"Okay. Ah, ready or not," she declared.
She had good hands, I realized as I watched her tie off the end of the thread, as she paused for a long moment before plunging the needle into skin. I figured her steady fingers, her quick motions once she got over her initial hesitation, were due to all the video games she played, used to telling her hands how to move, and having them do so almost instinctively.
Seeley let out a string of curses, then hissing breaths before, finally, he went slack against McCoy, passing out fully.
"Oh, thank God," Harmon said, voice sounding a bit wobbly. And one look at her let me see a tear spill over her lower lid and slip down her cheek, "I don't think I could have taken his pain another minute," she told me, working faster still, steadily making his torn flesh close together.
The seam was jagged, uneven, would heal ugly. But I figured Seeley would wear it as a badge of honor, would show it off to the chicks who dug scars.
"Okay," she said, taking her first deep breath since she'd started stitching. "That's it. I think. Is he alright?" she asked, moving away from him.
"He'll be fine, babe," I assured her.
"Okay. Well. I, ah, I need to go," she declared, voice more high-pitched than usual. Which, I figured, was the adrenaline wearing off, the reality of the night coming to her all at once.
"Wait," I said, getting to the door before she did. "I will walk you back."
"It's okay. It's not far."
"I'm walking you back, babe. Just in case," I added.
I didn't actually think a threat was lingering around, and I was a bit of a dick to make her think there might be, but I wanted to walk her back.
I didn't stop to think why, just reached for the door and opened it for her.
"Oh, right," she said, body going tense.
"It should be fine," I told her, falling into step with her as the muggy air hit us smack in the face. "I just want to make sure," I added as her gaze went to the street.
"You don't think they hit my house, do you? I don't know how I could explain that to my landlord."
"No, babe, no. This shit, it's personal. They don't want to shoot up a neighbor's house. That just brings more heat on them."
"Because I would call the police, when you wouldn't."
"Exactly," I agreed.
"How do you live like that? Not knowing if your building is going to get shot up one night while you're sleeping?"
"Well, this is a first," I admitted, giving her a smile that she shook her head at as we climbed up her back porch.
"You know what I mean."
"It won't be like this forever," I told her. "These are growing pains. They're fade as we get bigger. We will grow as a club. Have more security..."
"Like the kid with a hole in his shoulder?" she shot back, chin lifting, disapproving. I didn't exactly expect her to be another club bunny, but something about the clear distaste on her face bothered me more than it should have. She was a practical stranger, after all.
"We all get our scars. It's part of the lifestyle."
"Right," she said, tone dismissive. "Well, you walked me home. What are you doing?" she asked when I went toward the door.
"Just let me take a look inside. I'll sleep easier knowing you're all good over here. "Oh, ah, right," she agreed, following me inside, gaze wary again.
"Go wash your hands, babe," I reminded her, watching as her head jerked back, a part of her still struggling to make all the parts of the night fit together. Her hands lifted, her gaze going to them, eyes widening.
She moved toward the kitchen sink while I took a turn around her house, finding nothing, before making my way back to the kitchen where she was still frantically scrubbing at her clean hands.
"Hey," I said, reaching forward to turn the water off. "They're clean," I told her, watching as her shoulders slumped. "It's alright, babe," I added, watching as her head turned, as her gaze slid to me, searching, seeking.
I don't know what she found.
But I knew what I did when I looked at her.
Something in her eyes I didn't expect to see there.
Something I liked more than I should have, given the circumstances.
Interest.
Chapter Five
Harmon
I couldn't get the blood off.
It was stuck in the grooves of my fingers, the cracks of my hands, drawing attention to the places where I needed to make sure I lotioned better in the future.
I grabbed a scrub brush I used to wash fruit and vegetables, getting in the spaces, watching the light pink color swirl then wash down the drain.
Even when it was gone, though, I couldn't stop reaching for the soap, soaping up my hands.
Had I really just done battlefield surgery on a prospective biker after surviving a drive-by by hiding in a tub?
How was this real life?
Because you're associating with arms-dealing bikers, the little voice in the back of my mind reminded me.
I had started, just for a couple of moments before the drugs chased the headache and my consciousness away, to think maybe they weren't so bad, so crazy, that they were just normal people with slightly dangerous jobs. You know, like firefighters or bond recovery agents.
Perhaps I had been trying to convince myself that it was just as normal as those sorts of professions because I had less than tame thoughts about Huck when he'd been on his knees, face to face with my nether region.
Okay, fine. In the interest of full disclosure, I'd had a long moment where I had imagined him leaning forward, running his tongue across my clit. It was a strong enough sensation that I still felt the clawing need while I waited for the drugs to kick in.
I had been trying not to be too hard on myself about the desire since it had been far too long since I'd been up close and personal with an attractive man. And Huck, well, he might have been the hottest man I'd ever been in such close contact with.
It was just a little fantasy, after all.
No big deal.
But then, you know, bullets and yelling and bathtub hiding. Then the whole stitching someone up because hospitals meant cops and questioning.
And all of this after a freaking seizure.
I mean, the seizures were nothing new. I'd had them since I was twelve. I was, in a sad sort of way, used to waking up on the ground, head bashed into things, parts of me twisted in the wrong way, a migraine ripping through my skull.
I mean, sure, they came with risks. I could even die, hit my head off the corner of something, aspirate vomit into my lungs, drown in the tub—or in this case, the swimming pool—but I usually got to take my pills and sleep off the migraine, or head to the hospital for bandaging up and some rest as well.
I never had to be woken up and forced into motion.
It was a night for the books, that was sure.
I just needed a shower, some tea, another pain pill, or some of my CBD oil to chase away the after-effects of the seizure, then maybe a couple hours playing my game to escape, so I could get some calm in my brain, then rest.
But then there he was, looming over me, eyes concerned, and that was not a look I figured was common for him. And something about that, about a strong, stalwart sort of man having a small soft spot for someone else's well-being, it made all the fear and uncertainty fall away. All that was left was the budding attraction I'd felt back in his room at his place, his arms around me, offering me whatever I needed to help make me feel better, then just moments later, his hands on me, his gaze moving over me.
Oh, yeah, there was an attraction factor. I wasn't going to try to lie to myself about that.
And wasn't it just perfectly on-brand for me that I was getting all hot-and-bothered for the wrong sort of guy?
That was my pattern, after all.
Starting with Xavier in my junior year who I'd let take my V-card up against the wall of the venue where he'd just done a show with his metal band. I'd been so starstruck that he was actually on a stage under the lights, holding
a mic, doing his thing, that I didn't stop to realize he was a druggie with a mean streak.
Then there had been the street artist who'd been a hopeless cheater, the tattoo artist who drank too much, and when he did, he shared intimate details of our sex life with complete strangers, completely humiliating me. I thought I'd shaped up after that, dating a sweet, shy gamer. Turned out he had a crippling gambling habit and stole two grand from me before I caught on.
When it came to men, I was the magnet all the bad choices were drawn to.
But, damnit, why did all the bad ones have to look so good?
I'd tried dating a good guy or two. They fucked like jackrabbits then got pissed when you didn't come.
The bad ones?
Oh, the bad ones fucked you like your whole-body orgasm was what they were living for; they'd die before they finished without giving that to you.
Huck, the arms-dealing biker with the jaw of steel, oh, yeah, I bet he was nothing like I'd ever experienced before.
"Keep looking at me like that, babe, and I'm gonna have to do something about it," he rumbled at me, voice low, deep, far too sexy given the circumstances.
But did I stop looking at him like that?
I was pretty sure I didn't.
And I knew that I wet my lips right before the words—the challenge—escaped them.
"Like what?"
A humming sound escaped him, something that was a cousin to an actual growl, vibrating through his chest as his gaze held mine for one long moment before his hand rose, grabbing the back of my neck, using it to drag me forward until my chest crushed to his.
There was no teasing, no second-guessing his actions.
One second, I was several feet away. The next, I was touching his body from shoulder to knee, and his lips were crashing down on mine.
The kiss, like the man himself, was hard, demanding. His lips bruised into mine. His teeth nipped my lower lip to the point of pain, taking advantage of my gasp, his tongue moving inside to claim mine.
I was needy, breathless.
My hands rose, going around the back of his neck, holding on even as his hands drifted down my back, sank into my ass, dragging me up onto my tippy toes as he ground my pelvis to his, making it abundantly clear he was every bit as lost in the moment as I was. His body was wholly on-board with yanking off my pants, lifting me up onto the counter, and fucking me until we both forgot about everything else that had happened already that day.
A throaty whimper escaped me as he deepened the kiss. My leg rose, moving to hook around his lower back, opening me up to him.
Huck wasted no time slamming me back against the kitchen cabinet, rocking his hips against me, his hardness grinding against my cleft, dragging another moan out of me.
It wasn't until one of my arms left his back to brace behind me, my hand landing in the sink with the still-running water, that I realized what an epic mistake this could become.
It was bad enough to sleep with bad news.
It was a complete other to sleep with the bad news next door.
God, what was wrong with me?
"No," I objected against his lips, hands moving between, pushing against his chest.
"No?" he asked, pulling back a few inches, looking down at me with heavy-lidded eyes, a cocky smirk pulling at his lips, like he was sure I was going to qualify the comment.
No, we can't do it in the kitchen.
No, we don't have protection.
Not just no.
Because it was obvious my body was saying—screaming—yes.
But just this once, I was trying to listen to my head instead.
"Yeah," I said, nodding, pushing harder against his rock-solid chest. "No," I clarified, curling away to turn off the tap, then moving several feet away, wrapping my arms across my chest because I didn't exactly trust myself not to reach out to him.
What was one more mistake, in the grand scheme of things?
Well, in this case, being connected to an outlaw biker with enemies who might see me as a target, for one.
"You're a fucking trip, Harmon," he decided, shaking his head, reaching up to rub the back of his neck.
"Call it a blinding moment of sanity," I said, shrugging. "Fucking my arms-dealing biker neighbor is pretty high up on the list of shit I don't need complicating my life."
"Don't know what kind of man you think I am, babe, but I'm not the sort to complicate your life."
"Sex is complicated."
"Sex is a fun way to spend a few hours. That's it."
"Regardless," I said, surprised how strong my voice came out when just about every cell in my body was begging me to cross the room and throw myself at him, beg him to deliver those few, blissful hours. "It's a bad idea. Thanks for saving me from almost drowning. And for the pain medicine. And the story I will be telling my grandchildren someday so they know I was a badass who survived a drive-by, then did battlefield surgery on a biker. My future generations thank you for making my life a little less lame for a night."
"Alright," Huck said, shaking his head like he didn't get it. "You sure you're good? With the whole seizure thing?"
"Yep. Used to that. I just need to clear my head and then get some rest. No big deal."
"Alright. If you say so. You got pen and paper?" he asked, not waiting for me to answer, just going over toward my fridge where I kept my grocery list, ripping off the page under it, and using the attached pen to scribble on the page. "Ayanna wanted me to give you her number," he clarified. "Mine is on there too. In case you need it. You know, for a cup of sugar. Or a couple good orgasms," he said, giving me a cocky smile as he pinned it to the fridge under an "As You Wish" magnet from The Princess Bride. "I gotta get going."
"Right. Drive-by guys to find. Biker things to do."
"Yeah," he agreed, moving to the door, turning back to give me that sexy smile one more time. "Something like that. Lock up, babe," he added.
And then he was gone.
And I was alone in my kitchen with desire ricocheting off every nerve ending, a lingering headache, and far too many thoughts racing through my head, tumbling all together, to make any single one out.
But I moved across the kitchen to lock the door, then did a tour of the rest of my house, paranoia making me check the windows, look inside closets and behind shower curtains.
There was nothing, no one to worry about. No one could have possibly known I had been over at the biker clubhouse, that I was in any way connected to them, save for living next door.
Making my way back into the kitchen, I brewed a pot of coffee while I looked at the note on my fridge, telling myself I was going to throw it out, that I was going to be done with the bikers. In one night, I'd had more excitement than I'd had in over a decade.
It could get me through another decade easily.
I didn't need that kind of crap in my daily life.
Walking over to the fridge, I pulled out the cream, then took the note out from under the magnet, taking a second to notice how unexpectedly neat his print was before tucking it inside my menu drawer, telling myself I was only keeping it in case I wanted to text Ayanna to thank her for not letting me die in the pool.
With that, I took my coffee into my spare room/game room/office /whatever you wanted to call it.
I remembered once making fun of a guy I'd been seeing for liking video games, back before my hands had ever even touched a controller. I'd made some comment about how it looked like all he did was walk around in the game, that it would do him more good if he just, y'know, took a walk himself.
Games had come a long way since back then, it was true. There were all sorts of ones to play. But, somehow, I found myself playing the first game I'd ever tried, originally doing so simply because it was a game version of the book series I'd been obsessed with. And it was one of the ones with all the walking. It was interrupted by short bursts of action, but was overall, more of a game about your own personal mission for your character than epic battles.
The
re were flashier games. But those flashy games also came with a lot of flashing on the screen that I knew from experience didn't agree with my misfiring brain.
I'd only ever had a seizure once while filming playing my game. And that had nothing to do with the game, and everything to do with the fact that I had lived in a shitty area of town, and the cops were constantly around, and on that particular night, they'd camped out directly across from my window, their red and blue lights flashing.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up on the floor with my leg turned at an unnatural angle from being stuck under my chair, and my brand-new headphones crushed from the impact of landing on the side of my head.
It was one of the many reasons I had decided to get out of that area.
There was no controlling the lights, the noise, the stress that could so easily cause an epileptic fit. Even though I was taking my oil, and was trying to control them as much as possible.
And it helped. It did.
Sure, the prescription meds worked better. But they made me slow and tired; they gave me headaches that refused to go away. I'd been forced on them at twelve, and needed to take them until I could make a decision for myself to get off of them.
And I did.
But there were—even on the meds—break-through episodes. The key was trying to avoid the triggers that brought them on.
I could do that with things like moving out of the city, getting away from all the cop cruisers, fire trucks, and ambulances, from the traffic and headlights. I could get away from the noise, from the sheer amount of stimuli that came with living near so many other people.
I couldn't control, though, the unexpected visual triggers. Or the hormonal ones that could make a completely random seizure sneak up on me just because I was close to or on my period.
It wasn't like it had been when I was younger, when I seemed to be having seizures every week or two. I could go months now. Especially when I was careful.
Which was what I was going to be from now on.
Huck Page 5