Huck's Legacy

By Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

He's an undercover DEA agent, trying to infiltrate The Diamondbacks, an infamous motorcycle club, in Hollywood. When Huck sees a beautiful woman who intrigues him, he wants her.

Summer is on the run from an incident back in Nashville that put her in fear for her life. Working as a waitress in a diner near Hollywood Boulevard, Summer is drawn to the bad boy biker. Their mutual attraction fires a wild passion and shared nights but as the danger increases, passion turns to something deeper, something real.

When he's outted as a Fed, he's about to be executed when Summer steps in to save him. Although he's seriously injured, they escape the Diamondbacks and leave Hollywood, but trouble follows them all the way back to his hometown in Mississippi. The stakes are high—life or death—and the chance for a happily ever is in jeopardy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight
• Release date: Oct 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9780369509079

Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

Growing up in historic St. Joseph, Missouri, Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy scribbled her stories from an early age. Her first publication – a poem on the children’s page of the local newspaper – seems to have set her fate. As a full time author, she has more than twenty full length novels published along with assorted novellas and short fiction. A contributor to more than two dozen anthologies, her credits include Chicken Soup For The Soul among many collections of short fiction. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, Missouri Writers Guild, and the Ozark Writers League. Lee Ann earned a Bachelor of Arts degree from Missouri Southern State University as well as an Associate Degree from Crowder College. She has worked in broadcasting, retail, and other fields including education. She is currently a substitute school teacher. As a wife and mother of three, she spends her days penning stories, cooking, reading, and other daily duties. She currently makes her home in the Missouri Ozarks, living in what passes for suburbs in a small town.

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Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2023 Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

ISBN: 978-0-3695-0907-9

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: CA Clauson

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

For my late cousin, my summer brother and lifelong best friend, Bill Sontheimer. Together we borrowed his brother’s books to read the sexy, hot parts until we figured out just how the act worked. We drank too much, drove too fast, and shared a rock-n-roll soundtrack for our lives. As Janis sang, freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.

HUCK’S LEGACY

Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

Copyright © 2023

Chapter One

Huck

The first time Huck spotted her strutting along Hollywood Boulevard, the white leather fringe on her denim jacket swaying as she walked, he figured she was a new hooker so he paid little attention. Two days later, he saw her again and realized she wasn’t a prostitute. Whoever she was, she possessed a soft beauty not yet tainted by a hard life on the street. Maybe she was a tourist, but when he noticed her again several weeks later, he rejected that theory. A curious man, he watched her and waited. Patience might be a virtue he’d yet to perfect, but he possessed more now than ever before.

On his seemingly endless rides along Hollywood Boulevard and the surrounding streets on his 1998 Harley Davidson Road King bike, Huck watched for her. About the time he had all but given up on finding her, he glimpsed her ducking into a retro diner not far from Hollywood and Vine. He knew the place and suspected it of being an outlet for drug trafficking. That was reason enough to park and go inside for a cup of coffee, maybe a slice of pie ala mode. The woman’s presence intrigued him.

Huck slid into a red vinyl booth and waited, scanning the place for a glimpse of the gal. Maybe he’d been wrong because he didn’t see her at any of the tables or at the counter. He had almost decided he’d been mistaken when a waitress decked out in a 1940’s style waitress uniform, including a tiny white hat perched on her head, stepped up to his table.

Welcome to Neon Nights, she said in a patented singsong. Would you like a cup of joe while you look over the menu?

Her voice poured over him like rich caramel or soft velvet. He caught a hint of a Southern accent, one with slow heat and some Tennessee twang. Intrigued by the way she spoke, Huck glanced up and did a double take. At close range, she was beautiful when he’d thought her merely pretty.

I’ll take a cup of coffee, he told her. What kind of pie you got?

Chocolate, coconut cream, banana cream, apple, pecan, and strawberry.

So he could hear her voice one more time, Huck asked, What’s the blue plate special?

Beef stroganoff or Cobb salad, she drawled. If you look over the menu, there’s plenty more—burgers, hamburger steak with gravy, sandwiches hot and cold, meatloaf, chicken, or you can order breakfast anytime, 24/7.

What do you recommend?

Her lips twitched. What’s next? Are you going to ask for the wine list? If I had a choice, I’d go with the beef stroganoff. It’s the best of the specials in my opinion. That, or just get a burger run through the garden, maybe a Jack Benny.

Huck knew a little diner lingo. Grilled cheese with bacon? All right. I’ll take one with a side of fries.

I’ll be back with your coffee.

Her name tag read Summer and he wondered if that was her real name. If so, it suited her. She radiated a sense of calm, quiet beauty that evoked the serenity of summer.

When she brought the coffee pot, she turned over the cup already on the table and filled it. Your food should be up before long, she told him.

Thank you. I’m Huck.

As in Huckleberry Finn? she asked, with one raised eyebrow.

He laughed. No, not quite. More like ‘I’ll be your huckleberry,’ an old Southern saying.

With a quirky grin, she said, You know, it rhymes with…

Huck completed her sentence. Fuck. Yeah, I’ve heard that one so often if I had a dollar for every time I have, I’d be a rich man. It’s Huck Morgan, by the way.

He expected she’d offer her name in return, but she hesitated before she did.

Summer Tatum, she told him. Then, she walked away, her sweet ass bouncing to an unheard beat beneath the cheesy uniform. She intrigued him, so much he’d almost blundered and told her his real name and why he was nicknamed Huck.

I never fucking screw up like that. I can’t. I won’t. If I do, the entire investigation is gone and with it two years of my life.

Using his lifelong nickname had probably been a mistake, but it had been made too long ago to change now. Sometimes Huck wondered if his efforts would ever yield anything or be worth the years spent undercover.

Summer delivered his meal, grilled cheese and bacon garnished with a dill pickle spear and plated with a heap of fries. She plunked a bottle of ketchup on the table. Can I get you anything else?

He held up his now empty cup. A refill.

Summer nodded. Coming right up.

When she topped up his coffee, she also laid the ticket face down beside his plate. Huck caught her hand before she could remove it and stroked it with a single finger. The slow caress fired heat within him and his dick perked up with interest.

Huck thought she shuddered, just a little. Maybe she liked it too. Thanks.

She shrugged. "De nada. Tomorrow’s special, just in case you’re interested, is meatloaf with red gravy or chicken ala king."

I’ll keep it in mind. If you still have pecan pie, I’ll take a piece.

Sure thing.

The pie combined richness with sweet and he savored it. With each morsel, Huck wondered if Summer’s lips would taste as delicious. After one more cup of joe, he figured he’d stretched out the meal as long as he could without being obvious. Huck didn’t want to seem like a stalker so he paid the tab after leaving a generous thirty-dollar tip under his empty cup.

Restless as ever and edgy, Huck decided he’d better head over to the bar where the motorcycle club hung out. He wasn’t a Diamondback yet but members allowed him to ride and hang out with them. Huck could almost taste full membership, what he’d worked toward for the past eighteen months. Only then would he be able to get inside information, enough to bring the club down, especially the founder and leader, Scarman.

Scarman’s real name was Seth Manning and he had earned the nickname with a facial scar. The jagged gash began below his right eye and cut a deep diagonal line that stopped two inches from his mouth. Another two marred the otherwise clear skin of his throat, low, as if someone had tried to cut Scarman’s throat. Huck had no doubt that someone had. Scarman could best be described as a mean motherfucker. The leader wore both an Ace of Spades patch and one proclaiming him one of the filthy few. Both meant he’d killed for the sake of the club—or would.

Huck mounted his Harley and headed for Chain Lighting. Located under and east of Highway 101, the dingy bar had been a hangout for the Western Diamondbacks for decades. Like most dives, it reeked like stale beer and old cigarettes. Beneath Huck’s feet the floor was always sticky with spilled drinks and a hint of weed floated in the air. He loathed the place and always felt like he needed a hot shower after an evening spent there.

Huck barely made it through the door before several woman accosted him. Two were what the club called lays, women they could do without any morals or remorse. Three were Mamas, the chicks who hung around sucking up and sucking off. Most hoped to become a biker’s old lady, a committed companion, sometimes even a wife. The other was a house mouse, an underage girl seeking protection, attention, or both.

Hey, Huckie. Venus Delight, one of the Mamas greeted him. She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her flesh against his torso and planted her lips on his mouth. Venus forced her tongue into his mouth for a French kiss, but he wasn’t in the mood. I’ve been waiting for you.

Shouldn’t have wasted your time, he growled. Nothing about the emaciated woman appealed. She did meth and any other drug she could score. Her breath stank like nail polish remover and she reeked of body odor. If he lived to be a hundred, Huck would never understand how any of the club members could get intimate with Venus or most of the others.

Go on, don’t be bashful, Scarman said as he approached, a wicked grin lighting his ugly face. You got time, Huck, go do the bitch.

I’ll pass, he told the leader.

Scarman chuckled, although it lacked real mirth and always reminded Huck of dry leaves rattling in an autumn gutter. You’re too picky, my friend, he said. No wonder they call you ‘Clean Guy’.

The guys who nicknamed him after the longtime mascot of cleaning products hadn’t meant it as a compliment but an insult. With his rugged built, full hair of tousled, wavy hair so brown it came close to being black, steel blue eyes, a face that could have been chiseled out of solid granite, and a generous mouth, Huck bore no resemblance to the bald old guy noted for his wild cleaning skills, famous for his bald head and white eyebrows. Unlike Huck, who generally wore black, the cleaning guy was portrayed in a white t-shirt and pants, making him resemble a cook or maybe a sailor on shore leave. Huck took more showers, smelled better, and maintained a level of hygiene above and beyond. He worried they might think he was too much of a Boy Scout, not a serious club member, but he’d proven himself many times.

Cleanliness is next to godliness, Huck intoned and Scarman along with his gathered minions brayed with laughter. His grandmother used to say it and meant it. So did Huck, but they figured it was rank sarcasm. Got any errands for me tonight?

Need you to do a little enforcement, Scarman replied. Got a guy over in Anaheim who doesn’t want to share a little of his profits for protection. Don’t ice the bastard unless it’s necessary, but rough him up enough that he realizes who he’s fucking with. It’s a used car lot, a huge one. We launder money through it and take some kickback for the privilege.

Name?

The lot’s called Clunkers by King—the dude’s name is Carlton King, the boss told him. He’s nothing, though. Thinks he’s royalty and he’s shit. Take care of his attitude and remind him next time, it’ll be fatal.

Huck gave a small salute. You got it. Am I going solo or with backup?

Ty-Rex will have your back.

Ty-Rex would do as well as anyone, Huck thought. The man was a mountain, tall and broad with a mean streak that would make a cobra appear kind. He had no doubt that Ty-Rex’s presence was more to keep an eye on him than provide support services. Then let’s go and get it done, Huck told him.

Ten minutes later, their Harleys flew through the night like winged vultures, ready to pick out the eyes or the bones of their prey. Huck’s Harley Road King ate up like the pavement like a greedy man’s dessert. Ty-Rex’s Dyna Super Glide kept up and they were in Anaheim before long.

Carlton King lived in a travel trailer parked behind the lot and since a light shone through the window, it appeared he was at home. Once he’d rolled his Harley to a stop, Huck went into full battle mode. He kicked in the door with one booted foot and charged inside.

The used car king stood up and spilled a bowl of popcorn. Kernels flew in every direction as the man cried out with wordless fear. Huck growled like a beast as he grabbed the scrawny man by one shoulder and pulled him close.

If you’re wondering why you are privileged to get a fuckin’ home visit, here’s why, Huck shouted into the guy’s face. You must be a little stupid, trying to hold back on paying what you owe. The Diamondbacks sent the money through here, it comes back clean just like at the laundromat, but you must have forgotten that you pay us for some protection. Fail to pay, get a reminder and that’s what we’re here to do.

Arms crossed. Ty-Rex held his position like an avenging god. Yeah, he added.

His tattooed arms were muscled and his body buff. His large hands were balled into fists roughly the size of cantaloupes. One heavy punch from one of them would put King on the floor and probably out.

Huck didn’t hesitate. Once he’d explained his presence, he backhanded Carlton King across the face. The first blow to his nose broke it and blood erupted from it, pouring down the man’s face. Beneath that crimson tide, Carlton went ghost pale.

I understand, he cried. He had a slight Southern accent, not too different than Huck’s. I do. I’ll pay. Please, stop.

The direct punch split the car dealer’s upper lip and the next drove a hard hit home in his belly. With a loud cry, the man doubled over clutching his gut and staggered a few steps back. That left Huck the option to either pound him senseless into the floor or walk away.

Few men were tougher than Huck but under that stern exterior, he had a streak of compassion he preferred not to reveal and he didn’t now. Using his left foot with the grace of a dancer, Huck brought King to the floor. He delivered a quick kick to the man’s unguarded balls.

King cried like a baby, tangled into a fetal position. He stared up at Huck with frightened eyes and something flicked in Huck’s memory. Crazy, but the dude seemed familiar, like he’d seen him somewhere before, that maybe he had known him once.

Enough. Ty-Rex proclaimed. I think he’s got the idea.

I-I-do, the man on the floor stuttered.

Someone will call for the money tomorrow, Huck said. Don’t make me come back. Next time I might just kill you.

He turned around,