GUNNER
One Year Earlier
The party crawls under my skin the way these things always do. Too loud, too bright, everyone pretending the darkness outside these walls doesn't exist. The booze flows like we're trying to drown something, and maybe we are. The music pounds against the compound's walls hard enough to make the bottles rattle on the bar. The guys are loud in that particular way men get when they're relieved about something they won't say out loud.
We skipped the entertainment this time. The usual girls who show up to these things, the ones who know what we are and don't care. Too many questions we don't want to answer, not with Helena and her friend around. They're too young for that particular education.
We're celebrating Helena finally being whole again. Or close enough to it.
The last months have been brutal to watch. The injuries she got when those loan shark animals ran her and Scooter off the road nearly killed her. Three broken ribs, shattered collarbone, compound fracture in her left leg. Internal bleeding that had the doctors looking at Scooter with that particular expression that means start preparing yourself. But she's a fighter, that one. Stubborn as hell and twice as mean when she needs to be.
She's still not at one hundred percent. Probably never will be, not really. The body remembers trauma in ways the mind tries to forget. But at least she can move freely now, the casts finally off, the limp in her walk reduced to barely noticeable unless you know to look for it.
She's been waiting to heal for one specific reason.
Her mother is still breathing in our custody, locked in the shed out back like the rabid animal she is. We kept the woman alive just for Helena. A gift, really. The kind you can't buy in stores.
The guys and I can't wait to be done with it. Especially after hearing the garbage her stepfather spewed when Tyson was working him over in the basement. The things he said about Helena, about her real father, about the whole rotten situation that created her. Shocked doesn't begin to cover it. I told the guys to keep their mouths shut. Helena doesn't need more weight on her shoulders, not until she's ready to ask the questions herself.
"Hey, G."
Her voice cuts through the noise behind me. I turn my head, and there she is.
Beautiful in that dangerous way that makes smart men nervous. Long dark hair in loose curls that catch the light, black shirt hugging every curve like it was designed specifically to drive Scooter insane, shorts revealing legs that are toned from physical therapy and sheer determination not to be broken by what happened to her.
"Hey, Helena." I grin, letting it show teeth. "How come the star of the party is late, huh?"
She groans, pointing her thumb over her shoulder at Scooter. The gesture is pure exasperation.
"Why do you think? He made a scene when I put on these shorts, then wouldn't let me leave the house."
I laugh because of course he did.
They've been through hell together, nearly died together, and somehow came out the other side more wrapped up in each other than before. It should be annoying. Instead, it's almost reassuring. Like maybe good things can survive in our world after all.
"Hey, Gunner."
Scooter appears like I summoned him just by thinking about him, an angry scowl on his face and a black flannel shirt in his hand. His jaw is set in that particular way that says he's about to do something Helena will argue about.
"Hey, Scooter."
I give him a knowing smirk that turns into a full chuckle when he ties the flannel around Helena's waist despite her protests.
"Oh, for crying out loud!" She sounds exasperated, but there's affection underneath it.
"Do you know how many looks you got since you walked in wearing those shorts?" He hisses, wrapping his arms around her from behind and positioning himself like a human shield between her and the rest of the clubhouse.
His possessiveness should probably bother me. In another world, with another girl, it might look like the kind of controlling behavior that ends badly. But with these two, it's different. She's as possessive of him as he is of her. I've seen her nearly break a prospect's arm for looking at Scooter the wrong way.
"You two are impossible." I shake my head, still grinning. "But it's adorable to watch."
"Shut up," they say in unison, which just makes it funnier.
The two lovebirds squeeze into the booth with me and some of the guys. Wolf is holding court at one end, telling some story about a run that went sideways in Nevada. Wrench keeps pouring shots like he's trying to set a record. Key is quiet in the corner, watching everything with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. Blood and Shovel are arguing about the best way to dispose of evidence, which should probably concern me but doesn't. It's comfortable, this. Family in the only way that matters.
We stay there for hours, just talking and drinking. The kind of night where nothing dramatic happens and that's exactly the point. Normal. Or as normal as we get.
Helena fits into the group seamlessly now, trading insults with Wolf, matching Wrench shot for shot until Scooter cuts her off with a warning look. She rolls her eyes but switches to water, and I catch the small smile on Scooter's face. These little negotiations they do, the give and take that means they're actually listening to each other.
"How's the physical therapy going?" I ask during a lull in conversation.
"Brutal." Helena grimaces, rubbing her left thigh absently. "The therapist is a sadist. Pretty sure she enjoys watching me suffer."
"That's because she knows you can take it," Wolf says. "You're tougher than half the guys here."
"Just half?" Helena arches an eyebrow.
"Okay, three quarters."
She grins at that, and the expression transforms her face. Makes her look young again, like the girl she should have been allowed to be instead of the weapon circumstances forged her into.
The party stretches into morning, that grey hour when the alcohol stops being fun and starts being a problem. Helena finally crashes, her head on Scooter's shoulder, breathing deep and even. She looks peaceful like this, all the sharp edges smoothed away by sleep.
"You can take one of the rooms if you don't feel like driving." I glance at Scooter, noting the way he's listing slightly to the left. "You both drank quite a bit."
Helena's been doing physical therapy three times a week, pushing herself harder than the therapists recommend. It's no wonder she's exhausted. Plus, the guys went overboard with gifts. There's enough stuff piled by the door to fill two trucks, and we don't have any sober drivers to get it all to her house.
"I guess I'll take you up on that. Thanks."
Scooter sighs, carefully maneuvering himself out of the booth without disturbing Helena. He lifts her like she weighs nothing, cradling her against his chest with the kind of care that makes something in my chest tighten. The way he looks at her, like she's the only thing in the world worth protecting.
"I'll show you the way."
I stand, leading them toward the stairs. We keep a few rooms upstairs for situations exactly like this. I had the prospects clean them before the party, knowing how this would probably play out. The Iron Brotherhood takes care of its own, and somewhere along the way, these two became ours.
"Room's clean, fresh sheets on the bed. You don't have to worry about anything." I pause at the door, giving them privacy. "Night, kids."
Scooter just nods, already focused on getting Helena settled. I catch a glimpse of him laying her down gently, pulling the blanket up over her shoulders, before I close the door.
I leave them alone, heading to my own room. The prospects will handle the mess downstairs. That's what they're for. Manual labor and learning whether they have what it takes to earn their patches. Learning that the brotherhood isn't just about riding motorcycles and looking dangerous. It's about loyalty, about family, about knowing when to be brutal and when to be kind.
I close my bedroom door and the noise from downstairs fades to a dull rumble. The kind of sound that used to keep me awake when I was younger, when I worried about everything that could go wrong. Now it's almost soothing. Everyone accounted for, everyone safe under this roof.
For tonight, at least.
The problem is, nights like this make you forget. Make you believe that safety is something more than temporary, that the violence that's always waiting just outside can be held at bay forever. But I know better. We all do. The loan sharks are still out there. Sandra is still breathing in our shed. And Helena's debt, that massive weight hanging over her head, doesn't care about parties or healing or any of the small moments of peace we manage to carve out.
I strip down to my boxers and fall into bed, but sleep doesn't come easy. It never does anymore. I lie there in the dark, listening to the compound settle, thinking about all the ways this could go wrong.