Huck (Golden Glades Henchmen MC 1)

We flew down the road as my mind raced from one scenario to the next.

In half of them, I got there in time, I saved her before anything too bad happened.

In the other half, though, my mind reminded me that there was a very good chance that we were too late, that there was a fuckuva lot of bad shit a psycho could do to a woman in just a few minutes, let alone hours.

It felt like it took hours to get to Miami despite giving the finger to speed limits, to speed readers we passed on the way.

Mind a little more clear, I drove past the place, parking down a side street, so no one would place the bikes at the scene, tucking my cut under my seat, my gun up in my waistband, nodding to McCoy before taking off at a brisk walk, not wanting to draw any more attention to us than necessary.

We weren't in a partying area of the city where no one would remember anyone being around who was out of place.

Kit lived in a small rental apartment building made of a hideous orange stucco, the place looking like it hadn't seen a renovation since the eighties. And judging from the cars in the lot, it was the kind of place for people down on their luck, transitioning from marriage to singledom, not for anyone who actually wanted to call the place home for long.

"In the back," McCoy said, nodding toward the small alley between the building and the fence to the property next door, making it so we had to run through single-file, finding a staircase up to the second floor.

"How'd he get her up here without someone asking what he was doing?" Che wondered aloud, voice hardly more than a whisper as we moved in front of the apartment we wanted.

I didn't know the answer to that.

I didn't give a fuck.

All I could focus on was being close.

Too close.

I lifted my foot to kick even as McCoy reached in front of me, grabbing, and turning the knob.

I was sure he shot me a raised brow look, but I wouldn't have seen it, my focus was on other things.

On her.

On saving her. I rushed through the kitchen area, down the hall where I could hear a soft, low plea.

Stop.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I broke into the family room to find him kneeling on her thighs, her shirt yanked up to expose her, her breasts red and pained-looking.

And I nearly fucking blacked out with rage as I charged forward, raising, cocking, and sending a bullet through the mother fucker's temple.

Confused, maybe a little in shock, Harmon's mouth opened to scream even as the bastard's body fell forward, half trapping her.

I dropped down beside her, my hand slapping over her mouth, silencing.

"Sh. Babe. Sh. It's okay," I told her, hearing the desperation in my voice, knowing I wasn't being soothing, but I was too worked up to get the worry and relief out of my voice. "It's alright. You're okay," I told her, dropping the gun, reaching down to grab her shirt, dragging it over her breasts. "Look at me," I demanded, seeing her panicked eyes on the body half-covering her.

"McC—" I started, only to see him drop down on the other side of her, grabbing the bastard's body, rolling him off of her. "Look at me, babe," I demanded again, voice a little softer, waiting for her head to swivel, eyes landing on me.

There was a second of pure panic, then confusion, and then it was all washed away by the tears that flooded her eyes.

"Fuck. Okay. Alright," I said, pulling my hand off of her mouth, grabbing her body, pulling her up until she was cradled in my lap.

She curled into me, her hand gripping my shirt, her face buried in my neck, the hot tears running down to wet my shirt. "You're okay. I got you," I assured her, my hand holding the back of her neck.

"Huck," McCoy said a moment later, waving a hand to the body. "We need to clean up."

"Right," I agreed, nodding, trying to remind myself that there would be time for soft shit, for comforting her, later. Right now, we needed to make sure she was safe, that we could walk away from this without anyone knowing she was even there. "Harmon, babe, we need to focus right now, okay? We need to know where you were, what you touched, where there might be evidence on that fucker."

We weren't sweating some low-level gang members bodies being investigated too hard, but some average Joe in a working-class area? They might actually put some effort into him. We needed to have her disappear from the whole space.

"Harmon," I said, voice firmer, hearing her sniffle pathetically, making me feel like a dick for being harsh with her, even if I knew it was for her own good.