Huck (Golden Glades Henchmen MC 1)

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.