Huck (Golden Glades Henchmen MC 1)

"Why do I need a bag?"

"Because I don't know how long this shit is going to go on. And I don't need it on my conscience that you're over here unprotected."

"Wouldn't I be less safe over at your place? You know, where they do drive-bys?"

"We have shit in the works to shore up the place. And since someone was here today and managed to take out Seeley, then, no, babe, you're not fucking safer over here."

"I don't want to go over there," she said, losing the argument, so she was getting stubborn, her chin raising, her arms crossing over her chest—frying pan and knife and all.

"Tough shit," I told her, going into her closet for her, finding a bag, tossing it on the bed. "Thongs it is," I decided, going over to her dresser.

She seemed to get that she wasn't going to win then, dropping her knife and pan on the bed, pushing me out of the way, and rummaging through her drawers, mumbling to herself the entire time she did it.

"This is what I get," she said, aggressively slapping a handful of shirts onto the bed. "Trying to be a decent person always gets you bitten in the ass," she ranted, going into her closet to grab a few more things.

"It's not a fucking prison sentence," I told her, shaking my head as she tossed everything into her bag. "You got meds and shit you need to pack?" I asked, watching as her gaze went to her nightstand, something making her start to nibble on her lower lip. "What?" I asked.

"I don't take prescription medicine," she told me. "And I, ah, I have a medical card for it and everything. I mean, I can leave it here if it is a problem," she added.

I walked across the room, ripping open the top drawer, finding a bottle of CBD oil and a couple joints.

"It's fine if you don't want me to bring it."

"Babe, I got a basement full of fucking illegal guns. I let Seeley get fucked up at my house when he's not of-age. You think I give a shit that you smoke for your seizure shit? Or even just for fun?" I said, tossing it into the bag.

"Ah, the CBD oil is for the seizures," she told me, picking up her bag. "the other stuff is for something else."

"For the car shit?" I asked. God, that felt like a fucking year ago already.

Someday, shit would calm down, and we would be nostalgic for these crazy days. But in the moment, it was all getting to be a bit much.

"For PTSD," she said, then ducked her head and rushed out of the room before I could ask any follow-up questions.

She dipped into the bathroom, grabbing a toothbrush, a hair brush, some assorted girl shit, and tossing it into a different bag.

"How long is this supposed to go on?" she asked as we finally made our way toward the front door. "I need to work," she added, shooting her office a longing glance.

"If it goes on for longer than the weekend, we can move your recording shit into the clubhouse too."

"I have absolutely no say in this, do I?" she asked, searching my face for an answer she didn't want to hear.

"No," I said, shaking my head. "I get that this shit isn't fair. But you're just going to need to go with the flow for now. Once we figure out who is coming at us, we will handle it, and then you can go back to your life."

"Handle it," she repeated, falling into step with me as we moved across her front yard. "You mean kill them," she concluded, voice tight.

"Yeah, babe, I mean kill them. Before they kill us. Or you. That's how this works."

"Have you done it before?" she asked. "Killed people," she clarified.

"Yes."

"A lot of people?"

"Define 'a lot,'" I said, shrugging, figuring she was going to let it drop at that.

"More than ten," she decided.

"Me personally? No, not more than ten. Yet. This club? Yes. The mother chapter of this club? Fuck yeah. If it makes you feel any better, no one has been innocent. We don't get off on the killing. It's just part of business."

"Take them out before they take you out."

"Exactly." She didn't even sound shocked, or disgusted. "Alright," I said, leading her through the back door of the clubhouse, finding Che and Remy leaning against the island, waiting for me.

"Was it bad?" Harmon asked, looking at them. "Your fearless leader here isn't saying much," she went on. "But if you guys had me fish a bullet out of him to avoid the hospital last night, then him going to the hospital today is bad, right?"

"He was okay," Remy said. "A little groggy, confused. Probably has a concussion. Will be getting some stitches. But he's going to be fine. So, you're rooming with us for a while, huh?"