first good-natured disagreement about the dog surrounded a name. Sharon wanted to pick something immediately, just pluck it from the air, but Gunny wasn’t in favor of that. She’d thrown out word after word, some of them hilarious, trying to find anything that Gunny or the dog would latch onto, and came up dry.
Cadence had been in her highchair, Sharon positioned at her side to assist with the more difficult spoon-fed portions of dinner when Gunny had realized they had a problem as he called the dogs over for treats. Before leaving the house-turned-horror-kennel he’d ascertained the dog knew basic commands of come, sit, and stay, as well as down and wait, but beyond that hadn’t found anything that triggered interest in the dog’s attitude.
So when he’d called the dogs, he’d spoken a general, “Sit,” letting them array themselves in a seated semi-circle in front of him, amused that they’d placed their asses in order, smallest to largest. “Rocky, down.” A quick prone position earned the rat terrier a finger-fed snack of dry kibble, and the dog’s crunching satisfaction had been loud in the kitchen as he’d eaten his reward.
Next in line had been the beagle, and when Gunny had said, “Tank, down,” he’d been nonplused as two furry bellies hit the floor. “Good down,” he gave verbal encouragement, then bent to offer kibble to each dog in turn. Back to a general, “Sit,” he’d watched as all three dogs returned to their haunches, attention fixed on him.
Pointing with a finger, he’d indicated the mastiff, and said firmly, “Down.” The dog stretched out, paws in front, weight balanced on bony elbows against the hard floor. “Good down,” he’d rewarded verbally as he handed over the kibble treat. “Sit.” Reaching out, he’d ruffled the dog’s skin, fingers working through the folds under his chin. “Good dog.”
Turning to the beagle again, Gunny had grinned to see him sitting patiently for a change. Usually, the little dog was a tornado of activity. “Tank, down,” he’d ordered, and again the beagle and mastiff landed on the floor. “Fuck me,” Gunny had muttered as Sharon laughed. “His goddamned fucking name is Tank.”
Now it was morning, and Tank was apparently headed up the stairs. Stairs he shouldn’t have been able to get to because he had spent the night in his crate. Gunny sighed, squeezing Sharon again, feeling her body starting to shake. “You laughin’ at this shit, woman?”
“No,” she said, the laughter in her voice giving the clear lie to her word.
Gunny’s focus shifted, and he lifted on one elbow, twisting to look at the door. “It’s quiet.” He waited, listening. “Too quiet.” The infant monitor sparked to life, sounds and noises coming from a room down the hallway. Thumping and then a loud giggle, Cade was awake and happy. “Fuck.” Tank had turned the other direction and gone straight to their little girl’s room. Another giggle, then the sound of furniture legs moving across the wooden floor, then the bouncing of mattress springs and bright laughter from Cade.
Gunny released Sharon and swung his legs off the bed. Out the door in two strides, he headed up the hallway. Cade’s door was open, and he could hear her giggling through the opening. Reaching out, he palmed the wood and shifted, pushing the door open wider. Standing in the doorway, he looked around the room to see the mastiff lying inside the crib on the mattress, Cade draped across his back. She was pushing with her feet to rock back and forth as if the dog were a kid-sized teeter-totter. The ottoman for the rocking chair had been shoved over beside the crib, and the dog had clearly used that to give himself access to Cadence. “Jesus.”
At his voice, Tank’s head lifted swiftly, and the dog shifted so he could see the doorway. Gunny watched as the dog recognized him and relaxed again, laying his head down with a soft groan. Gunny felt a hand at his waist and shifted slightly to one side so Sharon could squeeze in beside him. “Awwww, he loves her already.”
“Yeah, he does.” Gunny sighed. “Wish we knew his background. Where he came from. I like how he is with her,” Gunny shifted, pulling Sharon in front of him, “but we need to keep our guard up, baby.”
Twisting in his arms, Sharon looked up at him with a confused expression on her face. “Why, honey?”
“They’re a great breed, mastiffs. Protective as shit. Calm, good natured. Loyal.” He paused a moment, looking for the right words. “But we don’t know what’s happened to him. We don’t know anything about him, except he’s a good dog.”
“He’s a good dog, and he loves Cade.”
In the crib, the big dog had eased onto his side, giving Cadence a larger playground on his ribs. She was taking advantage of it, dragging herself up so she could tug and pull at the dog’s ears.
Gunny grinned. “That he does.” Clicking claws sounded from the hallway, and he felt the brush of fur as Tank pushed past him and into the room. Paws to the side of the crib, the beagle surveyed the scene and wagged his tail, clearly approving. Back on four paws, he turned in place twice before throwing himself to his side, tongue lolling out in another doggie laugh.
***
“Tank the Larger, that’s what Sharon’s calling him now.” Gunny shook his head, transferring the phone to his other hand, wiping greasy fingers on the leg of his jeans. PBJ laughed, and Gunny grinned. “You should come over and check it out. He’s hilarious to watch with my other pups.”
“And he’s still good with Cadence, yeah?” Wonder, not concern, colored PBJ’s voice, and that made Gunny grin, too.
“Gentle as a lamb. Smart as fuck, though. Motherfucker opens his crate like nobody’s business, and Sharon’s convinced he’s figured out how to open doors, too.” The dog probably had. That was the only real explanation for how he’d managed to get into Cadence’s room every morning through a door Gunny knew he’d closed securely. “You have any luck with finding where he came from?”
PBJ had spent the past couple of months reaching out to mastiff breeders he knew of, trying to find one who had placed a male in the Fort Wayne area. Gunny wanted to check with local vets, but Sharon had stoutly refused to look for Tank’s owners, arguing he was safe and cared for, and loved, so why should they look to get rid of him?
“Not a bit of it, man. Looks like you’re stuck with him.” Gunny smiled at PBJ’s words. Not stuck so much as gifted. “You coming to the clubhouse tonight?”
“Yeah.” Mason, the club’s national president, had called an all-member meeting to go over changes he was putting into place for one of the chapters out west. “Cleaning up now. I’ll head over in a bit.” He shifted, leaning one hip against the workbench. “Gotta say, I’m a fuck of a lot easier leaving Sharon here with Cade knowing that big motherfucker’s in the house with my two girls.”
“How long until you’ll have three?” Barking on the phone followed by a quiet command of sit told him that PBJ was doing his own chores before heading into town. He lived on a ten-acre farm with a huge barn he’d converted to a kennel, transforming several of the paddocks into arenas for agility and obedience training. PBJ’s facilities were in constant use by 4-H and youth clubs, as well as breed and event teams.
“Doc said he’ll let her go another six days before inducing. She’s not having it, and started walking laps around the house as soon as we got home this morning.” She’d exhausted herself within minutes and was currently napping alongside Cade on the couch. “She’s ready. I’m ready, too.”
“I bet. See you at the clubhouse.”
Call disconnected, Gunny pushed off from the counter and looked down to where Rocky was curled up on his garage bed, eyes opened a slit and angled up to see what his master was doing. “Let’s go inside, boy.” With a sigh and a stretch, Rocky trotted to the door, looking over his shoulder as if to say, What’s the holdup? “I’m comin’, gimme a fuckin’ minute, Rock.”
***
Gunny stood against the back wall, shoulders propped against the surface as he looked out across the sea of faces. Most were known, men he’d offer up anything if they asked because he knew he’d get the same in return. Those were his patch brothers, lined up shoulder-to-shoulder with every member of the club. Some were closer yet, like Deke, and Captain, Sharon’s brother. Men he trusted no matter what was going down, he’d run uncaring into the breach knowing they wouldn’t just have his back but would be striding beside him. He eyed a man standing near the front door of the clubhouse, meeting late arrivals. Mason was a man he was oathbound to protect, and someone he willingly followed.
The men Mason currently greeted with lifted chin and arm clasps weren’t club; they weren’t brothers. They were friendly, a club with roots down in Florida who wanted to foster better relations between the clubs. Mason had recently found family in the panhandle and, with all due respect, reached out to the dominant club in the area, letting them know he’d be in and out of the area while he built a relationship with his newly discovered sister, Justine Morgan.
A Fed in the family, Gunny thought with a snort. Jesus wept. Justine worked for the FBI, and until she’d recused herself from the case, had been investigating the motorcycle club founded by their father and grandfather, Shooter and Morgan. Tangled webs. Gunny lifted his beer, sweeping the room again over the top of the bottle.
“How you doin’, brother?” PBJ settled in next to him, raising his own beer to his lips, using the bottle to mask his words. “What the fuck do you think he’s doing here?” The emphasis was for Pike, a Rebel chapter president from St. Louis who’d walked in the door in front of their special guests and was currently pouting near the bar because he wasn’t the center of attention.
“Fuckin’ diva needs his ass handed to him.” Gunny had made no secret that he didn’t like Pike, didn’t trust the man, and wouldn’t work with him unless forced.
“Why you got such a hate on for the man?” PBJ glanced over, tipping his chin to a prospect roaming with a bucket of cold beers, grabbing two from the container when offered. “Never seen you take a dislike to someone like that.”
“You know Harddrive, right?” PBJ would, the old school biker had come to town last year when a revered Rebel member died, his blood brother, Bingo. For most members, it had been the first introduction to the old man, but Gunny had been buying motorcycle parts from Harddrive and his son for years. PBJ nodded. “Pike is his brother-in-law.”
“Serious?” Frowning, PBJ shook his head slowly, side to side. “Mason ejected Pike from the wake for Bingo.”
“Yeah, because Pike got sideways with Harddrive.”
“Don’t make no sense, brother. Pike’s a patch. Harddrive, good man he is, ain’t Rebel.” PBJ held out one of the beers and Gunny reached out and took it. He spun the lid off, catching it in his hand before shoving it in his back pocket. Old habits, he thought, remembering the times spent picking up his brass.
“Makes all the sense when you know the history. Pike’s always had a problem keeping his dick in his pants. Way I understand it, he tripped and stuck his dick into some strange pussy at Harddrive’s boy’s wedding, but there was a mixup, and Harddrive’s old lady got told it was him who did the fucking. Caused a rift that lasted years.” Gunny felt his face heating. Asshole shouldn’t be here tonight. Don’t need his brand of shit. “Years, man. Pain on pain, piled on Pike’s doorstep. Wasn’t until Bingo’s wake that Harddrive’s girl, Dixie, learned the truth of what happened. She told her momma, and by Christmas, Erin and Harddrive were back tight. Still.” He shook his head, sucking hard on the bottle, swallowing a mouthful of beer. “Years. Pike’s a motherfucking piece of trouble waiting to fuckin’ happen.”
They stood in silence for a moment, then PBJ said softly, “Jesus. Had no idea.”
“Yeah, motherfucking diva piece of shit.” Gunny flexed his hands, stretching his fingers wide, then clenching around the beer. “Wonder what the fucker’s doing here tonight. Guests we got, it can’t be a call-in from Prez.”
“Yeah, I hear ya.”
Mason looked up and gestured, pulling members, and officers close. Lifting his voice, he told the group, “Officers in the back now. We’ll be out in a bit. Let you know what’s decided.” When Pike made a move to head with the rest of them, Mason called out, “Pike, local and nationals only, man.” The exclusion wasn’t softened by any additional information, and no honorific followed Mason’s short words. Pike’s nostrils flared, and Gunny thought he could hear his teeth clenching from across the room.
“Sure, boss,” Pike said finally, turning away and giving Mason his back, something that made Mason’s face go hard. “I’ll get the lowdown on local pussy from the boys here.”
Gunny, along with the dozen other Rebel officers, dropped his phone in the metal box held open at the entry to the room. Slate stood next to Hurley, ready to intervene if anyone balked. When all devices had been deposited, Hurley locked the box and handed the key to Slate. Inside, Gunny waited near the outside windows, visually ensuring Myron’s tech devices were in place and humming along, blocking any listening from outside. Hell of a thing we got here.
“Brothers, friends.” Mason stood at the head of the table, and Gunny felt the weight of his gaze when it fell on him. “We got business to deal with. Pull up a chair and get comfortable. From my perspective, we’re here for the duration.” The group milled around another moment or two as friends greeted each other warmly, the men from Florida more cautiously, finally settling into the chairs arrayed around the table. Gunny kept his feet, as did Slate, positioned on opposite sides of the table, bracketing where Mason sat.
One of the men from Florida made a noise and Mason gestured towards him, inviting speech. Lifting his chin, the man whose nameplate said Sparks over the word President got straight into the reason for the meeting with his opening words. “You came on my plot and shit. Didn’t know better, woulda thought you were shitting on me. As it was, you left me a hella calling card with your name all over it. Then”—he made a move with his hand, fingers exploding away from his thumb—“poof, like it never happened. But you and me—” Sparks leaned forwards, angling his body towards Mason. “—we know that kind of shit never really goes away. Tell me what the gain was and I’ll decide if I’m gonna leave it alone.”
Mason eyed the man for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You showed respect, coming up here like this. Coulda demanded I make the trip down, and I’d a been happy to do that thing. Shows respect, though, and I gave it back—” He gestured towards the man’s vest. “—because you’re sittin’ here wearin’ your colors at my war table. Damn few folks can say they’ve done that.” He leaned back, elbow over the back of his chair, arm swinging freely, showing his comfort level with every gesture. Other palm out, he asked, “That really what brought you here? Something we could have discussed over a secure line?” He shook his head, and Gunny watched as the visitors all tensed up, on guard in a way that was unmistakable. “No, I believe you got some significant troubles of your own, and you think to marry our causes.” Sighing, Mason tipped his head to the side. “Outriders and Diamante, you got your helping of misery with the rolling patches through your plot. So much more than me coming in to clean up my own shit, regardless of the location. And Sparks,”—he shook his head—“you know that’s exactly what I did. You didn’t have anything to deal with that one because my boys did the cleanup right.”
Gunny watched the man’s expression change, moving away from disdain to something else before a grin lit his face. “Damn, Mason. I heard you were a hardass, but fuck, man.” He shook his head. “From what Retro told me, I expected a little give.”
“Oh, I got plenty of give in me, for friends.” Mason shifted in his seat, elbows on the table now, thick forearms propped on the edge. “That what we are now, Sparks? We friends?”
Nodding slowly, Sparks turned his neck, sweeping the face of every man in the room. “Yeah. I see only friends at this table—” He paused for a moment, then tipped his head to the side as he considered Mason before finishing with, “—brother.”
Mason didn’t move a muscle, sat still and quiet as he kept his gaze on the man. Then with a dark chuckle, he leaned forwards, reaching out to grip Sparks’ hand. “Brother.” He returned the word, and Gunny took a breath in relief.
That turned the tide, and forty minutes went by with a rapid exchange of stories and information. This was the kind of detail that Mason’s Rebels needed to plan their next steps against the Diamante and Outriders, and every man had something to offer, illustrating to the Florida club that Mason knew what strengths he needed to bring to the table.
A knock had Slate on the move. He unlocked the door, stepping into the opening to block the line of sight of whoever had interrupted the meeting. A moment passed, and Gunny heard him swear. Then Slate turned to face him. “Slinky’s got some trouble, brother.”
Slinky’s was a club-owned strip joint north of town, and Gunny was head of security for that location as well as a few others in the vicinity. If there was trouble his team couldn’t handle, then he was the one on call for dealing with whatever, or whoever it was. “On it,” he muttered, tipping his head to Mason and getting a chin lift in response on his way to the door. A handful of breaths later, he was through the main room and on his bike, rolling north to see what kind of problems had found a roost.