Gunnar Read online

  Gunnar

  Hell’s Ankhor: Book 2

  Aiden Bates

  Ali Lyda

  Contents

  1. Raven

  2. Gunnar

  3. Raven

  4. Raven

  5. Gunnar

  6. Raven

  7. Gunnar

  8. Raven

  9. Gunnar

  10. Raven

  11. Gunnar

  12. Raven

  13. Raven

  14. Gunnar

  15. Raven

  16. Gunnar

  17. Raven

  18. Gunnar

  19. Raven

  20. Gunnar

  21. Raven

  22. Gunnar

  23. Raven

  24. Gunnar

  25. Raven

  26. Rebel

  Rebel

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  Gunnar

  1

  Raven

  I leaned closer to the center monitor on my desk. I’d been typing without pause through the past eight hours, and there was something wrong with the code I’d written. I scanned through the program for what felt like the hundredth time. When I got in the flow like this, the code became an extension of my mind—my own desires and goals reified into thousands of lines of sometimes inelegant but always functional programming.

  Twelve hours ago I’d received an email: a picture of Dad’s fatal bike crash with two words. NO ACCIDENT. The bug I was programming would latch onto the email and trace it backward to its point of origin. Or it would, if I could figure out why it wasn’t compiling properly. After another few minutes, I finally identified the error—a misplaced semicolon—and adjusted it, and then began the compilation. It’d take a solid ten minutes to complete.

  As soon as the timer began, and there was nothing I could do but wait, my wrists and fingers throbbed. I’d been so focused on the task at hand that I hadn’t even noticed the pain.

  The knuckles on my right hand were swollen and warm from the punch I’d landed on Gunnar just minutes after I’d gotten the email. With a grimace I stood up from my three-monitor desk. The room was dark despite the afternoon hour. My black light shades were drawn, and I worked under the blue light of the monitors and a single dim lamp. When I flicked the lights on in the bathroom, the brightness sent a spike of pain through my head.

  Twelve hours. It’d only been twelve hours since everything changed.

  I could see it in the dark circles under my eyes—Dad’s eyes.

  Why couldn’t I look like my biological father, the man I’d never met, and never would? My mother and her brother—Ankh, who became my adopted Dad—shared the same dark hair and dark blue eyes. And so did I. When I looked in the mirror, I saw traces of Dad and had since I was young. When I’d thought his death was just an accident, seeing his gaze in the mirror was a comfort. I carried his memory in my heart and in my body as well.

  But now it was a brutal reminder of what was taken away from me so unfairly. I clenched my fist, halfway wanting to shatter the mirror so I wouldn’t have to see Dad looking back at me.

  Instead, I ran cold water over my sore knuckles. Punching shit hadn’t fixed anything. It’d felt good, though, clocking Gunnar on the jaw like that. I didn’t remember the finer details of that moment, really—just the pain, anger, and satisfaction.

  I had been standing at the edges of the club party with Siren last night, finishing up a game of pool and trying not to feel too jealous of Logan and Blade as they made out like teenagers in front of everybody. Then I had opened the anonymous email to see the familiar picture of Dad’s crash—like I didn’t see it enough in my nightmares. The words NO ACCIDENT had ripped through me like a bullet.

  After that, it was a blur. All I had thought at that moment was that I needed to get to my computer and track the email. I had wanted what I always wanted in high-stakes situations: information. A plan. Something to do. Some way to help.

  And Gunnar had put himself between me and my next steps.

  Would I have punched just anyone who had done that, though? Logan? Coop?

  Probably not.

  But Gunnar had treated me like shit ever since our single night together last year. And he’d had the nerve to demand I talk to him like we were old friends. Normally I would’ve brushed him off, or, if I were in a particularly weak mood, I would’ve been grateful to have just a shred of his attention. But after seeing the email, I couldn’t stand his entitled concern, and it had just enraged me more. So I’d cracked him across the face. I had half-expected him to punch me right back, but he’d been too stunned to do anything before I slammed my door in his face.

  It had gotten him off my back, at least.

  Then I had jumped immediately into writing the tracking program. Part of me had thought, in the back of my mind, that Gunnar would’ve burst into my room when he got sick of being kept in the dark. Now that he was sergeant-at-arms, he didn’t take well to members keeping what he perceived as secrets. Or, at the very least, I’d thought Blade would knock on my door and ask in that annoyingly gentle voice of his if everything was okay. Handling me like a kid.

  But no one had come. Gunnar had left me alone, thank fucking God.

  I cracked my knuckles and winced at the loud pop in my right hand.

  I was used to being alone. I’d been the only kid in the club growing up. The other members weren’t exactly chomping at the bit to start families—the club was their family, and in that way, it felt like I had a shitload of uncles and a handful of aunts. I’d only interacted with other kids at school, and as soon as my friends’ parents found out about my dads and the club, those friendships had come to an abrupt end.

  I wasn’t unhappy growing up, but I was lonely.

  I operated in a no-man’s land of maturity. When I was younger, I was a little bit smarter and a little more perceptive than my peers. Dad and Pops hadn’t tried to hide anything from me—I knew my mother had died in labor with me. Growing up with that knowledge had made me different, and kids can tell when there’s something off. My own eccentricities coupled with my club family had me putting up walls I hadn’t even realized I was building. I’d wanted to connect with my peers, but no matter how much I reached out, no one my age was reaching back.

  So I relied on the club for connection. But that, of course, had its own frustrations. I was smart, but I was still a kid. And everyone had treated me like a kid—but I had been desperate to be considered an adult. To be considered one of them.

  Resentment built fast, especially in my teen years. When I was thirteen, I had asked Dad if I could attend a church meeting with him. He’d turned me down, using my least favorite words: “When you’re older.” I’d thrown a fit. Stole his bike during church and took it joyriding. I could barely handle the thing, but I’d managed to ride it to Elkin Lake.

  Dad and Gunnar had followed me in a club pickup. As he had climbed onto his bike, Dad had said nothing—and his silence had been more terrifying than any discipline he could have doled out. Gunnar had driven me home in the pickup.

  “Can I give you some advice?” Gunnar had asked, his gaze not veering from the road.

  “No,” I’d said sullenly.

  So he hadn’t said anything more. It had shocked me—that I’d refused his advice, so he hadn’t given it. He hadn’t just barreled ahead in an attempt to teach or mold me. The rest of the club guys— my dads especially—had good intentions, and everyone wanted to help me as I grew into adolescence.

  But no one ever really wanted to listen to me.

  In retrospect, I suppose that’s when my crush on Gunnar started developing—though I didn’t identify it as attraction until a few years later. But it was there, in the truck, when he had shrugged and went
right on driving after I’d said no that I realized he was someone I could count on.

  Of course, his respect for my refusal had been enough to change my mind.

  “Okay, fine,” I’d said. “What is it?”

  “You gotta give respect to get it,” Gunnar had said. “If you respect Ankh’s choices about your involvement in the club, he’s more likely to let you get more involved sooner. Club safety is our priority. If you show us you can take direction and respect boundaries, we’ll feel a lot better about having you around the riskier shit.”

  I’d nodded and kept looking out the window.

  “You know what I mean?” Gunnar’d asked.

  “Yeah,” I’d said. “It just makes me so mad. I’m not a kid anymore.”

  Obviously, I’d still very much been a kid, but Gunnar hadn’t pointed that out.

  “Next time, come to me,” he’d said. “I’ve got some good remedies for anger.”

  That’s how I’d started training with Gunnar, learning basic hand-to-hand techniques and, of course, hatchet-throwing at the trees out back. We were never super close the way he was with other club members, but he always looked out for me, and continued to offer me quiet advice. And as I grew up, I’d started noticing him differently. I’d started watching the muscles of his back moving under his t-shirts when he worked on his bike. The veins in his forearms when he held a cup of coffee in the morning. His smile when he laughed at something Blade said.

  Things were fine until I turned eighteen. The training had started to have an effect on me: I’d started putting on muscle, filling out a little, looking less like a beanpole. A small part of me had hoped that one day, my new physique might attract some attention, but for the most part I hadn’t thought much about it.

  Meanwhile, Gunnar had been promising to show me some grappling techniques—it was supposed to be the next stage in my training. He’d wanted me to know safe, effective ways to take down guys bigger than me. Just in case, he’d said.

  To demonstrate, Gunnar had gripped the front of my shirt in his hands and pulled me close. But before I could even process how close he was, he’d stepped to the side, and then swept both my feet out from under me. I’d fallen backward, landing with a thump on the soft grass of the backyard. Gunnar’s grip hadn’t left my shirt, and he’d dropped into a crouch at my side, hovering over me. His gaze had tracked rapidly over my face, and I’d dug my hands into the dirt so as to not reach for him.

  For one crazy moment, I’d thought he might lean down and kiss me.

  “So from here,” he’d said, his voice a little tight, “You’re in a good position to get your knife at your enemy’s throat.”

  He placed two fingers against my throat, demonstrating. I swallowed, and he pulled his hand away.

  Then he’d released me and stood up. With his back to me, he’d said, “Okay, that’s it.”

  Almost overnight, our training sessions stopped. He’d started avoiding me when I sought him out for advice. I still didn’t know what I did, or what happened that changed our relationship so drastically, but the easy, relaxed relationship we’d built as I’d grown up had disintegrated after that afternoon.

  I’d caught him looking at me sometimes—not the way he’d look at club bunnies when he was trying to lure someone in. Differently, but there was still an attraction there. An intense look. But if I tried to look back, he’d close off. And he was confusing, too. Sometimes he’d be open and playful with me, like he’d been when I was younger, but then his hand would graze over my back and he’d leap back like he’d been electrocuted. And the easy demeanor would disappear.

  And god forbid I tried to touch him, even a simple clap on the back or my hand on his forearm. He’d go to great lengths to ensure there was always distance between us. His moods were so fickle—one moment I’d be melting under his gaze, the next he’d be blowing me off and cracking jokes at my expense.

  I’d thought my decision to go to college might snap him out of it. I’d hoped he’d realize I wouldn’t be hanging around Elkin Lake forever, and maybe he’d start to value the time we had together a little more. I even tried to get him to train me again, but he refused. I’d shrugged it off at the time, but it’d stung—a lot. Then I went off to college, and I had my fair share of flings and boyfriends. And they were all tall, broad, blond, and older. Like a certain someone I’d left behind.

  I’d decided that I’d come back with a hot man in tow, and it wouldn’t matter what Gunnar thought of me anymore.

  None of the flings lasted, though, and as my college career came to a close, I began to hope things might change between Gunnar and me. It was pathetic, but I had hoped that maybe I’d come back older, experienced, more mature—and Gunnar would finally see me as a man. Maybe even a man he could be with.

  But I’d come back. And Gunnar hadn’t changed.

  And then Dad had died.

  What was I thinking that night, after Dad’s funeral, when I’d crawled pitifully into Gunnar’s bed? I’d wanted comfort—the noncondescending comfort he’d always offered me when I was younger. I’d wanted him to know I looked at him the same way I’d seen him look at me.

  I tried to push away the memory of that one night. It didn’t do me any good to linger on it. Regardless of what I felt for Gunnar, he’d made it extremely clear he wanted nothing to do with me. And I wasn’t going to waste my time pining over some asshole who treated me like dirt just because we used to be friends.

  He was good at his job, so I dealt with him for the sake of the club, and because I knew Dad would want me to respect that. But I wasn’t going to engage with him personally anymore. I wasn’t going to stand around and let myself get hurt, over and over again.

  I startled as my computer dinged. The program had finally compiled without errors. Soon I’d have the source of that email.

  As the program ran, I opened the files I’d skimmed off the back end of the police database in between coding last night. It was laughable how lax their network security was. It hadn’t taken me any time at all to find a back door and download all the reports I could find on Dad’s accident.

  I wouldn’t take the email directly to the cops, though. Someone had targeted Dad specifically—and that made it club business. If the cops had missed a murder after their first investigation, there was no telling how they’d fuck it up if they reopened the case.

  And I wasn’t going to risk having the police standing between me and my revenge.

  The police reports, the fire report, and the emergency medical reports all listed the cause as an accident. He lost control, the narrative said. He hit a wet patch, it said. Dead on arrival, it said.

  But in the photos included with the report, another faint set of tracks were visible on the asphalt.

  Dad had always handled his bike like an extension of his body. He could ride better than he could walk on his own two legs. He knew how to corner in rain, snow, sleet, ice, whatever. He wouldn’t just lose control. It had taken me a long time to come to terms with the fact that he’d done what I thought was impossible, no matter how wrong it felt: he’d made a mistake while riding.

  But what if I had been right initially? What if he hadn’t lost control?

  What if he’d been forced?

  The email was right. It wasn’t an accident.

  Someone had murdered Dad.

  Anger burned inside me with fresh fire. Whoever did this hadn’t just taken Dad away from me. Whoever did this had killed a good man—a good leader. The backbone of the club. Whoever did this hadn’t just hurt me and Pops, they’d hurt all of Hell’s Ankhor.

  Blade was a good President—a great one, even. The club would continue on and thrive. But Ankh had been taken from us too soon.

  I wasn’t going to pawn this job off on the enforcers—this was too personal, too important, and I knew that they’d try to keep me out of the investigation if they knew. They’d think I’m too sheltered, too soft, too young to be involved. But I’d find whoever did this. And I was
ready to kill them myself.

  2

  Gunnar

  “Fuckin’ A,” I grumbled at my own reflection. I leaned over the counter and examined the slightly swollen area over my left cheekbone. My eye above it was already beginning to swell, too, a familiar shade of purple. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

  Definitely a shiner. No way to hide it, either. Usually I was proud of the trophies I earned after a wild night—but they usually weren’t from a pissed-off kid. I’d be getting shit from the rest of the brothers, that much was for sure. It was still pretty early, though. If I was lucky, most of the club would still be sleeping off the effects of last night’s party.

  As I slipped out of my room, I glanced down the hall toward Raven’s room. His door was still locked, but the blue light shining under his door was a telltale sign that he was either awake and still messing around on his desktop, or he’d fallen asleep in the middle of some incomprehensible computer task, which was more likely. Not that I was going to check. I shouldn’t have tried to talk to him last night, either. It was better for both of us if I kept my distance.

  I’d let myself get too close in the past, and I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. He’d always been a smart kid—too smart for his own good. He’d been more interested in club business than doing whatever normal kids did at school. I’d done my best to keep him safe and out of trouble—showing him the ropes of the club, I guess—but no more than Ankh or Priest would.