Page 68 of Gunner

“Told me what?” Bailey asked innocently, which I didn’t believe for one second. There wasn’t an innocent bone in her body. More like fire and brimstone. The woman was hell on wheels with the mouth of a sailor.

The coffee shop bell ringing had me turning to see Beth standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. She had that motherly look on her face. The one that said she wasn’t in the mood for shit and not to test her. The one that I was intimately familiar with. The same one my mother had sported many times when I was in trouble.

Smiling, I greeted, “Good afternoon, beautiful.”

“Cut the crap, Cord Brian Montclair. Quit dawdling. He’s waiting for you in his office.” Beth huffed before turning on her little feet, heading back into the shop.

“Damn,” Bailey muttered. “She just full named ya, Bruh.”

Gulping, I nodded my head.

Getting off my bike, I pocketed my keys, took a deep breath, then sighed. “Guess I better get in there.”

“Why do you look like you’re going to a funeral?”

“Because I am,” I sighed, taking a step. “My own.”

The coffee shop was full.

I knew it would be. It seemed the universe was going to make an example out of my demise. Honestly, I wasn’t shocked. I found it fitting. My whole life had been a public entertainment for the masses to gloat, snicker and laugh at. Why not my death?

Ignoring the dead silence as I looked around the shop, seeing all the grimaces, snickers and shocked expressions, I side-eyed Beth, who glared at me before turning to do something. I wasn’t going to get any help from her. With my head held high, I walked towards the back and stopped when I stood before the only thing between me and my death.

Maybe this was karma working overtime for everything I’ve done in my life. All I had to do was knock on the door and have a reasonable conversation with the man who wanted to kill me. I’ve talked myself out of many things over the years. I was good at it. Yet, for the life of me, I couldn’t find the right words today. It was almost as if my one brain cell took cover and left me hanging all on my own.

“Get your ass in here, Gunner.”

Flinching, my head snapped up.

Crap.

Turning the door handle, I opened the door and walked in to find Mike Brewer sitting behind his desk, cleaning his gun.

Refusing to move an inch, I said, “Mike.”

“Sit down,” he growled, never looking at me, as he stuck a metal rod down the barrel of his sniper rifle.

Gulping, I asked, “How often do you clean that thing?”

“Every night since Sarah was born,” the man smirked.

Yeah.

That’s what I thought.

“Not going to tell you again, boy. Sit.”

Before I could blink, I found myself sitting in a chair.

Figuring there was no time like the present, I jumped right into the fray with both feet. The faster I came to do what I needed to do, the quicker I could get away from the man who wanted to kill me.

“Mike?”

“Mr. Brewer.”

“Sorry. Mr. Brewer, I would like your permission to marry Sarah.”

There I said it.