McCoy (Golden Glades Henchmen MC 3)

"Take anything?" I repeated, brows pinching.

"Drugs," another voice said, coming from the door that I hadn't heard opening.

And there stood a tall, dirty-blond, square-jawed giant whose eyes were heavy-lidded and red, and whose every molecule seemed to be screaming with frustration.

"Drugs? No. No, I don't take drugs," I insisted. "The one time someone got me to smoke pot, I spent the next like several hours in a paranoid stupor, crying and hiding behind the couch," I admitted. "I don't touch drugs."

"Did someone drug you then?" the giant asked.

"No."

"Alright, good. Then we can get right down to it. Who the fuck do you think you are, coming into my house, and pulling a gun on one of my men?" he asked, voice getting louder, booming off the walls, full of enough ferocity that I felt myself shrinking smaller on the bed.

"Easy," the man next to me said to the other who had to be the boss.

"Easy? She fucking shot you, McCoy," the giant said, raking a frustrated hand through his hair.

"Yeah, I'm aware of that fact," McCoy said, shaking his head. "But scaring the shit out of her isn't going to get us answers either, Huck"

"Wanna bet?" Huck asked, taking a threatening step forward. "Who the fuck do you work for?"

"I, uhm, Lily. And myself. You know... in my free time."

"Jesus Christ," Huck hissed. "You know what I mean. Who the fuck sent you here?"

"I don't know."

"The fuck you mean you don't know?"

"Might be more productive if you ask her to tell you the story."

"Fine. Get up, follow us downstairs, and tell us the story," Huck demanded. "I need more coffee for this shit," he added, turning and walking out of the room.

"He can be a dick when he hasn't slept," McCoy explained. "To be fair, that is usually the title I wear."

"Dick?" I clarified.

"Yeah."

"Then why are you being nice to me?" I asked, not sure if I was suspicious or confused. Or both.

"Good question," he agreed, letting out a humorless chuckle. "Honestly, fuck if I know. Just think I saw something in your eyes that I'm figuring someone else put there. A trapped animal look. And when animals are trapped, they lash out. The way I see it, I can't blame you too much if your back was up against a wall, and you felt like you didn't have a say in the matter. Come on," he said, moving to stand, then waiting for me.

Seeing no other option, I unfolded my body, and slid to the side of the bed. Everything was fine until I got to my feet, and everything went a little spinny and black, leaving me unsteady. My arms flung outward.

"Whoa," McCoy said, reaching out with his good arm, grabbing my arm, holding me upright as I waited for my head to stop spinning. "When's the last time you had something to eat?" he asked as my vision cleared.

"I was too nauseated to keep anything down," I admitted, feeling the clawing emptiness in my stomach.

"Alright. We will fix that. Come on. Take it easy," he advised, leading me out of the room, into the hall, then down to the lower level, keeping close in case I got woozy again.

We made our way into a kitchen full of men.

A few I recognized in a distant sort of way. There was Huck, the leader. Then there was the surfer-guy-hot dude with the bleached tips and lots of ink who had soft-voiced me and gotten me into the bed to calm down. There was the younger guy who'd rushed in first, another good-looking guy in a bad-boy way with his pushed back hair, black jeans, white tee, and leather cut.

Then there was Eddie, the guy who'd hit on me before I went upstairs.

Beside him was a well-dressed, tall guy with black hair, a beard, gray eyes, and lots of gray and black tattoos. He stood next to another dark-haired guy with great bone structure and tan skin.

Che and Donovan, if I remember what Huck had said to them, though I had no idea which was which.

"Sit," McCoy demanded, pulling out a stool at the island.

And what other choice did I have?

I sat.

McCoy moved around to the other side of the island, grabbing a mug, and pouring coffee into it before passing it across the island.

"So, we're feeding the potential assassin. Interesting," another guy said. That one was tall and blond with dark green eyes.

"Alaric," McCoy grumbled at the man, a quiet warning to shut up.

"She's no use to us if she passes out from hunger," the guy who'd soft-voiced me declared, walking across the kitchen toward the fridge, grabbing cream, then a glass container of what looked like sugar. Making his way toward me, he put them down on the island. "Don't know many people aside from these fuckers who take their coffee black," he said, jerking his head toward his biker friends.