Gunny (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 5) Read online

  He waited a moment, but it seemed Deke was done talking for now. “You didn’t answer my question, brother.”

  The confusion was clear in his tone when Deke answered, “I thought I did, Mason. What question did I miss?”

  “Do you get along with him okay?” Mason repeated himself and waited.

  “I do, yeah.” Deke blew out a breath, saying, “Not everyone feels the same, which is why Bingo wasn’t one-hundred-percent on board, I suspect.”

  “He look for fights?” Mason’s lips pressed together in a tight line. They didn’t need a troublemaker in as an officer, no fucking way.

  “No,” the response was swift and sure. “He’s a big motherfucker, but doesn’t throw it around. He’s too fucking aware of himself to let people goad him, but like he did during his prospect period, he’s not gonna go out of his way to make buddies in the club. He’s friendly, but more on the acquaintance level, not close friends with most of the men. Me and Winger, I think we’re the only two he hangs with outside of runs, meets, and other shit. He’s friends with Winger’s family too, dotes on the girls.”

  “So he’s friendly, but holds back. He’s loyal, and Winger deems him trustworthy with his old lady and baby girl. He watches and notices things, but wouldn’t let people sway him from doing what needs doing?” Mason’s question held the key considerations for the position they needed to fill, because the role was definitely one that required neutrality, as well as discipline.

  “Yeah, good description, man.” Deke cleared his throat. “He doesn’t fuck around with whores, either, so he doesn’t get into arguments about pussy. He don’t bat for the home team, you know, but he doesn’t get tied up in knots about chicks.”

  “He’s a vet, right?” Mason already knew the answer to this, as well as his next question. “Honorable discharge?”

  “Yeah, Marines. He’s all oorah about the service and what he did overseas. His discharge was medical. He got shot and was stranded behind lines for weeks, but made his own way out eventually. Had a fuckton of problems, infection and shit, because he’d gone untreated in all the sand and heat over there, but he’s physically fit now. He’s worked for me for a long while, and always does a good day’s work for a good day’s pay.”

  “But he’s disabled, right?” Medical discharge? Why didn’t he know about that? The man never seemed to hold back, no matter what they were doing, so maybe it wasn’t physical.

  “Yeah, goes to the VA regular-like.” The hesitation in Deke’s voice said he might be skirting something here, so Mason pressed.

  “What kind of long-term issues does he have?” He heard the sigh and waited, thinking he might already know the answer to this question, too.

  “PTSD, but…he’s good. They simply couldn’t use him outside of what he’d been doing, and he couldn’t keep doing that after...everything.” Deke sounded regretful, as if he expected Mason to turn Robinson down out of hand because of this confession.

  There was a familiar perfunctory knock at the door, and with the sound of the knob turning, he glanced at the clock and saw it was time for an update on some local issues. “All right, brother. I’ll check him out next time I’m in town. I gotta go, man. Ride safe.” Without giving the man time to say more than a quick goodbye, Mason hung up, turning to watch Slate and Bones walk into his office.

  ***

  Robinson stood in the hospital parking lot, trying and failing to slow his racing heart. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and jerked to the side, trying to avoid the body hurtling his way. Once he recognized the slight, redheaded woman crossing the wide-open space at a dead run to get to him, he stood still, waiting, and allowed her to wrap her arms around him once she reached him. It wasn’t until her shoulders shuddered under his palms that he actually believed she was there.

  Supporting her weight for a moment, he heard her murmured question and responded, setting her firmly away from him. “She’s inside, Melanie. Hoss and Bingo are with DeeDee, but she’s gonna need you.” He reached out a hand and placed two fingers underneath her chin, lifting her tear-stained face so he could see the expression written there. Flinching at the raw pain she wore, he used the pad of one thumb to wipe her cheek. “I know, little sister. Every one of us is going to miss them. All of us.”

  She lunged forward again and he took the hit, letting her draw strength from resting against him as long as she needed. They had lost a good man and his daughter today, a senseless accident taking both the wisdom of his friend and the bright laughter of hers, stripping them of that shared future. Winger and Lockee, both gone. After long minutes, her sobs began to slow and he stroked one palm down her long, curly red hair. Reaching back, he pulled a bandana from his pocket, bringing it up to offer to her, smiling faintly at her unladylike nose blowing.

  His skin was twitching with the need to get away from this place, and once he thought she had her emotions back under control, he loosened his arms, feeling her gradually do the same. “Go on in now,” he softly directed, stepping back and releasing her. She stared at him for a moment, her eyes worried. “Lane? Are you…” Her voice trailed off and he answered her unspoken question. “Yeah, I’m good, little sister. Go on in, now.” She shook her head then turned, and without looking back, walked with slumped shoulders into the hospital through the ER door.

  He straddled his bike, sitting for a moment, and then started the machine, pulling smoothly out of the lot and onto the main thoroughfare. He followed that road to the interstate and merged into traffic, headed in no particular direction, working his way up the gears quickly. Bending low over the tank, he tipped his hips, tucking his toes behind the rear pegs, streamlining to offer minimal resistance as he cracked the throttle hard, feeling the bike leap beneath him. Eyes squinted against wind-whipped tears, he wove the bike between and alongside the speeding trucks and cars. Hiding in plain sight, he rode with tight control, watching the lights flash past in a whirlwind of color and chaos, which failed to soothe his pain.

  ***

  Davis Mason stood near the bar in the Fort Wayne clubhouse, looking out at the gathered Rebel Wayfarers members. They laid a brother to rest today, and the group was subdued, soft conversations around the room filled with memories of Winger, both as a member and a man—their brother. Mason might be the national president of the Rebels, based out of the mother chapter in Chicago, but long before he seized that title, he had been friends with Winger. Known him before there even was a Rebel Wayfarers MC, and his heart hurt with the knowledge that not only was Winger gone, but the man’s only daughter, too.

  Winger’s old lady wasn’t at the clubhouse, not tonight. Tonight, this party was about healing the club, not soothing family, so DeeDee was at home. Mason made sure his cousin wasn’t alone; the other women associated with the club would be there beside her, helping support her. He already talked to Bingo about how the chapter wanted to handle things. With Winger gone, they all knew she would have to sell their house. He didn’t have much insurance, and it would be too expensive to maintain for only her and the gal, Melanie. The club would stand behind her, exactly as they would have Winger, and they intended to move her into a suite here in the clubhouse. It would be a first for the club, having not only DeeDee living inside the clubhouse, but also the girl she had virtually adopted. Mason figured they would all adjust as they had to, and the club agreed it was the right thing to do.

  His gaze caught on one of the members of the Fort Wayne chapter standing nearby, Lane Robinson. He snorted, mentally going over his conversation from a week ago with Deke, and shook his head, realizing he still thought of Robinson as a newer member, even though it had been several years since they patched him into the club. The man was an enigma to Mason. He had an engineering degree, but worked as a dump truck driver for the city. Man loved the club, but damned if he didn’t seem to dislike most of the members. If there was a fight in the clubhouse here, chances were good he would be one of the first to throw a punch, or the first to break it up, dependin
g on the day.

  On top of being standoffish and quiet, the guy also gave off a seriously damaged vibe. But, Deke swore by the man, said he was shaping up into everything they’d want in an officer. And he trusted Deke. He couldn’t discount the fact Winger had liked him too, and a conversation with him had gone a long way to settling some of his nerves about placing any kind of reins in the man’s hands. Winger trusted him with his girls, not something he did lightly, and that single thing gave Mason more confidence in what he was considering. Even with that, Mason still found himself still reserving judgment, because for the amount of time Robinson had been patched into the club, no one had gotten close enough to the man to even give him a fucking road name. He sighed, thinking, So, maybe tonight, you could actually fucking talk to the man, find out what’s ticking in that head bone of his. Novel idea, you stupid motherfucker.

  Pushing off the bar, he walked across the room, and even without looking into his eyes, Mason knew the moment Robinson clocked his destination. The weight of his stare was tangible, and a sense of unease at being approached clung to the man, anxiety making the muscles under his skin jerk and quiver. Fuck, Mason thought with a shiver, remembering Deke’s reluctant admission about Robinson’s PTSD. Is he honestly this unstable? Damn, I like patching vets, but this dude...if Robinson’s this fucked up, then what the hell is Deke playing at?

  He offered a silent chin lift, settling his shoulders against the wall. After a few moments, he softly asked across the small space separating them, “Did you know Winger well?”

  Nodding slowly, Robinson responded thoughtfully, “Well enough. He was a good man, an honest and fair one. Those are attributes hard to come by, so I hold folks like that close. I spent a bit of time with him on runs and around the clubhouse, and he…Winger taught me a lot. His loss is going to be felt for a long time, and a lot of members will be poorer for never meeting him.”

  Mason’s lips tightened. It was an introspective comment, and one he hadn’t expected. “Yeah. I met the man when I was a kid. I know how he liked to pass on his knowledge.” He laughed. “Even if it wasn’t needed or asked for, he was always quick to offer his advice. Copious amounts of knowledge.”

  A grin slid across and off Robinson’s face, sadness chasing the emotion away. “Yeah, he did. He once spent thirty minutes telling me how to lace my boots the right way. ‘Right way’ being his way.”

  “That’s Winger for ya. An opinion on everything.” Mason smiled and then looked up at the wall over the bar, where a large picture of Winger hung. He nodded at it, asking, “Who can get me a copy of his picture for Jackson’s in Chicago?”

  “If you want the same size, I have an extra, actually. I got them blown up from a picture DeeDee has. I asked her to pick out her favorite one of him to put up. Figured since she’s going to be in here all the time, it would make her feel better if she could see him. Why do you need one in Chicag—” Mason snorted silently when Robinson abruptly stopped speaking, interrupting himself to nervously rub his palm over his scalp, probably belatedly realizing he was questioning the highest-ranking officer in the club.

  “You haven’t spent any time up there, but Jackson’s, the club’s main bar in Chicago, is where we have our wall honoring the fallen. Winger belongs there, precisely as he belongs here. You did good, brother,” he reassured the man and watched as a little tension left his stance at the heartfelt praise. “What can you tell me about Robinson? What other things are you good at, man?”

  He ran his palm over his scalp again, and Mason heard the rasp of rough stubble against skin. Robinson was clean-shaven, pate and face, and it looked good on him. His face held enough character it didn’t look vain, merely comfortable. “You askin’ what I’m good at, or what I like to do?” He laughed, the sound hard and awkward in the moment, because he had turned self-conscious.

  Mason shrugged, saying, “Whatever you wanna fucking share, man. I’m just trying to get to know you. I don’t like having members in my club I don’t have an understanding of.”

  Robinson stilled, the tension seeping back into his shoulders and neck, hardening his muscles. In a deep, level voice, he said, “I see things that need doing, things other people tend to overlook. I’m good at getting things done, picking apart a project to find the pieces that make the whole. I liked going to Virginia and working on the bikes with Bear, seeing his plans and designs come to life. But, do you remember when Deke wanted help restoring his old man’s scoot? Bringing that bike back to factory and primping it up with some chrome? That shit made my dick hard. So, there you go, man. You got two answers for one question.”

  “What kind of things do you see here?” Mason asked the question without emphasis, not wanting to alert the man to the importance of his answer.

  “I see Bingo needs help; he’s swamped with his sister’s kids. I see problems in the strip club; no one’s watching out for the girls. I see other clubs are starting to look our way, eyeballing us to see if we can hold what we have here in the Fort. I see we need strong bonds between our brothers in all the chapters, so we don’t lose sight of what we wanted in the club in the first place.” He shrugged, trying to lighten the mood. “I could also be full of shit, Prez.”

  So far, every answer Robinson gave him had hit the right tone, and he seemed custom made for the job Mason was about to hand him. “What were you called in the service?” Mason’s question clearly came out of left field, and Robinson looked at him, blinking.

  “Gunny,” he snorted. “It’s corny, but true. A gunnery sergeant is always called Gunny.”

  Mason raised his head, looking across the open space at the groups scattered around the room. He caught Bingo’s eye and gave him a chin lift. With a half-smile, Bingo stepped into the office behind the bar, coming back into view with something in his hand. Holding it up, he shot Mason a questioning look and received a single nod in response.

  Bingo lifted his head, shouting, “Listen up, motherfuckers. We said goodbye to a good brother today. A man we all fucking loved. Winger’s place in this club can never be filled, but we all know life goes on, yeah?” At the answering shouts and nods, he continued, “Keeping our ranks filled with men we trust, brothers we can count on, is hard when we remember those we’ve lost, but it’s something we have to do. The club has to stay strong, and having people to lean on is one of the ways we ensure our strength carries on. Today, those ranks of trusted grow again.”

  Mason stepped away from the wall, drawing all eyes to him. He met Bingo in the middle of the room, taking the officer patch from him, and turned back to Robinson, who was still leaning against the wall. Mason motioned him to step forward as he said, “Gunny, you’re the Fort’s new Sargent at Arms. Welcome, brother.”

  The phrase repeated around the room, the volume growing as Mason stepped close, handing the patch to the man and pulling him into a one-shoulder clench. He sensed tension flood the muscles under his touch and held him tightly for a moment, murmuring quietly before he released him, “We all have your back, Gunny. You’re a good man, and Winger would be proud. Welcome, brother.”

  ***

  She smiled, lifting her face to the welcome warmth of the sun streaming in through the high window. Not large, she estimated the square of brilliance was about three feet by three feet, and there were no blocking curtains or blinds on the overhead opening, so on uncloudy days, she had the sun for about four hours. Shuffling sideways every few minutes, whether standing or sitting, she crept across the floor by inches, attempting to stay centered in the light as it snuck across the space, surrounded by the deep shadows covering the rest of the room.

  Without glancing behind her, she knew his equipment was standing at attention along the back wall, waiting. Mic booms, klieg lights, and monitors shared the space with her, alongside the harder tools of his hobbies, the wheel and the cross, the iron, and leather. Ignoring the memories of pain that thoughts of his sessions brought, she rolled her shoulders, swinging her head side-to-side, still keeping her face to the
sunshine, soaking it up while she could. Her slow movements were nearly a dance, these small joys choreographed, composed as the traveling partner for this celestial witness.

  ***

  He reached down and pulled his keffiyeh up over the lower half of his face, hiding as much of his pale, reflective skin as he could. From his crouched position in the dark shadows beside the house, his gaze swept the neighborhood. He had been out here for a couple of hours now, ever since he woke from the dream. He could hunker down here for hours and none would notice, no one would see him standing guard. Waiting and watching. Always watching.

  The houses around him were beginning to brighten from inside as the occupants stirred from their restful sleep, waking to an unthreatened morning. They would pack their lunches, pick up their briefcases, and shrug on their coats, slipping soft hands into softer leather gloves and going about their soft American days. Stylishly long hair would curl at their collars, the hipster scruff along their jaws the only concession to the wild lives they once believed were owed them.

  At the house directly across the street, he watched as the garage door soundlessly rose, the yawning darkness swept away by the automatic lights as the man who lived there moved towards his shining new car. Watch, Kincade said. Look over there. Don’t you see? Can’t you see the danger? He tensed when he realized one shadow in the space didn’t disperse, hadn’t flickered out of existence when the light came on, and acting instinctively, he glided across the street at a silent sprint. Noiselessly approaching the man from behind, he grasped him, pressing one hard hand over his mouth and uttering a scarcely heard sibilance to silence the cry of surprise he knew the man’s lungs were bursting with.