At least that was what I had always believed. That they were good for a night or a weekend, and then it lost its appeal.
That said, Harmon had been in my life longer than that, and in my house longer than that, even.
Maybe the difference was, I hadn't fucked her yet.
I'd never bought into that idea that men liked to chase. I didn't know a single man who wasn't over-fucking-joyed when some good pussy just landed in his lap, no effort at all. I was a busy man. I didn't have time to convince a woman I was worth fucking. Besides, it seemed creepy as fuck to do shit like that. If a woman didn't want to fuck me, she didn't want to fuck me. She'd be missing out, but I wasn't going to try to change her mind about it.
I guess another difference here was, Harmon did want to fuck me. There was no mistaking that. She was just insisting she didn't because, why? Because we were neighbors? Because she didn't want to get any more involved with an outlaw biker club than she needed to?
I didn't know.
It shouldn't have mattered.
I should have been able to shrug it off, move onto the next.
Why, then, was every unoccupied thought all about her? Why did I want to know about what she got out of this online community of hers, this game that took up a good part of her life, what incident had made her afraid of cars, and if it was connected to the PTSD and the pot she used for it? I wanted to know why she moved out into the middle of nowhere, why she had no apparent real-life friends, why she didn't seem close to her family, except maybe her brother.
Basically, I wanted to know what made her tick.
And I don't remember ever thinking that about a woman before. About a person before, if I were being honest.
I mean, yeah, sure, over the years, I'd learned about Che and Remy and McCoy and Teddy's pasts. And I'd demanded Seeley tell me his in the interest of protecting the club from any skeletons in his closet. But I don't ever remember being genuinely curious about that shit before, about the parts that made up the whole.
Yet here I was, sitting on the steps of the fucking pool, thinking about that shit. Because of a blue-haired woman with a slight gaming addiction.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
"Just got off the phone with Arty," Che said, dropping down on a chaise that sat beside of the pool, his phone in his hand.
"Anything?"
"No," he said, shaking his head.
"He must be losing his shit," I said.
That was the downfall to guys like him who got obsessed with their work, who didn't settle until they figured out what they set out to. They lost their minds when some questions didn't seem to have answers. Or, at least, ones they could access.
"Pretty much," Che agreed. "But he sounds sane enough still."
When he stopped sounding that way, that was when I used to send my sister over there to get him out of his own head for a while, convince him to eat, to sleep, to shower, all that shit he forgot to do when he got too obsessed with a job.
With her up in Jersey with her man, I had no fucking idea what to do when he eventually did lose it. I had a feeling tough love wasn't exactly the best method to use on him.
"Maybe we can send Ayanna over if we get worried," I said, thinking out loud.
"Yeah," Che agreed. "Or Harmon."
"Harmon might be back to her old life by then."
"Hm."
"What?" I asked, knowing that a "hm" was never a "hm" when it was coming from someone in your life who knew you pretty damn well. What it was, typically, was them trying to let you know that they had thoughts they didn't' think you were going to like hearing.
"I guess I figured she would be around for a while."
"Well, until we figure out what this threat is, and handle it," I said, shrugging. "Of course."
"Yeah, yeah, that. But I thought it might be more than that."
"You got something to say, Che, spit it the fuck out." While Che wasn't like McCoy who didn't care what you thought about it, was blunt as fuck, refused to mince his words or bite his tongue, getting him to say what he was thinking wasn't usually so difficult either.
Che, for better or worse, was the level-headed one, the voice of reason, the devil's advocate.
I could be too calm about shit. McCoy could be cold and too guarded. Remy could be far too hot-tempered, and just as often, far too dark. Che was the middle ground none of us possessed when we were too lost in our own heads.
"She's here. She's in your room. She's got her desk and computer. She's making food. She's privy to inside information..."
"She's involved. That's why she is privy to some of the information. It affects her. And she's here because her casual association with us has put her at risk. Her desk and computer are here because she needs to work. None of those things means anything other than that."
"And the way you watch her?" he asked, gaze holding mine, challenging me to deny it.
"I don't—"
"No?" he asked, cutting me off. "That wasn't you standing in the doorway while she changed Seeley's dressings? That wasn't you watching her load the dishwasher? Watching her place a grocery order? That was someone else?"
Che wasn't a huge talker as a whole. But when he did start talking, the further on he went, the more thickly you could hear his Cuban accent.
"Che, it's nothing. She's something to look at. Don't think I haven't caught all of you looking at her, too."
"It's not the same, though." Che insisted. "She's a beautiful woman. We might look. But in passing. You look, and you get this intense gaze."
"Christ, Che, when did you get so sappy?" I teased, not wanting to admit that he was right, that there was an intensity to the way I noticed her that felt different.
To that, Che gave me a lopsided smile. "My people, we can be romantic. And that means we can see it where others might not."
"Romance? Now I am thinking you're seeing things, man. There's not a romantic fucking bone in my body."
"Men like you, you might show it different. But it's there," he insisted. "Look at how Booker is with Ayanna. He's a hard man like you. But he loves that woman. She's his weak spot."
"Well, then, you know it's not romance with me, Che. I don't have a fucking weak spot," I insisted, climbing off the steps, getting out of the pool.
"Gus is a weak spot," he pressed, not willing to give up.
"Gus is family. That's different. She needed me there for her."
"Hm."
"Christ, what?" I snapped, reaching for a towel.
"Gus never needed anyone," he insisted, shaking his head. "But you were there. You looked out. You protected. That's what a weak spot is like for a strong man. It doesn't mean softness, necessarily."
"I'm sorry, did I miss something? Did you start taking some fucking philosophy courses while I wasn't looking?"
Che, being Che, didn't rise to the bait. "Just seems to me that Harmon is a woman who could use a man looking out for her. And maybe a part of you responds to that. That's all I'm saying," he said, holding up his hands, done making his point, as asinine as it was.
"Well, you're half right. She does need some looking after. That's why she's here. That's why we are all looking after her. But as soon as it's safe, she is going back to her life. And I doubt we will be seeing much of her again."
There was a strange bottoming out sensation in my stomach right then, something I went ahead and blamed on the fact that I'd missed breakfast then done too punishing of a workout.
"Alright, I'll drop it," Che said, shrugging.
"Have you been in touch with the fence people?" I asked.
We'd been too lax about that kind of shit. Our old place had more security than our new one, and that fucker got blown up still.
We needed to shore up the place better. That included shit like a security fence that could be electrified. It meant ballistic steel inserts in the bottom halves, so that in case of drive-bys in the future, we could drop to the floor under windows and return fire without getting hit ourse
lves.
The mother chapter of our club up in Jersey had all kinds of fancy shit to ensure their safety, including a DARPA glass room on the roof, a fucking trench so deep that tunneling under the fence was damn near impossible unless you had several weeks or months to get in. And, of course, their numbers were bigger than ours, so there was always someone on the clock.
We would get there. Now that our heads were back in the game. We'd taken out so much competition so quickly that we felt we'd earned a break, some time to party and fuck and just get some damn rest, let our battered bodies recover.
And we had earned that.
But it was time to get back to work, to make sure we were safe so that we could increase our numbers, lessen the burden of security.
Then we could lay back a bit, enjoy the fruit of our labor.
"Yeah. The quote is as bad as you thought," he said, shrugging.
Normally, I might save the ten or so grand, would have had us all out there sweating it out, so we could put that money back into the business until it was working for us a bit more easily, with less effort.
But with Seeley—arguably our hardest worker—down, and the rest of us walking around with targets on our backs, it seemed like it was smarter just to eat the cost, and save our energy for the coming fight.
"Get it set up. We will have our hands full with doing the walls inside," I added. "Gotta delegate somewhere."
"Alright. I will call them back," Che agreed, moving past me to go back into the house while I decided to sit down in the chair he vacated, knowing I had nothing pressing to work on inside, and that if I got bored enough, I would do shit I had no business doing.
Like fucking around with Harmon some more.
Or logging on under a fake name and ripping into the assholes who disrespected her online.
Or watching some of her backlogged videos.
"Oh," Harmon said another hour or so later, coming to a stop, eyes going wide. "I didn't know you were, ah, using the pool," she said, even though I was just sitting there scrolling through my phone.
"I'm not," I said. "All yours."
"No. It's fine. I will come back when..."
"Get in the fucking pool, babe," I said, sighing. "You're not going to be unsupervised out here."
"Oh, right," she said, looking off toward her house.
"Well, partly because of that," I agreed, watching as her gaze went back to me, brows furrowing. "But also because you and that pool don't have a great history."
"That was one time," she said, rolling her eyes.
"One time when you almost drowned," I clarified.
"Because of that stupid music video."
"Still. Not taking the risk. You need a lifeguard."
"I don't want to do laps when you are watching me."
"Tough shit."
"You're an asshole."
"Yeah," I agreed. "But the water is nice and cool. Perfect temperature, really. And you haven't had any exercise in days," I reminded her as she eye-banged the pool.
"Fine," she said, sighing, dropping her towel on the chair next to mine, then reaching down to pull off her tank top, then push down her shorts as well, leaving her in a barely-there mismatching bikini—yellow on top, white on the bottom. And that bottom? It cut in on her ass. Not quite a thong, but not that far off either.
Fuck.
Hard-ons and board shorts didn't exactly get on well together, so I took a few slow, deep breaths, attempting to force my gaze away from her nearly-bare body.
"Hey," I said, when my gaze lifted, gliding over her back, seeing some kind of ink on the back of her shoulder. "What's the ink?" I asked, leaning forward to try to get a better look.
"It's a wheel," she declared before rushing forward, and jumping into the water, leaving me to wonder why the fuck she'd have a wheel tattooed on her shoulder. And since it was her only ink, I had to imagine there was some meaning behind it. People who only got one thing were either chickenshit about the needle, or only wanted something on them permanently that meant something.
She wasn't a collector like Remy. She didn't have more than a few like the rest of us. The Henchmen logo being the newest we all had inked somewhere on our bodies.
I mean to ask her about it when she surfaced, but she never fully did again. Instead, she pushed herself through some punishing laps that made my own look tame, only coming up to suck in some air, then getting back to it.
My phone fell onto the chair, forgotten, as I watched. Though, thankfully, for the desire I was already struggling with controlling, the water did a pretty good job obscuring all her fun bits from view, letting me get some control back over my body.
It wasn't until about twenty minutes later that she surfaced.
But only because McCoy and Seeley were rushing out the back door, yelling about a car, making me jump up, call out her name.
"What?" she asked, surfacing.
"Get out of the pool," I demanded, reaching down, grabbing her arm, not waiting for her to follow orders, dragging her up onto the cement myself.
"What's going on?"
"There's a car."
"We're rural here, but there are cars," she said, brows pinching as she reached up to push water off her face.
"This one as slowing down," McCoy insisted, body tense, always ready for a confrontation if they became necessary.
"But what... oh," she said, nodding over toward her driveway where the car was pulling in, looking vaguely familiar to me. "That's my brother," she explained. "You can, ah, put the guns away. I'm pretty sure he doesn't plan on murdering all of us," she added, pulling her arm, attempting to dislodge my gasp, but I wasn't ready to let her go just yet. "Jones!" she called as loud as she could as soon as her brother was out of the car.
His head turned as her other arm lifted, waving in the air above her head, making his gaze go to the house, then to her again as he made his way in our direction.
"Harm, what the fuck?" Jones asked as soon as he was close, his gaze slipped from his sister's face to me, to my arm holding onto her. "You leave a bruise on her, and you're going to have to answer to me about it," he said, jaw tight. He knew he stood no chance against me, but I respected his desire to protect his sister.
"Why are you here?" Harmon asked. "You didn't call."
"Yeah, speaking of not calling. How did you forget to call me and tell me that something is wrong with your house? And you are staying over here?" he asked.
"Oh," she said, face falling, guilt making her grimace, realizing he was keeping tabs on her via her livestreams. "It's, ah, it's complicated."
"Complicated," he repeated, gaze slipping to me again. "Yeah, I bet it is. You know, I knew shit was weird when you didn't say what was wrong with the house. If there was a leak or infestation, you'd have made a joke about it. I knew I needed to come over here and see what was really going on. Why are you crashing with the bikers? Why won't he let your arm go?"
"Because he's an overprotective barbarian," she said, yanking away, the water making her slip out of my grasp, turning away to grab a towel, pulling it around her mostly-bare body. "Look Jones, it's just that..." she started, trailing off, chewing her bottom lip.
"It's that we've had some noise from some competition," I supplied, watching Jones's gaze slide to me, thankful for some answers. "And, for whatever reason, they seem to be targeting your sister as well."
"Why? Christ, Harm, are you fucking him?" Jones asked.
"Hey," I snapped even as Harmon let out a choked gasp.
"Are you serious? You don't get to ask me that," she added, voice getting tight.
"What other explanation can there be?"
"The real one," I told him. "She returned our dog that ran off, then stayed for a party we were having. She had a seizure, so she rested here for a bit after almost drowning from falling in the pool during it. And she happened to be here when some of those people I mentioned decided to make a move. I'm guessing they saw her here, and made assumptions like you are doing."
<
br /> "Shit. You had a seizure and you didn't tell me?"
"I don't call you every time."
"Yeah, no. Not lately," he agreed, tension slipping into his voice.
"Because you overreact," she told him, rolling her eyes.
"Yeah, Harm, because, unlike you, I've had to watch that shit. And it's scary. So I worry, okay? You need to tell me when you've had a seizure. Especially if you almost drown."
"Okay," she agreed, chastened. And, to be fair, having seen the seizure myself, I had to side with Jones. She shouldn't be alone after that. She should have someone around to give a shit, to get her some pain meds, to be around if she needs something.
"Now, back to people targeting my sister."
"We're handling it," I told him, nodding.
"By swimming laps?" he asked, glancing between his sister and me.
"Waiting for some information to come in," I told him.
"Jones, if they say they're handling it, let it go," Harmon insisted. "This isn't exactly your area of expertise," she added.
"Protecting you isn't my area of expertise?" he asked, sounding a mix of hurt and angry.
"I didn't mean it like—"
"Speaking of the family," he went on, cutting her off, tone still cold. "You never responded to Grandmother's letter."
"Oh, God," Harmon said, grimacing. "Is it that time of the year again?"
"You have to go," Jones insisted. "For mom, if nothing else."
To that, Harmon's face fell, fighting some internal battle I knew nothing about.
And the fucked part? I wanted to know about it.
"I know," Harmon agreed. "I just... this whole thing is happening. I'm really not supposed to be going anywhere right now..."
"You can go. If I go with you," I said.
Wait. No. What the fuck?
There was no way I was offering to escort her to some family event.
Except, that was exactly what I was doing.
"Really?" Harmon asked, brows furrowing as she looked at my profile.
"Yeah. You got shit to do, you got to do it. But you can't do it alone."
"You're sure?" she asked. "It's not an easy process. I have to walk to the train station, take the train, then walk again. It's a long day and it sucks."
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