Sugar (The Henchmen MC Book 12) Read online

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  Dedication

  - ONE

  - TWO

  - THREE

  - FOUR

  - FIVE

  - SIX

  - SEVEN

  - EIGHT

  - NINE

  - TEN

  - ELEVEN

  - TWELVE

  - THIRTEEN

  - FOURTEEN

  - EPILOGUE

  - STAY TUNED

  - DON'T FORGET

  - ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  - ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  - STALK HER!

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  Dedication

  - ONE

  - TWO

  - THREE

  - FOUR

  - FIVE

  - SIX

  - SEVEN

  - EIGHT

  - NINE

  - TEN

  - ELEVEN

  - TWELVE

  - THIRTEEN

  - FOURTEEN

  - EPILOGUE

  - STAY TUNED

  - DON'T FORGET

  - ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  - ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  - STALK HER!

  SUGAR

  A Henchmen MC Novel

  -

  Jessica Gadziala

  Copyright © 2018 Jessica Gadziala

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.

  "This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental."

  Cover image credit: Shutterstock .com/ Viorel Sima

  DEDICATION

  To the girls who never try to fit in.

  Who are fearlessly themselves.

  And can quote obscure 90s and early 2000s songs.

  ONE

  Peyton

  In hindsight, agreeing to go to a gay rave in the woods on the back twenty of a cattle farm without permission from the very homophobic farm owner was, perhaps, not the wisest thing I had ever done.

  But, well, I was never really known for being the most sane, rational person.

  Besides, the stupidest of stunts always made the best of stories. Which I planned to tell my girls as soon as I found my way out of Bumfuck Nowhere. Preferably over a greasy pizza and far too many drinks seeing as I had, stupidly, agreed to be the designated driver since Ronny was fresh off a breakup and needed the booze.

  He had been solidly stuck in the wounded stage for about six weeks, and after listening to him cry for the third time in as many days, I had had about enough. It was time to drag him out amongst a group of body-glitter-covered, ecstasy-fueled, fist-pumping, tight-tank-top-wearing dudes.

  And get him fucked.

  Plain and simple.

  That was the goal for the night.

  Which I accomplished.

  And I was sending a prayer up to God, Allah, the fucking Triple Goddess... anyone who would listen, that this dude fucked the sadness right out of him.

  Anyone who had ever met me would likely tell you that I was not the girl for touchy-feely. You wanted to go out and moon overnight truckers off the top of the bridge? I was your girl. You needed someone to be your accomplice while you shrink-wrapped your ex's car? I was loading up my shopping cart with Saran Wrap. You needed someone to sing absolutely schnockered angry chick music with at karaoke? I am all in.

  But I was not the girl to hand you tissues and rub your back while you cried on my shoulder.

  I was not the kind of girl who did the feelings thing.

  Emotionally inarticulate, that was me.

  Unapologetically so.

  Besides, I was a firm believer in the idea that a good, solid fucking could fix all kinds of ails.

  But I had sweaty body glitter sliding down my chest and onto my tits under an enormously uncomfortable gold sequin dress. My mascara was giving me the dreaded raccoon eyes. And my shoes felt as though they were likely full of blood at the moment.

  I just wanted to get home, change, have pizza and too much to drink, witness a good kill, then get to sleep. Preferably before sunrise. Though, well, that was likely a pipe dream.

  But this never-ending back country road was killing my eyes. I had left the party an hour and six minutes ago. My GPS said I should be home in another twenty.

  You know, if a deer didn't decide to commit suicide out here in the sticks. And take me down with him.

  My hand went to the dash, cranking up the music, trying to fend off the road-weariness in a way that the energy drink in the cupholder was not managing.

  There was nothing like some good death metal to wake up the braincells.

  I had only been half-paying attention to the road that had been completely empty except for me for the past twelve miles.

  If I didn't think my headlights were shining off a set of glowing eyes, I would have missed it.

  Him.

  I would have missed him.

  What my headlights caught wasn't a set of eyes ready to jump out, make me over-correct, and smash into one of these gloriously creepy trees lining the road, ending my life before Die Muthafucker 2 came out. I'd heard rumors about a sequel. Even though the author had been MIA for years. And I had to be alive for that, damnit.

  But oh no.

  It wasn't a deer. Or opossum. Or raccoon.

  It was the chrome of a motorcycle.

  A motorcycle.

  On the side of a backwoods country road.

  I slowed, but didn't stop as I got closer, seeing that it was just sitting there all pretty and - what was the term - hog-like. But it wasn't alone.

  Nope.

  There was a man with his ass half-propped on the seat, but standing, head ducked, the darkness making it impossible to tell if he was of the hot-young-guy-who-watched-Sons of Anarchy-and-got-ideas sort or the old school greasy, leather-clad, and stringy-haired sort.

  I knew, logically, that I was supposed to keep going.

  I was supposed to be the smart girl who didn't try to be a Good Samaritan and ended up raped and killed by the side of a street, not to be found until late the next morning with vultures pecking out my eyes.

  But I was never really known for making the most prudent decisions.

  This was evidenced by how I pulled my car up a few feet, parked, but left the engine running as I threw open my door, and climbed out, all the while cursing my blood-filled heels as they bit into my feet all the more.

  The man's head popped up, either because I stopped or - more likely - because my music was still blasting.

  He was still mostly in shadow, illuminated a bit by the dim red brake lights, giving him an eerie - and therefore sexy, at least in my book - glow.

  "Baby, get the fuck back in your car," a voice called to me as I rounded the back of my car. It was one of those voices too - all sex and whiskey. Which, yes, if you were wondering, totally was a way a voice could sound. "You don't pull over for random guys on a back road."

  "Hm," I said as I closed half the distance between us. "And yet here I am."

  Crap.

  He was good-looking too.

  Like, really good-looking.

  Tall and slim, but fit, with a shitton o
f ink, chiseled features that gave him cheekbone hollows that reminded me of my beloved sexual-awakening-causing James Marsters - Spike from Buffy. I couldn't make out his eyes, but they seemed light in the darkness.

  "What are you doing out here?" he asked, seeming more worried about my safety than his clearly broken down bike in the middle of the night.

  "Oh, me? I was just wandering around the woods in my slutdress, seeing if I could find a big, burly mountain man to drag me back to his dungeon by my hair and do awful things to me."

  His brows drew together at that, watching me like I made no sense for a long moment before shaking his head. "The fucked up part is you sound serious."

  "I have wet dreams about dungeon torture," I admitted, taking a sick sort of pleasure in watching a mix of confusion and disgust cross over his stupidly attractive features.

  "Wet dreams, huh?" he asked, deciding to focus on the more appealing part of my declaration, his lips tipping up sexily to one side.

  And me, well, I never backed down first. "Soaking wet," I told him, feeling my belly swirl deliciously at the strange rumbling growl noise he made in response. "Are you stranded?" I asked, looking around in both directions, not seeing a headlight anywhere.

  "Yep," he agreed, nodding.

  "Did you call someone?"

  "Nope."

  "And I'm the dumb one?" I asked, rolling my eyes.

  "My phone is charging in my buddy's SUV. We got split up on the way back home."

  "This buddy, is he hot? Wait, no. Don't tell me. Just let me have my man-candy threesome in my head."

  "You're a fucking trip," he said, very matter-of-factly.

  "Well, I would offer you my phone, but my friend has it on him. It's likely getting covered in unspeakable bodily fluids this very AsWeSpeakEnd."

  "Unspeakable bodily fluids?"

  "If my plan goes to, well, plan, he is getting it up the ass good and hard right now, so he stops bitching about how his ex broke his heart. And while I don't know a whole helluva lot about gay sex, I imagine it is considered good manners that the guy buried in your ass gives you a reach around. Which means unspeakable bodily fluids going all over."

  "Jesus Christ," the guy said, reaching to run a hand up the back of his neck as he shook his head.

  "Where are you heading?"

  "Navesink Bank."

  "No shit!" I said, feeling the smile spreading, threatening to split my face. "So you're not some Sons of Anarchy wannabe? Some weekend warrior? You're a fucking Henchmen! Right? Tell me I'm right."

  "You're right."

  "I knew it! I know some of your brothers. Well, mostly in passing. But I know of them. My sisters-in-law are like, I don't know, allies or some shit with Reign and the club. Where is your cut?" I asked, noticing he was in simple jeans and a black tee.

  "We're laying a bit low when we're on the roads these days."

  "Oh, mysterious. Is someone trying to pick you guys off?" I asked, knowing my voice wasn't supposed to sound excited at the idea, though it totally did.

  "Pick us off?" he asked, his lips twitching.

  "Pick you off. Bust caps in your very fine asses."

  "Who the fuck are you?" he asked suddenly, the words bursting out like they couldn't be contained anymore.

  "Peyton Reid, at your service," I told him, doing a little curtsy because, well, the moment needed one.

  "Not ringing a bell."

  Were we back in high school, I would have been offended by that. I went out of my way to make sure I was known, even if - according to the adults - I was making myself known for the 'wrong things.'

  "Little sister to Autumn Reid, owner of all the smutty goodness of Phallus-opy. And also the wife of the one and only Eli."

  "Mallick," he said immediately, body getting just a tad less relaxed.

  "Yes, Mallick. As in the son of Charlie and Helen, who host the best parties in the world. And brother to Ryan, Hunter, Mark, and Shane."

  "So that's why you stopped," he said, this time making my brows draw together.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Because you know that no one can touch you."

  "Still not following."

  "You got the protection of the Mallick family. And, if I am remembering my Navesink Bank history well enough here, that also means that Mark's woman's brothers look out for you as well."

  "The Rivers brothers."

  "Yeah, them. You're untouchable."

  For some reason, I didn't like that.

  I loved the Mallick and Rivers family. They were the perfect type of functioning dysfunction my crazy ass had been craving my whole life.

  But I didn't like the idea that my loose relation to them meant that, somehow, people looked at me differently.

  Even if the way they looked at me meant they knew they couldn't flay my skin off my body then jerk off on my corpse.

  I forced my feet to carry me a few more feet forward, promising them a nice soak in the tub when we got home for their effort, and moved closer, click click clicking until I was right in front of him, watching his head jerk up as I moved into the space between his legs and pressed my body to his, feeling my tits crush against the hard line of his chest.

  I reached down, snagging his arm at the wrist, and dragging his hand behind me to place it on my ass, where his fingers instinctively curled in.

  "People can touch me," I told him, making my voice low and purring. "If I want them to," I added, angling my head up, letting my lips part a bit before running my tongue along the seam, watching as his eyes went a little hooded.

  "Not what I meant, baby, and you know it."

  "Oh, I think you meant it," I told him, crushing my chest into his further, this time feeling that rumbling noise he made as it moved through him.

  "You're a crazy ass chick, you know that?" he asked, angling his head down to look me in the eye.

  "I do know that!" I declared somewhat happily, pulling back, getting some much-needed space between us. Because while it was meant to fuck with him, the contact was actually fucking with my own system as well.

  And, well, he was a Henchmen.

  Clubwhore fantasies aside - and, yes, I had had those - I knew getting involved with one of them would get me endless amounts of shit from the Mallick and Rivers men. Normally, I didn't mind them giving me shit. They did it constantly.

  Really, Peyton, this is the third time this year. They are going to register you as a sex offender soon. That was Rush when I called him from the police department to pick me up after I maybe mistakenly flashed the wrong prudish guy. The kind who liked to call the cops because not only was he a prude, but he was a killjoy too.

  Quit picking fuckin' fights with everyone. That was Shane when I went at a guy who was bragging about stringing a girl along because it was funny when she called crying. He had been about to play the voicemail for his buddies. I had a short fuse. Shit happened. Maybe a face got slapped. So what?

  I don't think that is the kind of tip he was looking for. That was Charlie when I had wine-drunkenly made out with the pizza delivery guy. In my defense, he looked like a slightly older version of John Bender from The Breakfast Club, and, well, who would pass up on the opportunity to make out with a childhood crush lookalike? I was maybe a bit disappointed that the next time I ordered from the restaurant - alone, in my own apartment, wearing a mostly see-through nightie - that I learned he had quit.

  So I took a lot of lip from these well-intentioned men around me, but I knew that getting involved with a Henchmen wasn't going to be the playful tisk-tisking they usually gave me. I would bet my left tit that they would have a damn 'sit down' with me about it.

  I would just as soon avoid that.

  No matter how hot this guy was.

  "Alright, so are you coming or what?" I asked, turning away from him, heading back toward my car.

  "Coming where?"

  "I live in Navesink Bank. I can drop you at the compound on the way home."

  I chanced a look over my shoulder
to find him watching me, head cocked to the side, brows drawn low. "Should I be worried that you drive a fuckin' hearse?"

  I felt the smile tug until it was free, shooting him it over my shoulder. "Yes, very."

  TWO

  Sugar

  I'd met a lot of chicks in my life.

  Met.

  Talked to.

  Fucked.

  A shitton of them.

  All of them were varying degrees of insane.

  But this one, this one in her shiny too-tight, too-short, too-low-cut dress with sparkle shit all over her chest and arms, smudged makeup, skyscraper heels, and mermaid hair, yeah, she might have just stolen the grand prize.

  And I had only known her a matter of twenty minutes.

  I'd heard the car coming from what seemed like a mile off, the bass of her metal cutting through the silence that I had been wrapped in for the better part of half an hour.

  We'd been on the way back from a drop. Just a small one. One that didn't need more than two guys. Repo was driving the SUV loaded down with the goods, and I had been on my bike. He had maneuvered past a three-car pile-up before the cops shut down the road. I hadn't. So he had continued on, figuring that I was behind him. It wasn't until my bike sputtered and died that I realized letting him charge my phone in the SUV was a stupid as fuck idea.

  It was only a matter of time before someone - likely Virgin - came looking for me.

  I knew I was fine to camp out, lay low, play dumb if anyone came around.

  Dumb.

  As in not a real biker.

  As in not a Henchmen.

  In case whoever happened by worked for that bitch V.

  That was the real reason we didn't wear our cuts outside of the compound much anymore. Just to cover our asses while everyone who had skills in such measures busted it to try to track down that woman before shit hit the fan in a big way.

  Better to be a bunch of no one bikers than advertise that we were the people she wanted to get her greedy hands on.