Gunnar Read online

  Once Raven was upstairs and beating on Coop’s door, Logan whirled toward me, his green eyes flashing furiously. “What did you do to him?”

  I raised my arms up in a sign of surrender. “What the fuck? Why is it my fault? I didn’t do anything.”

  Blade glanced between us, brow furrowed seriously. He really wasn’t going to take my side on this?

  Logan jammed his finger into my chest. “Do I really need to say it? I think that shiner on your face says it all.”

  Upon first impression, Logan and Blade seemed like polar opposites. And when Logan had first stumbled into Ballast off the side of the road, I hadn’t trusted him. He’d been cagey about his past—and with good reason, because he’d stumbled into Hell’s Ankhor while on the run from his father, the president of the Viper’s Nest.

  But he’d grown on me over the past few months that he’d been with the club. He’d been good for Blade. With Logan at his side, Blade was a little calmer, a little more grounded, a little happier; less of the in-your-face guy always looking for a fight. Logan made him a better president. And Logan was funny, a little bitchy, and not afraid to speak his mind… A lot like Blade.

  And now I remembered they both had that same protective streak running through them. If Logan thought I’d hurt Raven, he’d at least attempt to kick my ass.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “Don’t play dumb.” Logan glanced toward the stairs, and then lowered his voice. “You know Raven’s carrying a torch for you. What did you do?”

  “I didn’t fucking do anything!” I said again, harsh but quiet. When he’d first shown up here, my tone of voice would’ve scared Logan off. But now he just sneered back at me.

  “You need to talk to him,” Logan said. “Whatever you did to make him hit you? Make it right. He’s clearly fucked up about something.”

  “Yeah, he’s fucked up about something,” I said. “Too bad I don’t know what it is! I tried to talk to him night before last, and this is what I got for it!”

  “For fuck’s sake, Gunnar,” Logan said. “Are you being stupid on purpose? He’s probably fucked up over you!”

  “I’m not being stupid!” I said. “Of course, I fucking know how he feels—I watch him just as much as he watches me! But if you haven’t figured it out yet, he’s off-limits. I’m not going to fuck around with Priest’s son, especially since I practically watched him grow up.”

  Blade and Logan both gaped at me, stunned silent.

  “And anyway,” I crossed my arms over my chest and fidgeted under their twin stares, “that’s not what he was upset about.”

  Panic churned in my stomach. I shouldn’t have had that little outburst. Whatever was going on, I just made it worse, because now both Blade and Logan would be in my business. I’d never admitted my feelings for Raven out loud to anyone, even in a roundabout way.

  Logan took a step back. “So that means you…”

  “You’re into him,” Blade said. “Well. Shit.”

  The front door opened again and Priest ambled in, but stopped as soon as he crossed the threshold. He glanced between the three of us in the kitchen.

  “Hi, boys,” he said curiously. “Everything all right this morning? You’re all looking a little tense.”

  I turned back to the coffeemaker and poured myself a much-needed cup of coffee. If Priest weren’t standing there looking suspicious, I might’ve added a shot or two of something harder to take off the edge.

  Priest had been vice president for as long as I’d been in the club, and even though Blade was technically the president, it was Priest that I didn’t want to disappoint. Priest was the foundation of Hell’s Ankhor, especially now with Ankh gone. No matter what I wanted, no matter how I felt about Raven, it wasn’t worth any pain or stress it’d cause Priest. He’d been through enough.

  “All good, Priest,” Blade said easily.

  Priest rubbed his salt-and-pepper beard thoughtfully as he moved into the kitchen. I poured him a mug of coffee and handed it over. Priest accepted it, but his knowing gray eyes bored right through me. He knew something was up. Lucky for me, he didn’t press, just took his coffee with a grateful nod and stepped onto the back porch to enjoy it in the brisk morning air.

  All three of us stared at the back door, waiting for it to latch closed. Then Blade fixed me with his stern, most presidential glare. “You keep an eye on Raven. I don’t care what kind of bullshit excuses you have to make—you’re my sergeant-at-arms, and if something sketchy is going on, club safety is your first priority. Over whatever personal issues you have. Got it?”

  “You really think you have to tell me that?” I asked.

  Blade softened slightly. “No. I know you wouldn’t let anything get in the way of the club.”

  “Damn right,” I said. If I cared less about the club, I would’ve made a move on Raven ages ago.

  “Just watch his back.” Blade looked to Logan, and Logan nodded his approval. “I trust the other enforcers to do their jobs. But I trust your intuition most.”

  I nodded. I couldn’t act on my feelings, and it was my responsibility to ensure Raven didn’t act on his again. But that didn’t mean I didn’t care about him. I’d always have his back no matter what. That’s what Hell’s Ankhor was about. The brotherhood came first.

  4

  Raven

  “Why are you being so pissy?” Coop groused as he followed me outside the clubhouse. He was not dressed for a day out in town; his long, dark hair was loose, and he was wearing sweatpants with his club leather slung carelessly over a threadbare t-shirt. He still looked good, though—he looked good in most things. Perks of being tall and muscular. If he had a different personality, he’d be intimidating, but he almost always had a bright, toothy grin and a joke or five. “Aren’t you the one who just woke me up and demanded I come with you?”

  “Actually, Blade demanded you come with me,” I said. I had to take Coop with me if I didn’t want Blade and, by extension, Gunnar, to be on my ass about what I was doing. And anyway, it was a brisk, gorgeous morning. Perfect riding weather. Coop didn’t have too much reason to complain. “So you better keep up.”

  I hopped on my bike and peeled out of the clubhouse parking lot, my back wheel kicking up a cloud of gravel dust. I heard Coop shout my name before his engine roared to life as he hurried to follow me. I loved my bike: a sleek, low-profile Roadster that couldn’t match the roar of the enforcers’ bikes but could leave them in the dust if necessary.

  Without my club leathers on, I didn’t look like much of a biker, but I’d been riding even longer than I’d been driving. Dad had stuck me on the back of his bike before I could pedal a bicycle, spending full days riding around, just the two of us.

  I shook off the memories. If I was going to pull off this plan, I needed a clear head—I couldn’t afford to get lost in grief. I rode fast down the narrow, winding roads that led from the clubhouse to Elkin Lake proper. The chill in the air felt good slicing across my face, refreshing, and it woke me up better than the coffee had.

  I needed to dig into this investigation on my own. If Coop found out what I was looking into, he’d definitely tell the other enforcers, and involving Blade or Gunnar at this stage would just complicate things.

  Luckily, I knew just where to start to get Coop off my back.

  I turned onto Elkin Lake’s main drag, riding slow and relaxed down the strip. There were people out getting breakfast and coffee, but it was still quiet. The citizens of Elkin Lake were used to seeing club guys ride through, and we got a few friendly waves, but most people didn’t pay us any attention. We were simply part of the fabric of the community.

  I parked my bike outside of the police station and climbed off it. I pulled my helmet off and shook out my hair as Coop parked beside me.

  “Okay, want to explain what we’re doing here?” Coop said.

  I gave Coop a pointed look.

  “You in trouble?” he asked.

  I roll
ed my eyes. “No, I’m not. I’m just going to ask some questions. You coming in?”

  “You fucking kidding me? You think I’d ever walk into a pig pen willingly?” He spit at the curb. “The fuck you think they’re going to do except try to dig up some dirt they can use against you later?”

  “I don’t know what your problem is. We’ve been communicating with the Elkin Lake cops for as long as I’ve been patched in. What have they ever done to you?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Coop says. “Pig’s a pig. No matter what game they’re playing, they’re not on our side. Never will be. As soon as they decide we’re not useful, they’ll be at our throats, same as they are any other club.”

  “You’re paranoid,” I said. Coop hated cops worse than any other member of the club. He always had, long as I’d known him. He never really explained why, not beyond the standard arguments he was parroting now, the same ones I’d heard him spout over and over. I couldn’t help but think there must be something deeper behind it—Coop was one of the least presumptuous, least prejudiced guys I knew—but I didn’t have time to get into it now. I needed my pan to work. “Look, I’m going to deal with some shit. It’ll probably take all day. Come on.”

  He took the bait. “Hell, no. I’ll wait with the bikes.”

  A twinge of guilt twisted in my chest. It was almost too easy to manipulate Coop into staying away.

  “Suit yourself,” I said and walked inside.

  The police station was quiet. Inside, the receptionist greeted me blandly. After some back and forth, she agreed to call up one of their officers. A short wait later, a muscular man with buzzed black hair walked out of the back and introduced himself as Officer Tam.

  “You asked to speak to someone about an old case?” He glanced at my club leathers. “You’re with Hell’s Ankhor?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “My father was killed in a motorcycle accident last year.”

  “Ah, yeah, I remember that case. Come on, kid. Coffee?”

  I bristled at the diminutive—this guy couldn’t be more than a few years older than me—but I accepted the offer. Tam led me to a small interrogation room and stepped out for a moment, and then returned with two Styrofoam cups.

  “This about that case?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Look, I have the photos you all provided of the scene.” I pulled the photo up on my phone and zoomed in. “There’s an additional set of tire tracks on the asphalt. This case has been closed for a while, I know, but this is weird, right?”

  Officer Tam sighed and rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Look, this case was what, a year ago? Year and a half?”

  “Fifteen months,” I said.

  “Our forensics teams looked into the tracks when we were on-scene,” he said. “We determined they were there before the accident occurred.”

  “How can you be sure?” I pressed. “You don’t think it’s weird? The placement? There are no tracks anywhere else on that stretch of road.”

  “Kid, I’m going to pretend I don’t understand what you’re implying,” Officer Tam said. “That’s a tough corner, and there are a lot of tracks from club guys like you taking it a little too recklessly. We conducted a thorough investigation at the time of the incident, and I don’t see any reason to reopen it.”

  “You saying we’re reckless, Officer?”

  “Let this go,” Officer Tam said. “It was a terrible accident. Nothing more.”

  I snatched my phone off the table and stuffed it back into my pocket. Showing the cops the email had never really been in the plan, and now I knew I definitely couldn’t, since Officer Tam clearly didn’t see any possible foul play. He wouldn’t take it seriously—he’d probably just chalk it up to us biker types playing sick jokes on a rival club.

  Really, all I’d needed here was to cover my bases and ensure they didn’t have any information that wasn’t in the report. Once my tracking program found the source of the email, I’d handle it on my own.

  But for a moment, I agreed with Coop—cops were useless.

  I left my coffee untouched in the interrogation room. Officer Tam shook my hand and disappeared into the break room, and then I was alone in the back hallway of the police station.

  So I’d gotten nothing from the cops. Frustration still chewed at me, and the fluorescent lights made my sleep-deprived head pound. I hadn’t planned on ditching Coop entirely—I’d just wanted privacy during my questioning—but now I couldn’t stand the thought of babysitting Coop and trying to keep him out of my business all day.

  I slipped out the back door of the police station and got my bearings. I hated leaving my bike behind, but it’d only be for the day. Ankhor Works was within walking distance, so I could grab one of the club’s cages—I knew one of the club cars was being serviced there. But the emergency medical station was just around the corner. I’d poke around there first.

  I knocked on the emergency medical station door and an exhausted-looking man in a blue polo answered. I had barely finished explaining who I was before the man, who introduced himself as the district chief, waved me inside and led me to the kitchen.

  “Wait here, son,” he said. “Mike’s on shift today; if memory serves, he worked that call.”

  The paramedic, Mike, shook my hand before he sat down at the kitchen table with me. He was short but broad-shouldered, probably in his mid-thirties but with deep crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. “Hey, man. Chief said you’re family of one of the motorcycle calls we ran?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m Raven. This would’ve been just over a year ago?”

  I knew the reports backward and forward. At this point I could pack away my emotions, at least temporarily, and explain the accident like it had happened to someone else. “A man in his early sixties riding a Harley Davidson motorcycle lost control of his bike as it went around a corner on Route 56 heading north. The driver collided with a tree head-on and was thrown. He suffered head and spinal trauma and was declared dead at the hospital.”

  Mike grimaced with recognition. “Yeah, I worked that call. That was a rough one.” He sighed. “What can I help you with?”

  I had come here for the details I didn’t already have. But the details—the details would hurt. Whatever this medic had to add to the story, however he fleshed it out, I wouldn’t be able to box those feelings away. I took a deep breath before asking, “Was he conscious? Did he say anything?”

  “Listen,” Mike said. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. I’ve been doing this job a long time—I know talking to people who were there can help you find closure. But… Are you sure you want to hear all this?”

  I steeled myself and met Mike’s concerned gaze. “I’m sure.”

  He sighed and scrubbed one hand over his buzzed hair. “All right. If you’re sure.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “I’ve got nothing against you boys in the club, but motorcycle accidents are no fuckin’ joke. Most of our bike calls are riders laying down the bike to prevent something worse—the road rash is unpleasant, but it’s not life-threatening. The bad ones are when riders are hit, or hit something themselves. Like your dad. He was thrown from his bike. Most people who are thrown don’t survive.”

  My gut twisted with nausea. That moment must’ve felt like forever to Dad—the collision, and then sailing through the air toward the asphalt. Knowing the impact was coming. Dad knew about the risks of riding. He must’ve known what would happen when he struck the road.

  “He’d been lying there a while before we got there. At least twenty minutes. We didn’t get a call until another motorist drove by and saw him. He was unresponsive when we arrived. He had a bad head injury—helmet didn’t prevent it. Cerebrospinal fluid coming from his ears and nose. That would’ve been bad enough, but it looked like the force of the accident had made him bounce across the asphalt a few times. Lot of musculoskeletal damage.”

  “Twenty minutes?” I could see it so vividly in my mind. Dad thrown from his bike, the bike he loved so much, tossed l
ike a rag doll over the roads he’d ridden thousands of times. Lying there dying for twenty minutes. All alone.

  Dad had dedicated his life to building the club into a family, creating a support group for the rejects and outcasts, building a brotherhood. And in return, he’d died alone and in pain on the side of the road.

  I thought I might throw up.

  “Yeah.” Mike reached across the table and patted the back of my hand awkwardly. “You look a little pale. You don’t need to hear the rest.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “I’m fine. Did the head injury kill him?”

  “No,” Mike said. “His pelvis was shattered. By the time we arrived, he’d lost too much blood. He went into traumatic cardiac arrest before we could transport. Couldn’t get him back.”

  Grief clawed at me. “What if someone had found him earlier?”

  Mike shook his head hard. “Can’t think like that, especially in my line of business.”

  But that didn’t help. I still couldn’t help but wonder—what if someone had driven by sooner? What if someone else had been riding with him? Dad’s death was part of the reason Blade was so insistent on members taking backup on rides. But why did this have to be the way we learned that?

  “Was anyone else there?” I asked. “Another biker? Or anyone strange poking around?”

  “Honestly, I couldn’t tell you,” Mike said. “That's the police's job. If they’re on-scene, I’m just focused on my patient.”

  I stared at my hands on the table, blinking away the tears threatening to fall.

  “We did everything we could,” Mike said. “We talked to him. He wasn’t alone when he passed.”

  The radio on his hip sounded and the dispatcher’s staticky voice cut through the tense silence between us. “That’s my cue.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “For talking to me. And for being there. With Dad.”

  Mike nodded and shook my hand firmly before jogging out of the kitchen and into the ambulance bay. I sat for a long moment, alone in the empty kitchen with the buzz of the fluorescent light overhead.