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“Well, yeah, not when they look like you, they don’t,” Gunner says, taking the beer Evan hands him. “Little Alice. I, or actually, we all have to work out to wake up like this,” he continues, sarcasm ringing through his voice, motioning to his body.
I huff out a breath, raising my eyes to the ceiling.
“And about the whole modeling thing? I quit,” he adds, before chugging his beer back.
“What?” I look from my brother to Austin, who holds up his hands and moves to the living room again before turning up the volume of the TV. “You were all supposed to keep an eye on him while I was gone.”
“Hey, I am standing right here. Fuck, I’m supposed to be the older brother. I’m in an MC, for fuck’s sake.”
Ignoring his scowl, I cross my arms. “Well, are you going to tell me what happened? Does Dad know?”
He rolls his eyes, brushing both hands over his stubble. “Of course he knows; it’s Dad we’re talking about. Dude’s got X-ray vision or some shit. Looks right through you.”
I grin. “I hate when that happens.”
Evan nods, draining the last of his beer and getting another one. Frankie finishes his brew in one gulp, and says, “He knows everything, man. Shit’s scary as hell.”
“Probably because he lived every fucking stunt we pulled twice over,” Evan grunts.
Frankie shivers before stealing the beer Evan is nursing and taking a long swig. Evan frowns and grabs another bottle from the six-pack.
“I up and left; let’s keep it at that,” Gunner says, leaning against the bar stool.
“But you about signed with the big agency in New York.” I cannot believe my brother. He was set.
“Yeah, and they wanted me to move there and give up my club. No motorcycle club affiliations; their words, not mine. And they wanted to cut my hair. No one touches the mullet,” he drawls, and the boys laugh.
“I can’t leave Nash—this is my life. My club is here, you guys, all my friends. So hell no. It was fun doing the small gigs here and there locally, but I’m out.”
I stare at his vest hanging over the chair. The Devil’s Sons MC means the world to him.
They saved him in prison. I met some of the guys he called brothers when he got out, and I have to admit, I love them. They are honest, hardworking, and hilarious.
Scary when they want to be, but you can always count on them to help you when you need them the most.
“What are you going to do now?” I ask, focusing on my hell-raiser of a brother.
“I got a job.” He grins.
Frankie opens his mouth to say something, but Evan nudges him in the shoulder. He stares him down, shaking his head indicating ‘no.’ He doesn’t want Frankie to throw my brother under the bus, or in this case, his Harley.
“You got a job?” I ask.
Gunner had difficulties finding work with a criminal record. I know where his heart lies: it has always been fighting fires. But although he volunteered in California when he was serving time, he could never become a real firefighter.
“Yep, you know the place my buddy Taser owns, where Evan got his bike fixed?”
I nod, remembering Taser and his angry-looking scar that runs from the right side of his cheek to his mouth, like the Joker. He was nice enough when he changed the wiring on my dirt bike, while he muttered the whole time like I was insulting all the customized choppers and Harleys he was fixing up.
“They needed another mechanic, so I sort of applied and he said hell yes.”
“I’ll be damned, guys. Gunner’s got himself an honest job,” I holler. “Amen.” I ignore the urge to make some remark about Gunner losing a bet. A job is a job.
Austin slow claps, placing his feet on the coffee table. His eyes are glued to the TV, and he’s smiling from ear to ear.
“Fuck you, man.” Gunner laughs. “I like this job. I get to work on bikes the whole damn day and I don’t have to pretend I’m somebody I’m not.”
“A stand-up citizen,” Evan jokes, clinking his beer bottle to my crazy brother.
