Chapter Nine
Willow
Following Puppy, I wonder for a moment whether I should be making different choices.
Is it safe to go into the dark with some man I barely know?
Just because he tells me there are dogs?
It reminds me a bit of the stranger danger commercials.
If someone says they have a puppy in the car, you don’t go with them.
Then again, I’ve spent most of my life doing what I’m supposed to, and look where it’s gotten me.
No more family. Witness protection.
As we wander farther away from the pumping music of the clubhouse, the quiet night envelops us, calming the adrenaline rushing through my veins.
Trusting this beta is as natural as breathing.
Something about his dimples and open demeanor makes him feel like a friend—and I’m sorely in need of those.
Plus, since Bruce is at home, Hugo and Sheila are my next best option for emotional support dogs.
“This place is enormous.” Large fields surround the clubhouse, and smaller buildings dot the landscape. It goes on forever until the line of trees that mark the property’s end. Are there a bunch of houses out there?
“Yeah. We like our space.” The dirt crunches under his feet, and I take a deep breath of the evening air. It’s clean, helps to dispel the mixed muddle of overwhelming Alpha scents pouring out of the clubhouse.
“So. Your tag thing.” I wave at the leather vest he’s wearing.
“It says ‘Puppy.’ Is that a job or like…” I trail off, curious about the unique place I’ve willingly walked into, but unsure of what questions to ask.
I only know the basics about bikers—that they’re rough and ride motorcycles—but so far, this MC doesn’t seem to fit the stereotypes.
“It’s what the club brothers call me right now. Later, I’ll get a different one. My real name is Colin.” His explanation only gives me more to puzzle over. I want to ask so many questions. They’re on the tip of my tongue, but a bright light up ahead catches my eye.
We get closer; a row of luxury kennels comes into view. They’re big enough to comfortably house a horse, and each one leads to its own small but personal yard. It’s paradise for a shelter, but there’s nothing better than a cozy home for a dog.
“These are so nice. Are they just for the people visiting who bring dogs?” I’m not sure why else the bikers need a row of eight kennels… unless…
No. There’s no way. Uncertainty sends my anxiety spiking, and worry grows deeper in my gut. Could these men be running a dogfighting operation? But from the clean state of the kennels, there’s no way. Don’t jump to stupid conclusions.
“Not exactly. A few years ago, Gytrash and some of the other brothers discovered and broke up a horrific dogfighting ring. They gave as many of the dogs as they could to different rescues. But some were at severe risk of euthanasia, so Gy brought them here. He’s rehabbed them himself, but VP’s not a miracle worker.
Since then, he’s added a few more kennels to save other dogs.
If he sees an animal in need, he jumps right in. ” Okay. That was unexpected.
“Why doesn’t he bring them to the shelter instead?
” As we near the first kennel, an enormous dog lunges out of the shadows, snarling and growling and throwing himself at the gate.
I step closer, not afraid, and press my fingers against the fence.
He stops and sniffs my hand before sliding his tongue over my palm.
“He does. Anything small and fluffy, or super adoptable, goes to the local shelter. But the aggressive ones stay here until he finds the right match. We know a lot of other bikers who are happy to take on behavioral cases. Many worked with dogs during their time in the military, so they have training.” It’s an incredible service, and a longing to meet the man behind it fills me.
The dog licks me again, so I focus on him.
In the dim light, he seems to be a large mastiff-type.
A Boerboel? They’re unusual, but when his sweet amber eyes look into mine, my heart stumbles.
“You’re just a big beautiful baby, aren’t you?” Puppy chokes beside me.
“A baby, he is not. That’s Bigfoot. His favorite thing is trying to eat people. If you’re going too slow, then he’s got you,” Puppy jokes, but there’s a thread of honesty to his statement.
“And is that someone usually you?” I guess, and he grimaces.
“Yeah, me or one of the other prospects.” Bigfoot glares at Puppy when he gets closer, growling deep in his throat. Menace. Curious to see how fixated he might be, I cluck my tongue, and his attention comes right back to me.
Mastiffs are incredibly protective breeds—strong and powerful. And Boerboels are some of the largest around, able to take a leopard down. His size and strength are already giving me ideas, but Puppy wanders to the next kennel, and with a quick last glance at Bigfoot, I follow him.
“What’s a prospect?” My curiosity gets the better of me.
“It’s basically another word for a grunt. Prospects aren’t full brothers yet. We need to prove ourselves to become part of the club.” My brows furrow. Well, that’s confusing. What’s there to prove? Why does he need to prove it? So far, Puppy is the best of these so-called brothers.
“That sounds complicated. Why do you want to be a part of the brotherhood? Especially after they make you jump through a bunch of hoops just to get in.”
“It’s hard to explain. The Hellbent are a family.
Cerberus is the dad, and his woman, Mama C, is a complete mother hen.
We all have each other’s backs. If anyone ever needs anything, there’s no need to ask.
The Hellbent Hounds have got you covered.
Most of us served our country, which is like its own group.
Then, when you get back Stateside, suddenly everything is different.
Having people who understand what you’ve been through is invaluable.
Being here is the only place where I fit in.
” He speaks with so much love and clarity that yearning builds in my gut.
And with that explanation, prospecting makes sense.
Proving you really want to be a part of the family.
That you can handle being there for the club through the good and bad.
The rest of the brothers can count on you.
These men don’t have the luxury of growing up together, so they forge bonds in a fire of their own creation.
As I mull it over, we wander toward the next kennel.
“This little guy is my favorite. His name is Fleet because he’s so fucking fast.” A tiny pittie mix rushes to the front gate, tail wagging when he sees Puppy.
He jumps up eagerly, pawing at the fence, and Puppy opens the gate to let himself in.
He motions for me to follow, then sits on a blanket inside the kennel.
The exuberant animal wiggles around, licking his face and nuzzling his cheeks like they’re long-lost friends. It’s plain to see, Fleet is Puppy’s soul dog.
“Tell me you’re adopting him.” I giggle when he finally heads my way and gives me the same treatment.
“Maybe. I’ve been thinking about it. But, like the other dogs, he has some pretty wild behavioral issues.
I’ve never had a dog before. You saw how rottenly I handled Hugo and Sheila at the park.
” His voice is so melancholy that I have the urge to hug the poor beta, but I hold back. Instead, I offer the next best thing.
“I’ll help you train him.” It’s impulsive and crazy. I barely know this man, and coming to the clubhouse nearly sent me into a full panic spiral—but it feels right. These two need each other—I have a sixth sense about these things.
Hope fills his face, and he hugs Fleet to his chest.
“I’ve always wanted a dog of my own.” Puppy’s joy is contagious, and I am so grateful to be a part of it. We linger for a few minutes longer before visiting the other inmates. Each dog is amazing and unique, with a variety of behavioral issues that could use a seasoned trainer.
“I wish we could stay out here all night. But I’m supposed to be working the party. If I don’t get back, there’s gonna be hell to pay.” Guilt bubbles up; we’ve been out here for quite some time.
“Oh gosh. Yeah, let’s go.” I’m not sure whether I’ll be able to enter the clubhouse, but a deep desire to meet the man behind the dog rescues fills me. A tendril of interest spurs me forward.
“How does Gy usually pick adopters?” As we’re walking out of the kennels, my eyes snag once again on the Boerboel who’s been standing at the front of his cage, watching me, the entire time.
Goosebumps pop up along my arms. For Oakley.
Although the big mastiff isn’t the kind of dog I’ve considered for her, a thread of certainty weaves up my spine.
“He’s real picky. They meet the dog, then he does a home check or looks at pictures and stuff.
Honestly, he doesn’t usually let people he doesn’t know adopt.
Why?” Puppy bumps me with his shoulder, then wiggles his brows.
Laughter bubbles up my throat. It’s been such a long time since I’ve had someone act casual and goofy around me. Aspen used to do it all the time.
“I think he’d be a good protection dog candidate.” That’s right. Keep it simple.
“Yeah. I don’t know, but I can introduce you? Gy’s at the party.” My stomach swoops. It’s a good plan. Now I just need to walk into the sea of bikers.
Oakley—you’re lucky I love you so damn much.