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Me: Sure. That sounds great.
Gunz: I’m gonna run into town later. If you need anything else, let me know. I’ll pick it up. Mushroom and pepperoni pizza? Breadsticks with extra garlic?
Grinning far too wide to be considered sane, I stare in awe at the words on my screen. This man remembers what I like. Down to the extra garlic. This never ceases to amaze me. We haven’t even had pizza together yet. It was only a topic of conversation we had with Adam one night over dinner of all our favorites. Of course, Gunz would file it away to use later.
Me: Sounds perfect. Thank you.
Gunz: You’re perfect. Now I gotta get back to work. New security system to go over. See you tonight at dinner. I’ll bring you some chocolate for dessert. Since you’ll be mine.
This man.
Oh. This man.
Wanting to share a snapshot of my day with him, I hug Harley up close, press my cheek to hers, and take a selfie of us together. I send him the text with no words and stow my phone away. He’s gotta work, and I’ve got a one-year-old to chat with. I should also help Bink with the wedding details. It’s the least I can do. Though, cheeseburgers sound like fine wedding food to me. I’m not picky.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-NINE
GUNZ
Seven days ’til the wedding.
Relaxed in my office chair, I read through the new church documents, including the new name my brother, Bonez, bestowed on the damn thing—Sacred Chaos. I get it. It’s a play on our two clubs. But why he didn’t pick something less conspicuous, like Holy blah-blah-Jesus-Lover-Mary-Amen or whatever the hell else that would sound far more religious, is beyond me. We set this up for him. To give him more space to spread his bleeding heart wings. He’s pleased with the purchase, even if I’m not keen on the name. His business. Not mine. I’m nothing more than a glorified bookkeeper when he’s on the front lines doing all the heavy lifting with the survivors and their recovery.
There’s a tap at my office door, as quiet as a church mouse, I barely notice the thing.
“Yeah?” I call out, knowin’ if it was Adam, he’d come in, and if it was my woman, she would’ve texted first.
“We need your assistance,” comes from a shaky female voice I don’t recognize.
Laying the pages face down to scour later, I push from my chair, round my desk, and open the door just enough to see who’s on the other side. It’s a young woman. From the looks of her clothes—a club whore I’ve not seen before. Why she’s here during the day doesn’t make a lick of sense.
“How can I help you?” I arch a curious brow and keep an eye on her hands. Woman or not, I don’t know her, nor do I trust a single soul I haven’t scouted. We’re at war. My idiot brothers would do good to remember that before they let stragglers stay the night.
The brunette chews her fat bottom lip. Whether that’s cause she’s nervous or she’s tryin’ to entice me, I don’t give a single fuck either way.
“Well?” I prompt, growing impatient.
Her brown eyes swim with unshed tears. “My friend—”
The woman’s words cease as my son jogs toward the office and stops feet from the brunette, breathin’ heavy. “Pops, we got a situation.” He waves me to follow, and I do, but not before I lock the office door, and urge the woman to join us.
In the hallway outside of Mickey and Gypsy’s clubhouse bedroom, brothers have gathered. Adam pushes them to the wayside to let me pass. They keep the brunette back as I enter the room to find a pale, buck-ass-naked Mickey, shakin’ like he’s hopped up on somethin’ as he stares at the unmade bed and the naked woman there. The dead, naked woman—on her side, curled in the fetal position, her long, blonde hair plastered to her face. She must be the brunette’s friend.
In the darkened corner, a fully clothed Gypsy leans against the wall, watching his best friend lose his mind.
“I didn’t mean it.” Mickey gestures to the blonde.
He never means it. This isn’t the first dead club whore we’ve come across, thanks to his particular brand of fuckery. Nor will it be the last. When he first joined the club, they were plentiful. A few a year. That was a long while ago. With Gypsy as his constant companion, he’s smartened up and picked better candidates.
Ya see, Mickey doesn’t screw conscience women. Something happened in his childhood. It’s not my story to tell. So, he micks his sexual partners in the safety of our clubhouse then fucks their asses. That’s his thing. He’s always careful with the women. Never brutal. Gypsy oversees every bit of it. How he missed this, I don’t know.
Dallas and Axel swallow up the doorway, keepin’ everyone and their prying eyes out. I overhear Kai speak to the girl’s friend in the hallway as I get to the bottom of what happened here.
“Talk, brother.” Wanting the poor girl to keep whatever dignity she has left, even in death, I cover her naked form with a sheet as Mickey does his best to explain.
Fisting his hair, he pulls the dark strands on end. “I met her at the club party last night. She was into me. I micked her drink and straight up told her what I did to it. ’Cause I’m tryin’ to be more upfront about that kinda shit, ya know? I told her what I wanted to do to her. That she probably wouldn’t feel a thing. Even asked her what tie she wanted around her wrists when I took her ass. I was upfront. I did what Gypsy told me I should start doin’. Let ‘em have a choice. If they don’t wanna do it, they don’t have to drink it.”
See, he’s turned a corner. Makin’ better choices.
