Huck Read online

  The one thing they didn't really say about joining the gaming community, being one of the few girls toward the top of the gaming channels, was that people would feel like they owned you.

  I'd been prepared for the rampant sexism—some things never change—like when guys who heard you liked to game, they felt the need to rapid-fire quiz you on every infinitesimally small detail about said game and its history, things they would never expect a fellow guy to know, things they'd probably needed to Google themselves, to take you even half as serious as they took the male gamers.

  But, once I got myself past that, earning my place and the respect that came with it—at least for the most part—then came the guys who thought they had a right to have access to you, to get answers from you, to demand things from you, just because they consumed your content.

  I guess I didn't understand it because I'd started out as a fan as well, as everyone usually did. I found game streaming channels when I was in my early twenties, finding them soothing, using them to help me calm down on hard days.

  But I'd never felt like any of the content creators owed me. I never felt like we had some kind of "connection" just because I watched their channel.

  I guess that kind of shit always came back to the patriarchy, though. Men who thought they had a right to you and your time just because they wanted it.

  I'd actually banned Patrick—whose avatar was a picture of Patrick Star from SpongeBob—from my Patronage-Only because I thought that was why he'd been so pushy. He'd had the highest package for a while, which meant he got to game with me on occasion. And it had just started to get too weird. So I'd banned him from that site while claiming I had no idea why he couldn't be a part of it anymore.

  It seemed to simmer him down for a few months.

  I still saw him in the comments section, but he kept his comments on the game instead of on me.

  Then I woke up to check the comments on my new video to find him talking about how pretty my lips were.

  And, as you can imagine on the internet full of the world's most vile male specimens, all the comments in reply to his were about what I could do with my mouth. It spiraled even worse from there, making me need to delete Patrick's original comment to try to make it stop.

  It didn't seem to matter that I had never seen these people, that I never would see these people, it still felt skeevy to see those things about me. It was like being catcalled just without the immediate danger of possibly being raped and murdered for my rejection.

  -- That asshole.

  That was the response I'd gotten from KitKatTalksBack, my only real friend in the gamer sphere, who responded when I'd messaged her about Patrick.

  - I know. I've tried blocking him, but he just keeps making new profiles. It's obnoxious.

  -- I know it sucks for the algorithm, but you can turn your comments off.

  Kit played the same games I did. That was how we'd "met" originally, in a thread about our favorite game and the book series it was based on.

  I liked most of my viewership. And since I lived by myself in the middle of nowhere with no actual friends, interacting with these online people was the most socialization I got in my life. It was my lifeline in tough times. So I was willing to deal with a couple creeps to keep that small connection to the world.

  In retrospect, maybe moving away from my old life had been a mistake. My apartment had been within walking distance to all the shops and take-out places I liked to frequent, which gave me a sense of normalcy.

  But it was also close to family. And mine could be of the invasive sort. Always trying to swoop in and "save" me or "fix" me, even though over a decade of therapy had never managed that before I finally decided to quit working on the whole exposure therapy thing, and just accepted that car avoidance was a part of my life.

  I guess I had figured it wouldn't be a big deal. I wasn't a people-person by nature. I liked being alone. That was still true. But I guess there was something therapeutic about seeing the faces of people every couple of days that helped keep your social coffers full.

  It had been a week since Jones had visited, since I had met the hulking Huck.

  I'd been crushing out more videos than usual, just wanting something to do to fill my time. Especially because I hadn't been sleeping.

  That wasn't new for me. I had never been someone who passed out and got eight solid hours, but my insomnia had been worse than usual, leaving me pacing my back porch at all hours of the night.

  Like tonight.

  It wasn't pacing weather, what with the humidity set to a thousand, making my clothes feel like they were sticking to me within minutes. There I was anyway, drinking grapefruit seltzer water like an old lady, and wondering if it would be worth it for me to make a trip into town myself to do some window shopping, see some people, maybe even share some face-to-face words with a few.

  It was never easy, having to walk for about forty minutes in the sweltering heat to get to the train station, then get off and walk another half an hour before I made it to town.

  I was exhausted just thinking about it.

  A low, rustling noise had me stopping in my tracks, my stomach plummeting. My mind always went to snakes, even though I hadn't seen one since moving in.

  But not two seconds later, I felt something cold press into my calf, making a shriek burst out of me as I jumped up and over two feet while somehow turning at the same time, spilling my seltzer on the front of my tank top.

  That was when I heard a low whining noise that definitely wasn't like any snake I'd ever known.

  "Oh, hey," I said, heart thumping as my gaze landed on a wide-headed, sweet-eyed pit bull with a hot pink collar sitting on my back porch. "Heya, honey. What's up?" I asked. "You don't belong here," I reminded her as she looked at me expectantly, her little stubby tail waggling back and forth. "Did you break outta that joint?" I asked, looking over toward the biker clubhouse.

  I'd gotten so accustomed to the party sounds that I hardly noticed them anymore. But, sure enough, the front yard was lined with cars as well as the usual bikes and the one or two vehicles that belonged to the MC—a fancy-looking race car and a SUV.

  The music, as usual, was thumping. And people milled in and out of the front and back doors.

  Which was likely how the dog had escaped.

  There was no guesswork in who she belonged to. I'd seen one of the bikers walking four dogs morning, noon, and night on top of the potty break walks around the property.

  "I, ah, I guess I need to bring you back home, huh?" I asked, looking down at my outfit that was not meant for a party at all—a pair of yellow and white boxers and a black tank top with red flip-flops, but I didn't want to risk going back inside to change, and having her run off on me. "Can I touch your collar?" I asked, tentatively reaching out toward her, not seeing any signs of aggression. "That's a good girl," I decided, snagging the little loop where her tags hung, and walking half crouched to the side across my and then their front yard.

  I was just closing in on the door when it suddenly flew open, two women stumbling out, laughing as they went, leaving the door open.

  "See? That's how you got out, isn't it?" I asked the dog. "Come on. Let's find your dad. And hopefully he can put you somewhere safe for the rest of the night, yeah? Can't have you wandering around. I guess we should just go in," I decided, looking through the open front door.

  I had no idea what to expect on the inside. Our places couldn't have been more vastly different on the outside. Mine was a white-sided ranch with very little originality. Theirs was a two-and-a-half floor home with a basement and sand-colored stucco. And where my house was modest at best, theirs was a sprawling thing that had to have at least boasted five-thousand square feet, not counting the basement or the half third floor which I figured was an attic.

  They also had the pool that I very much envied. It was perhaps the only thing I missed about my childhood home, the Olympic-sized swimming pool I used to swim endless laps in on bad anxiety days.
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  But there was no telling what the inside looked like. Especially with all-male partying residents.

  Inside the front door toward the left was a staircase tucked in a corner in a room that should have been the dining room, but was dominated by a beer pong table, red cups all lined up.

  To the right was a living room that was, in fact, decorated as such with a leather sectional and a massive TV. If you, y'know, ignored the fist holes in the walls and the utter lack of any hints of decor. Like curtains or throw pillows, any art on the walls. It was bare-bones, a bachelor pad through-and-through.

  "You must be Harmon," a voice declared from the living room, pulling my gaze off the holes in the walls.

  There, situated among about half a dozen bathing-suit-clad women was one man. Whoever he was, he was a little person with keen eyes, and a nice suit, who also had the balls to wear an actual bowler hat in this day and age.

  "I, ah, yeah. You are?" I asked, moving with the dog into the room slightly.

  "Teddy," he supplied. "You would be looking for Remy," he told me. Boyish good looks. Bleached hair. Lots of ink. He's around here somewhere."

  "Okay. great. Thanks," I said, backing out of the room, making my way down the front hall toward the back of the house. Where I found myself in the kitchen. I also found the most hideous and worn linoleum known to mankind.

  The space itself was nice, roomy, with a center island and a seating area to the right. The cabinets were an outdated style and the stain was wearing off, the copper plating on the handles chipping, and the black fridge and the white stove clashed with the stainless steel dishwasher. But it was, overall, pretty clean. You know, save for the island that was completely lined with bottles of alcohol and stacks of plastic cups along with a few bags of opened chips.

  "Ramona!" a voice called. "There you are. I was looking all over for you."

  At the sound of his voice, the dog lurched out of my grasp, bounding away from me, making me whirl around to find her leaping up at a tall, fit man in a blue and white striped tank top, a pair of white board shorts, with the bleached hair I'd been told to look for.

  "Neighbor girl," he said, giving me a smile, all bright white teeth and charm. "Did she find her way to your place?"

  "Yeah. She was, ah, hanging out on my back porch. The girls here seem a little reckless about leaving the doors open."

  "Yeah. She should have been up in my room with the others. But someone must have ducked into my room for a minute and she pounced out."

  "And then they were too afraid to admit they lost the dog of a biker dude," I surmised.

  "Exactly," he agreed. "Thanks for bringing her home. She's not usually one to wander. She probably saw you , and decided to come say hi. She loves people. And, sometimes, they don't love her back because of her breed."

  "People suck."

  "They do," he agreed, smiling. "Remy."

  "Harmon," I said, not extending my hand because he didn't first. "Well, I just wanted to bring her back safely. I will let you get back to your party," I said, giving him this embarrassing low wave.

  "No, hey, stick around," Remy said, gesturing out toward the house. "Plenty of fun to be had. Alcohol to be drank. Cold pizza to be eaten."

  "I shouldn't," I said, shaking my head.

  I wasn't against parties. But I didn't know anyone here. And I wasn't sure that bikers and their groupies were exactly my people.

  "Girl, yes," a voice said, coming in from behind Remy, making us both turn. And there was a woman in a neon green bikini top and a paisley wrap over her ample body, the color setting off her dark skin. "Love this outfit. Don't give a fuck works on you," she added, waving a hand toward me.

  "I, ah, I was just returning Remy's dog," I said, waving. "I live next door. I wouldn't usually wear this to a party."

  "Why not? if I had legs like that, I'd never cover them up."

  "This is Ayanna. She's an old friend."

  "I knew this one before he learned what a pussy feels like," Ayanna declared, eyes twinkling as she flipped her one chunky braid made up of a bunch of smaller braids back over her shoulder. "I was best friends with Huck's little sister before she fell in love with a biker in New Jersey, and ran off on me," Ayanna explained. "And your little ass just happened to move in next to a biker compound, huh?"

  "I, ah, yeah. The rent was really low. On account of the unsavory neighbors," I said, giving Remy a smirk.

  "Gotta be smart with the money. Come on. Have a cold slice with me. Let the boys do their whoring."

  "Thanks again," Remy said before moving off toward the front of his house, his dog following behind, her loving gaze on his back the whole way.

  "Who in the world ordered veg?" Ayanna asked, flipping open a full box. "I mean, who ruins a perfectly good pile of carbs and fat with vegetables? Well, that's what we've got. Here," she said, handing me a slice. "So, who are you?"

  "Harmon," I supplied, taking a bite of the pizza."

  "What do you do, Harmon?"

  "I, ah, I play video games and film it. Then I make money from it."

  "Lots of pervs in that business, I imagine," she mused.

  "You're not wrong," I agreed. "But there are a lot of girl gamers who are just happy to see another of our kind in the public eye, so they tune in."

  "Make good money that way?"

  "Yeah, actually. I know it won't last forever. Once the pretty starts to fade, so will the viewership."

  "You got a while still. Lots of pretty left. Do you have a man?"

  "Ah, no. You?"

  "Yeah."

  "Is he here?"

  "Nah. He's working. He's always working," she said, and I would swear there was a hint of bitterness in her tone. "So while he works, I party," she said, shrugging.

  "He doesn't mind?"

  "I don't ask," Ayanna said. "He's my man, not my keeper," she added.

  "I like that," I decided.

  "Oh, shit. Ayanna, what are you filling her head with about us?" another of the bikers, the one with the locs and killer jaw, asked, walking up to pour himself a drink.

  "I know this might be shocking to you, McCoy, but we little females don't spend all our time gabbing about your ass."

  "Whatever she says about us is a bold-faced exaggeration," McCoy said, giving Ayanna a grin.

  "He knows damn well I play down their dirty deeds out of love for them," Ayanna countered.

  "You're Harmon," McCoy said, looking at me, gaze hard. Like he didn't like me. Or maybe he didn't trust me for some reason. But that made no sense. "Did Huck invite you?"

  "Did Huck invite who?" a deep, familiar, far too sexy voice asked, coming in from the back. "Oh, hey," he said, coming to a stop as his gaze fell on me. "Everything alright?" he asked, brows drawing together. "Did you need something?"

  "She was returning your dog, you ingrates," Ayanna declared, rolling her eyes. "The two of you are looking at her like she crashed your damn party."

  I gave Ayanna a grateful smile before turning back to Huck. "Remy's dog paid me a visit. I just wanted to bring her back And then..." I said, waving out my slice of pizza. "I'm not going to stay," I added.

  "No, it's fine," Huck insisted. I couldn't be sure, but it seemed like McCoy shot Huck a disapproving look. I don't know what he had against me, but I didn't imagine it was a good thing that a biker next door didn't like you. "Stay. Have a couple drinks. Maybe enjoy the music instead of being annoyed by it," he said, smirking

  "Thanks for the quiet, by the way. I've gotten a lot of work done."

  "Oh, there has been a neighborly dispute, and I wasn't told about it?" Ayanna said, tssking her tongue. "Don't be afraid to stand up to these brutes," she added, waving at them. "They look all big and mean and surly—and don't get me wrong, they can be—but they aren't complete assholes."

  "Not complete assholes," Huck repeated, smiling. "That might be the nicest thing you've ever said about us."

  "I know it is," Ayanna agreed, moving toward the island to grab a couple red
cups, tossing some vodka and a hint of fruit punch in them before holding out to me. "Drink this," she demanded, giving me a smile. "Then you can meet me at the pool, once you're done with the guys."

  With that, she was gone.

  "She's adopted you now, you know," McCoy told me, shaking his head.

  "What? We shared just a couple sentences."

  "She misses Gus."

  "My sister," Huck explained.

  "Right. Before she fell for a biker and moved to New Jersey. If I am getting that right."

  "That pretty much sums it up," Huck agreed. "Stay awhile," he invited, waving at the house. "It's good to be friendly with the neighbors."

  I could have sworn he and McCoy shared a look after he said it, but I didn't know either of them well enough to interpret it. It was enough to put me on edge, though, to make me decide to hang out with Ayanna for a few minutes by the pool, then take my ass right back to my own house where I didn't have to wonder why the criminal biker guys were looking at me sideways.

  "Don't worry about them," Ayanna said twenty minutes later as I sipped my drink with my legs dangling in the pool water, after I glanced over at the figures of McCoy and Huck as they lingered on the outskirts of the pool area, pretending to be casually drinking, but were absolutely keeping an eye on me. Almost as if they suspected me of something. But what?

  "They're watching me, right?"

  "Seems like it. Don't pay it any mind. They're a little paranoid right now."

  "Right. Being criminals and all," I said, getting a cackling laugh from Ayanna, whose face was even more striking when she was smiling.

  "Something like that," Ayanna agreed. "Ugh, not this one," she grumbled, shaking her head.

  This one, meaning the song with its accompanying music video that was being projected onto a giant blow up screen a couple yards behind the pool, looking very much like some college spring break party.

  I glanced up before I heard the first few bars of music. About a minute too late to catch the warning that would have been on the screen. Meant for people like me. Who couldn't handle it.