Huck Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Rights

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Also by Jessica Gadziala

  About the author

  Stalk Her!

  HUCK

  The Golden Glades Henchmen #1

  —

  Jessica Gadziala

  Copyright © 2020 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 design: Jessica Gadziala

  Cover image credit: Shutterstock .com/ KDdesignphoto

  DEDICATION

  To Dove Cavanaugh King who always helps me with last-minute blurb-writing, even when her own muses are calling her name.

  Chapter One

  Harmon

  Maybe moving next to a biker compound hadn't been my smartest decision.

  In hindsight, it was likely why the lease had been so inexpensive. It wasn't exactly a secret when I'd passed the clubhouse that bikers lived there. The bikes were lined up out front, chrome and black, getting meticulously cleaned by a young guy wearing a black leather vest with the word "Prospect" across the back. If that wasn't enough, there were also several tall men standing around in similar leather vests observing the younger man washing their bikes for them.

  The lady trying to show me the house had kept casting glances in their general direction as though one might come crashing through a wall like the Kool-Aid man at any moment. Then when I'd told her I would take it, she'd lowered her voice, leaned in more closely, and asked in a horrified little voice, "Are you sure, honey?"

  Up until that moment, I hadn't even given the bikers a second thought. I mean, guys on bikes were everywhere. I didn't see the issue.

  I might also add that I'd been blithely unaware about the differences between regular bikers and one-percent MCs.

  But, I figured, if I didn't mess with them, they wouldn't mess with me. And I could always add a security system if I was really worried about it.

  The thoughts never went beyond that.

  I signed the papers. I'd hired someone to move my stuff in. And then I'd done so myself, settling right in.

  You know... for all of eight hours.

  Because that was when the partying began.

  Now, I would never begrudge anyone their good time. Just because I was a loner who hadn't been to a party in years didn't mean that these guys couldn't have some fun.

  Only, these guys didn't seem to party like normal people partied. You know, meaning at some point, the party ended.

  Nope.

  It seemed like they started the party around eight p.m. on a Friday night. And then it just never fully stopped. I mean, sure, I imagined they all slept at some time or another, but the music thumped, the cars and bikes came and went, drunken people jumped in and out of the in-ground pool. Naked, I might add.

  On the one hand, it looked like a great time.

  On the other, I worked from home, and I needed to be able to hear myself think. And not, you know, glance out my window to see several sets of boobs bouncing as the women ran and squealed around the pool, getting chased by some random well-built man or another.

  And, yeah, okay, maybe some of my distraction had less to do with them living their lives on their own damn property, and more to do with the fact that a man hadn't chased me around naked in more months than I cared to recall. So while a normal, sexually satisfied person would have looked away when one of said men grabbed one of said women, hauled them back against their strong bodies, and pressed a hand between their legs, I stood there in my Chewbacca slippers and watched for a long couple of moments while I sipped my eighth coffee of the day.

  Yes, eight.

  What can I say, when you don't sleep, you need to fuel your engine in some way.

  Hell, I wasn't even mad about their musical choices. They kept a nice rotation of metal, hardcore, punk, rap, and the occasional pop song.

  The problem wasn't the music; it was the fact that it was blasting in my office when I was trying to record. And I was worried that if the mic kept picking it up, I would get a copyright strike that would take down my videos, and my ability to make money with them.

  I'd done everything I could. Seeing as, you know, I had no intention of approaching an outlaw biker club and asking that they turn down their music for an hour or two here or there.

  My first order of business had been the soundproofing tiles for the wall. It was a good thing they ended up looking cool with purple and light blue zig-zag pattern, because they didn't do much to dull the sounds. I'd tried getting up at the crack of dawn, the middle of the night, smack-dab in the center of the day. I'd tried to move the equipment to the other side of the house, all to no avail.

  What other option was there?

  Because I was pretty sure calling the police would get me shot—or worse.

  I guess, if it came to it, I could break my lease, take the financial hit, find a new place.

  I mean, if I didn't get some work done soon, there would be no money to pay the rent anyway.

  I was just sitting down to try to work when there was a different kind of thumping to be heard. Coming from the front door.

  I didn't exactly have any friends, certainly not any that would travel all the way to freaking Golden Glades to come visit me after my move. And since I hadn't ordered my groceries or take-out, my mind immediately went to my new neighbors. Worried they might, what? Be upset about the racket I made when I sat quietly in my own home, bothering no one.

  I doubted big, scary biker dudes didn't pop over to ask to borrow a cup of milk.

  Stomach wobbling, I made my way down the front hallway, suddenly thankful that the door didn't have any windows, so no one could see me approaching, planning to glance out the peephole before I decided if I was going to open or not.

  "Open up, Harm. I drove almost a fucking hour to get here," Jones called through the door.

  Surprised, I rushed to the door, pulled the locks—I may have added three to the existing one and deadbolt, you know, just in case of a lusty biker invasion—and opened the door.

  Then there was my baby brother. Yes, I still had the right to call him that even as he towered nearly a foot over my five-four stature. He appeared taller than that still thanks to the foot and a half of a spiked mohawk made out of his jet-black hair. His somewhat lanky frame was clad in his signature black jeans, black band tee, and a couple of chains. Since turning twenty-two years before, he'd been spending a large chunk of his time—and his money—decorating his skin in various tattoos in a black, grey, and red pattern.

  His overall look was so overwhelming that you actually looked past how good-looking he was underneath it all. With the aristocratic feature
s of his father—my step-father—and our mother's cornflower blue eyes, he was classically handsome by any standard.

  "Jones, really?" I asked, shaking my head as my gaze landed on his face.

  "What?"

  "Did you really need to pierce your lip too?" I asked, looking at the small hoop to the left side of his mouth. This was adding to his right eyebrow barbell and the gauges in his ears.

  "Had to have something to go with this one," he said, curling his tongue and sticking it out, showing off a metal tongue ring. "The girls love this one."

  "Ew, gross," I said, nose scrunching up.

  "What's the matter? You're grumpier than usual. Which is saying something, because you're always moody as fuck," he teased, giving me a smirk as he moved in, letting me close the door at his back.

  "That," I grumbled, following him into the kitchen, waving an arm out toward the side of the house where the bikers were situated.

  "What?"

  "The music," I grumbled, dropping down at the small round table to the side under the windows.

  "It's not that bad," he said, shrugging.

  "Yeah, to you. Who probably blew your eardrums out during your death metal phase in middle school."

  "Why does it matter?" he asked, making himself a cup of coffee in my "A wise woman once said 'Fuck this shit' and lived happily ever after" mug.

  "Because I have to be careful that the mic doesn't pick it up when I'm recording, or they will copyright strike my videos."

  "Record it when the music is off," he said, shrugging.

  "It is never off!" Okay, so my voice came out more shrill than I'd intended at that.

  "Tell them to turn it down then."

  "They're bikers, Jones."

  "So what?"

  "So, not the weekend warrior type of bikers. The 'I will shoot you for looking at me wrong' kind of bikers."

  "Ah, I see. Well, you will figure it out," he said, shrugging.

  Jones was that kind of guy. The "everything will shake out" kind. I don't think the man understood the concept of anxiety.

  A big part of that might have been the massive trust he'd come into when he'd turned eighteen. He never had anything to worry about.

  Me, being the lowly half-sister, the unwanted step-daughter, hadn't gotten anything.

  Add that to my whole host of other things to worry about in life, and you could understand why I couldn't just shrug it off and go "eh, something will work out" about my only way of making a living.

  "It has to, or I will have to find a new place."

  "And go through that cluster-fuck again?" he asked, making my stomach wobble.

  I didn't like being reminded about how my issues made it harder on everyone around me who wanted to help.

  "I won't have any other choice."

  "You know what? I think you've been out here alone for too long," Jones said, throwing back the rest of his coffee in two big gulps. "Let's do something about that."

  "Jones... no," I said, shaking my head, feeling the anxiety already start to rise.

  "Yes. Come on. Go take a hit, calm down, and meet me at the car."

  I knew this debate.

  We'd both been given more than our fair share of the stubborn gene when we were born, but Jones had it ten-fold to me. It was likely due to an indulgent father who convinced him "no" was just the beginning of negotiations.

  Which was fine in business. But it was hell for interpersonal relationships. Which meant I, inevitably, ended up bullied into things, even though I was six years older than he was. If I let it go that far, I would not only be caving to his plan, but I would be mentally exhausted from fighting a losing battle.

  So it was easier just to give in.

  Or, at least, in situations like this, to try.

  So I went into my room, grabbed some of my "calm down oil," got my shoes, grabbed my purse, and tried to ignore the tightening sensation in my chest as I made my way out the front door, and toward Jones's car.

  To be fair, even though he could be a bully, he tried to be nice. For instance, he was currently lowering the roof on the convertible he'd bought solely because he thought it would be better for me and my crippling car phobia.

  It was sweet of him.

  The only problem was, it didn't really work.

  He knew it didn't work.

  I knew it didn't work.

  But there we were anyway.

  "Come on, Harm," Jones demanded from his position in the driver's seat

  Taking a deep breath, I moved to the passenger side of the car, trying to quiet the noise in my head, the flashbacks, the swirling sickness in my stomach.

  I got the door open and climbed in, but as soon as my ass was in the seat, the panic gripped my system in its merciless hands, leaving me gasping for breath as I flew out of the seat.

  Vision blanking out, flashing with the images of many years ago, I wasn't even aware of Jones getting out of the car, coming around it, grabbing me.

  But I was aware of his hands trying to push me back into the car, trying to keep me there.

  I could hear the scream over the labored sounds of my breathing, but wasn't fully aware the sound was coming from me.

  "Jesus Christ, stop, Harm," Jones demanded, voice sounding a little lost. "Stop screaming. It's fine. You're fine. Just stop. What the fuc—" he started, the rest of the word trailing off into a grunt.

  There was hissing and crunching sounds that I couldn't exactly place as I managed to climb out of the car, crawl a few feet away, and curl up on my side, eyes squeezed shut, trying to slow-breathe my way through the memories.

  "PTSD," my therapist would insist if she heard me calling them "memories." She wanted me to accept the label the same way I accepted the treatment for it. Some days, I was strong enough for that. Others, not so much.

  And, in the grips of a panic attack, there was very little strength to be found. The best I could hope for was the images to stop flashing before my eyes as the world slowly started to come back to me.

  "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" an unfamiliar, deep, gravelly voice asked, followed by a slamming sound, and a grunt that had to have come from Jones.

  "It's nothing," Jones insisted. "Mind your business, man."

  "Looks a fuck of a lot like you were trying to kidnap my neighbor, so that makes it my business, kid," the other voice insisted.

  "She's my sister," Jones explained. "I wasn't trying to fucking kidnap her, just take her with me. She's... she's got issues, man. Look at her," he demanded.

  I was just aware enough of my situation right then, laying curled up on the ground like some wounded animal, to feel humiliation rise up through my system, mixing with the lingering traces of the panic, it was a heady cocktail of discomfort in my system.

  "Yeah, well, since she doesn't look like she can confirm or deny your story right now, kid, I'm gonna need you to fuck off."

  "I don't know who—" Jones started.

  I'm not sure what happened then. In my mind, I knew this was one of the bikers, and if it was, that he possibly had a gun that he pulled on my little brother, making him immediately shut up. "I can't just leave her here with you. I don't know you."

  "Right. Because I would save her from you only to hurt her myself. That makes a lot of fucking sense. Look, lived here since she moved in. If I wanted to do something to her, I'd have done it by now. "

  "Still," Jones insisted, and I could feel his gaze on me.

  I needed to pull it together.

  I had to get out of my head, off this ground, step in on this situation. If for no other reason than that I needed to for Jones.

  I took another couple of slow, deep breaths, feeling my vision clearing. I didn't exactly feel better, but I could see, I could hear, I could intervene.

  "It's okay. I'm fine," I said, voice small. My stomach rolled as I moved to sit, pulling my knees into my chest. I didn't trust them yet to hold my weight. "He's my brother," I added, glancing at Jones before my gaze went to the o
ther man.

  He and Jones were likely about the same height, but this other guy had all the muscles to go with it, making him look bigger, stronger, a hell of a lot more intimidating than my punk brother.

  He was square-jawed with hair that was somewhere between dark blonde and light brown, with light brown eyes, under stern brows.

  Stupidly good looking, that was what this guy was.

  "Yeah?" the stranger asked. "Well, he's also an asshole."

  "I, ah, no one is denying that," I said, trying for levity even though my breakfast felt like it was trying to find its way back up my throat.

  "Harm..." Jones said, sounding apologetic. As he should. We'd have a talk about this later. When I felt better. When he had some room to analyze the whole thing. Act first, think second, that was Jones's motto. And it only ever got him into trouble. But he wasn't a complete dick. Once he had some time and space, he always realized he was being an ass, and apologized for it.

  "It's alright."

  "I just wanted to take you to lunch."

  "Well, how about you take your skinny ass out and get her lunch, and bring it back here to her?" the stranger said, more of a demand than a suggestion.

  "I, ah, yeah. That's a good idea," Jones agreed. "Chinese?" he asked, reaching up to rub the back of his neck, an old sheepish gesture he used back when mom used to chastise him as a kid.

  "Yeah. Oh, and can you, ah, pick me up a few things from the store?" I asked, feeling a bit sheepish myself with a hulking stranger listening to our whole interaction.

  "He can," the stranger agreed, and I almost wanted to laugh at the way Jones immediately started to nod.

  "Yeah. Just text me your list."

  "Thanks."

  "Yeah. Ah, should I wait—"

  "Nope. Go." Again, the stranger was making decisions for me. I should have been offended by him overstepping, but I was still pretty annoyed with Jones, so seeing someone boss him around for a change was amusing.

  "I'll be right back," Jones said, giving the stranger a long look that he probably thought looked threatening. And maybe to anyone other than an outlaw biker, it would have been.