Chapter 2 #2
The next morning, sun not even cracked over the horizon, I was already shoveling feed into the stalls and wondering why the hell I was so tired.
I’d only slept four hours, but that was normal, and the dark had been full of dreams I’d rather not remember.
Mostly, I remembered Brie, and that pissed me off more than anything.
By eight a.m., it was time to face the officers again.
Monday meant weekly review of anything not handled in the big church meeting, and I knew what was coming.
Bronc liked to handle certain things in private, but with Arsenal, everything was a goddamn formation drill, “run it by the book,” even if you didn’t like what the book said.
I showed up ten minutes early, just in case. Wrecker was already there, elbows deep in a box of donuts and reading messages off three different screens at once. He shot me a look, smirked, then went back to his hackathon.
Bronc and Arsenal walked in together, talking quiet, like I wasn’t supposed to hear. But my intuition was good enough to figure they'd decided on something about me.
Big Papa ambled in, folding his arms across his chest and surveying the room like he was waiting for someone to start a fight. Doc came in last, coffee already half-gone, phone out, not paying attention to anyone unless someone started bleeding.
Pearl was nowhere to be seen this time. There was coffee, but no food, which set the whole tone as less comfort, more confrontation.
Bronc called it in with a rap of his knuckles. “All right, Gunner, you’re up.”
I took my cue, nice and slow. “We got a dozen head ready to sell,” I said. “Been a good year, so the stock’s heavy. I need to cull the herd before the grass gets short. Figure it’ll mean two runs, three days tops.”
Arsenal didn’t look at me. He was watching Bronc, who was watching me.
Bronc nodded. “You’ll take Arsenal. Knock it out in one run. See how it shakes out.”
My jaw went tight, and I forced myself not to let it show. “That really necessary?”
“Protocol,” Bronc said, too quick. “Pair up, always. Besides, you know how the livestock haulers can get on auction days. Last thing we need is a hijack or a missing trailer.”
I almost laughed. I’d gone solo for years—until now. Until Brie. The old bastard was making it obvious, but nobody else batted an eye.
Big Papa just smiled, slow and knowing. “Don’t worry, Gunner. Arsenal doesn’t snore.”
“Can’t say the same about you,” Wrecker muttered.
Doc finally looked up. “You’re in good shape, Gunner. Bloodwork last week showed clean. But you might want to ease up on the energy drinks.”
I said nothing. There was nothing to say.
They wrapped up the rest of the meeting in record time, and everyone started to head out. Bronc hung back, pretending to look at his notes. Wrecker and Papa followed Doc, probably to go play chess or check on the new med supplies. That left me and Arsenal alone in the office.
He blocked the door, all six-foot-one of him, arms crossed, stare like a sniper scope.
“Say it,” he ordered.
I met his gaze, refusing to blink. “What?”
“You’re off. You’ve been off for weeks. You know what happens to enforcers who get soft, Gunner?”
I snorted. “You calling me soft, Arsenal?”
“I’m saying,” he said, slow and flat, “if you want to pretend you’re not fucked up over a girl, you’d better do it somewhere nobody can see.”
I wanted to hit him. Not because he was wrong, but because he was right.
“Brie’s not a problem,” I said. “She’s a distraction. And I don’t want her.”
Arsenal leaned in, inches away, and lowered his voice to a growl. “Bullshit. You want her so bad it’s making the whole pack edgy. You stink of need, Gunner. Even the pups notice.”
That landed like a punch. I took a step back, teeth gritted. “She’s not mine,” I said. “Maybe she could be. But she isn’t.”
Arsenal just stared. “You keep lying to yourself, or you just keep lying to me?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
He shook his head and dropped his arms. “Here’s what I know. You think being alone makes you strong. It doesn’t. It makes you stupid.” He opened the door. “See you tomorrow, Gunner.”
I walked out into the hallway, blinking hard. I didn’t know if I wanted to fight Arsenal or buy him a beer. Both, probably.
Back at my truck, I threw myself behind the wheel and slammed the door, hard enough to rattle the old Ford’s frame. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I checked the screen, hoping for a distraction. Instead, it was a text from Pearl: “Don’t sulk. There’s peach cobbler in the fridge.”
I laughed, first time in days. It didn’t fix anything, but it made the weight in my chest a little lighter.
Truth was, I hadn’t gotten off since Brie moved in across the street.
I tried, but it was like my body knew she was close, waiting to see who’d break first. Some nights I got close, but then her voice would float through my skull—usually some smartass quip or bitchy joke—and I’d lose it, limp as a dead rattler.
It made me want her more. It made me hate myself. It made me want to chase her down, drag her back, and make her admit she wanted it, too.
But mostly, it made me want to run.
I started the truck, engine growling under my hands, and tried to shake off the feeling. I had work to do—fences to check, stock to prep, a million little chores that didn’t give a damn about my aching dick or my fucked-up head.
But as I drove away from the compound, I could feel Arsenal’s words clinging to me, burrowing deep.
You keep lying to yourself, or you just keep lying to me?
Maybe it was both.
I gunned it down the dirt road, rooster-tailing dust behind me, and pretended I wasn’t looking for Brie’s car in the drive.