Tray (A Hell's Harlem Novel Book 2)

  Cover Design and Formatting: Just write. Creations

  Model: Fred DiBella

  Photographer: WANDER AGUIAR :: PHOTOGRAPHY

  Editing: Joanne Thompson

  Proofreading: Ready, Set, Edit

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Tray

  Copyright 2018, J.M. Walker

  To my team:

  Angie Stanton

  Christina Gwin

  Jennifer Scarn

  Joanne Thompson

  Wendi Lynn

  Christine Stanley

  You girls keep me sane.

  Thank you.

  This wasn’t supposed to turn into a series. This was supposed to be just one book and one book only. But then I met Tray and fell in love. His story needed to be told and the rest is history.

  My Alpha and Beta readers. I could not do this without you. You help me clean up my work, make sure the body parts are all in the right place and make sure their eyes don’t turn colours from page to page and so on.

  Joanne Thompson. Thank you for helping me perfect this little hottie. You seriously are the best.

  Wendi Lynn. Thank you for helping me with my obsession of commas. You, know, you, secretly, love, them.

  Wander and Fred. Thank you, Wander for taking the perfect picture for my character and to Fred for being the perfect subject.

  Christine Stanley. 31 books baby!! You’ve been with me from the very beginning and look at how far we’ve come! I love you.

  Authors and bloggers! Thank you for being you. Thank you for your support. Thank you for just taking a chance on me and this crazy insane little series.

  My readers: I couldn’t do this without you and your support. Thank you for reading my words even though I drive you crazy. Thank you. Just thank you so so much.

  My Jems. Oh Jems. Just wait. Just you wait your little hearts out.

  I love you.

  Shattered Series

  Break Me

  Always Me

  Remember Me

  Torn Trilogy

  Possessed by You

  Revealed by You

  Perfected by You

  Bound by You

  Red (A Brett MacLean Duet)

  Parker Reed Series

  Heat

  Edge

  King’s Harlots Series

  Grit

  Stain

  Grim

  Rude

  Numb

  Rust

  Hell’s Harlem

  Greyson

  Tray

  Standalones

  One

  From Within

  Beautiful Pain

  On A Whim

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  BONUS EPILOGUE

  ABOUT

  Dear Readers,

  I’m sorry.

  J.M.

  Ten years ago

  HOLDING THE HAND of the only woman I had ever loved, I kissed her fingers and tried with everything in me to give her the strength she needed to survive this. She needed to fight. She needed to win this battle, but the cancer was too far gone. It started in her stomach and spread throughout her body faster than we ever thought was possible. The doctors gave her a month to live, but it had only been a week and her body was failing her. Fast.

  “Mama.” I cupped her hand, kissed her palm, and stared at the woman who gave me life. Who brought me into this world and taught me everything I knew. How to be a man. How to be the best I could be. How to make something come from nothing.

  “Baby.” Her other hand reached out, cupping my face. “Don’t cry for me, Trayce. It’s time. It’s God’s will.”

  “Why is he taking you from me?” I cried, fresh tears rolling down my face.

  “Because. It’s to make you stronger.”

  I cupped her hand, pushing my face into her palm, and wept. I was no longer a boy but a man, and I still cried like a baby for my mother.

  “Look at me, Tray.”

  I met her gaze, the image of her blurring in my vision.

  “I love you, and I will always be with you. You hear me? Our last name isn’t Lister for nothing.”

  I gave her a sad smile. “I wish Dad was here,” I blurted. We’d had a hard relationship growing up because I was like him in so many ways.

  “I know, baby.” Mama sighed. “I wish he was here too.”

  Inhaling the smooth smoke from the cigarette in my mouth, I blew it out in small circles. The tension in my shoulders eased some, but the rage inside of me never simmered.

  Ten years. Ten motherfucking years since my mama took her last breath. Ten years since she smiled up at me. Ten years since she told me she loved me.

  I placed the single red rose at the base of the grave, kissed two fingers, and touched the top of the tombstone. Turning on my heel, I trudged back up the path leading to the parking lot.

  So much shit had happened in the ten years my mother had been gone. I wanted to tell her everything, but I couldn’t. She wouldn’t hear. Because she was fucking dead.

  The rage inside of me screamed for release.

  Knowing there was only one way I would get any sort of control over the monster inside of me, I pulled my phone from my pocket.

  “Yeah,” came the reply on the other end of the phone.

  “Meet me in my room.” I hung up and slid onto my bike, putting my cell away. It wasn’t right what I was about to do, but I needed it. Before I truly lost control and let the monster inside of me win. I had to gain back control. Even if it was just for a little bit.

  FEAR.

  That was what was going through me at the moment. And nausea. God, my dad was going to kill me. Grabbing the cloth, I buffed the gas tank, but the scratch was still there. If I could see it, my dad would definitely see it. This was it. This was how I was going to die. You never mess with a biker and his bike. He trusted me to clean it up for him, and look what I did. My clumsy self was going to get me killed.

  My eyes burned, my throat working over the lump that had taken up permanent residence there.

  “How could you be so stupid, Zillah?” Roughly wiping the tears from beneath my eyes, I let out a huff and stuck the cloth in my back pocket.

  I had grown up in the auto repair shop my father owned. While it was worn and faded, it still held that fifties charm, but I had to be careful or else my fat
her wouldn’t let me work there at all.

  Might as well meet my maker now.

  “Hey, Z.”

  I jumped as my brother, Kian, approached me. “Hey,” I croaked.

  “What’s wrong?” He frowned, his gaze moving to our dad’s bike I was shining.

  “Nothing.” I stepped in front of it.

  “What the fuck is that?” He pushed me out of the way. “Zillah, what did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I cried. “I was buffing the tank like I do every time before Dad goes on a ride and there was a tiny pebble in the cloth.” I covered my face, the tears falling freely now. “He’s going to kill me.” Under normal circumstances, I was sure my reaction would have been overdone but this … this was serious shit.

  “No.” Kian pulled my hands from my face. “He’s not, but he is going to give you hell.” He hooked an arm around my shoulders and led me to the back of the garage.

  “Are you coming with me to tell him?” I asked, hating that I was about to disappoint our father.

  “Oh, no.” Kian shoved me forward as soon as we reached the door to my dad’s office. “That’s all on you.”

  “I hate you,” I grumbled.

  “No, you don’t.” He kissed my cheek. “I’ll go and fix your mistake. Good thing I know the painter.”

  I groaned. “Ass.”

  He chuckled, backing up, and blew me a kiss. “Love you too, sis.”

  The door behind me opened.

  My body stiffened.

  “Hey, Zillah,” my father said from behind me. “What’s wrong?”

  I swallowed hard, slowly turning toward him, and waved a hand in front of me. “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” I pulled a folded-up piece of paper from my back pocket and handed it to him. “Did you know that we’re past due on our rent?” I asked, thankful for the distraction.

  My dad grumbled out a curse and headed back into his office. “Yeah. I know that. And it’s not we, Zillah. It’s me. You don’t have to worry about this shit.”

  “But I do.” I stepped into the office and closed the door behind me. “I can start working on the cars—”

  “No.” My dad’s voice was firm and to the point, but I wouldn’t be his daughter if I didn’t argue. I did learn from the best, after all.

  “Why not? You know I can do just as good of a job as these guys. Probably even better. If I work on the cars, more business can come in. Let me help.” I moved the chair with the cracked, green-pleather cushion in front of his desk and sat. “Please, Daddy. I can work on more bikes too. I need to do something.”

  “What did I tell you when you were old enough to start working here?” my dad asked instead of giving me the answer I was looking for.

  “That I can buff the bikes in the back, but I can’t work on the cars or be seen in the open because the big bad men could come hurt me,” I said, my voice monotone.

  “Don’t sass me, girl.” His dark eyes met mine. “I keep you working on the bikes and cars in the back because it keeps you behind the scenes. You don’t even want to know what those men would do to a beautiful young woman like you.” He shook his head. “I don’t even want to know but, unfortunately, I do, because I’ve seen it. So, no, you will not be working on the cars. You will be in the back. That’s it.”

  “Let me work outside then. At the back of the shop,” I insisted. I was grasping at straws, trying everything to make him see reason, but this argument had gone on for quite a while. I knew he wouldn’t budge but I still had to try.

  “What did I just say? Bikes. Cars. Trucks. Shitboxes. I don’t give a fuck. You are not working on them. You are buffing. That’s it.” My dad sat in the chair behind his desk. “Speaking of which, did you finish buffing my bike?”

  “Uh …” My skin became clammy. “About that.”

  The door opened, revealing Kian.

  “Hey, old man. Your bike is good as new. Zillah had me check it out to make sure she didn’t miss a spot.” Kian stood beside me and leaned down to my ear. “You owe me.”

  I blew out a slow breath. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “Since when does Zillah need your approval?” My dad looked between us both. “What’s going—”

  “Shadow.”

  All of us turned to the deep voice coming from the door.

  “We need you.” Brandon O’Leary, known as Ripper, another member of my dad’s motorcycle club, glanced at Kian. “Both of you.” His dark gaze flicked to mine. “Hey, Zee.”

  “Hey,” I said softly to the older man. He was in his early forties but just as good-looking as he was in the pictures I had seen of him when he was in his twenties. For whatever reason, these guys aged well. Must have been something in the water.

  Ripper nodded once and left the doorway, letting out a loud whistle.

  “Duty calls.” My dad came up behind me and kissed my head. “Remember what I said.”

  “Yeah.” I let out a heavy sigh and headed back to buffing the bikes. As frustrated as I was, I got it. I did. My dad, known as Shadow, was the president of a motorcycle club, Mayhem’s Revenge. And a lethal one at that. But I was the only girl in the place, so I was to be protected at all costs. With the men constantly following me everywhere, you would think I was the daughter of the President of the United States.

  When I realized I was done buffing all of the bikes, I checked out my dad’s. Kian did a beautiful job, fixing up the paint that the pebble had scratched through. Why he covered my ass, I wasn’t sure, but I appreciated it nonetheless.

  (Tray)

  “Fuck,” I groaned, holding the head in my hands, and thrust my hips up and up. “Your mouth is so fucking hot.” A couple more pumps and my release shot down the back of the throat that had been gagging on my dick for the last half hour.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, but it still did nothing to curb the monster inside of me. The need for more. The craving for something other than a few blow jobs here and there.

  I frowned, pushing away from the person I had come to use for the past several months.

  “Get out.” I rose from the bed and trudged to the bathroom.

  “Tray.”

  “I said get out.” What the hell was wrong with me? Getting a blow job usually worked but lately, my rage only seemed to grow.

  A heavy hand cupped my shoulder. “Talk to me.”

  I spun around, slamming my best friend up against the wall.

  “What the fuck?” Catch narrowed his brows, trying to shove me off him when only a couple moments ago, he was sucking my dick.

  “I need you to leave,” I told him. “You got me?”

  “You’ve never kicked me out after.” He grabbed onto my waist, pulling me against him. “Why now?”

  “Stop.” I released him and stomped into the bathroom. “I’m done with this shit.”

  “I know you’re using me.” Catch followed me.

  I chuckled. “And you’re not using me?” I was being an asshole, but something was wrong. Something was very wrong, and I didn’t know how to deal with it.

  The man I had been face fucking for the past few months stared back at me. With those cold, calculating eyes of his, he didn’t say anything.

  I swallowed a curse.

  “Just leave it alone, Catch. We can go back to sharing women.” Although I hadn’t felt a tight hot pussy in months. Nothing satisfied me anymore. Not even the blow jobs that Catch Hunter was good at giving.

  “What’s going on with you?” he asked, hovering by the door, but he didn’t come any closer. Smart man.

  Besides the fact the ten-year anniversary of my mother’s death just passed, nothing was going on, but he was right. I was off my game. Not feeling it. Or some shit like that.

  “I need a shower,” I mumbled.

  “Let me join you.”

  “No,” I yelled, spinning on him.

  “We’ve been messing around for almost six months, Tray,” Catch reminded me. “I’ve given you countless blow jobs and I’ve never as
ked for anything in return. Not that you’ve offered anyway.”

  I winced. I was a selfish bastard.

  “It’s never resorted to anything more than that,” Catch continued. “Why?”

  Because he had a hot mouth. That was all he was good for. “I need a break,” I said instead.

  Catch nodded, his jaw clenching. “Fine.”

  Fuck me, I hurt him. “Catch,” I said gently. “I—”

  “It’s fine.” He turned and left the bathroom. A moment later, the door to my room slammed shut.

  “Shit,” I muttered. I couldn’t lose Catch as a friend, but I also couldn’t continue doing this. To him or to me. I needed to get laid, but my dick was limp around anything that walked. The only time it reacted at all was when Catch and I started doing our thing. But even then, I had to force it. I had made a joke about getting old. Could a guy become impotent at thirty-eight? Fuck if I knew. But, apparently, it was happening.

  I WAS BORED. I was twenty-four and still living at home thanks to an overprotective father. I never dated. I didn’t go out with friends. And I was still a damn virgin. Half the men I came across were terrified to even talk to me because of who my dad was. Please. He wasn’t that scary. So, he’s the president of a motorcycle club. There were rumors about his nickname, Shadow, and how he got it. I scoffed. These men were damn pussies.

  I sighed, running a cloth over the same spot on my brother’s bike that I had been buffing for the last half hour. I needed to do something. Something exciting. Something that no one would expect. Not that I ever wanted to defy my father but being under his thumb my whole life didn’t help my social status. I had no friends. I was stuck by myself in a life filled with men that I couldn’t even touch. Not that I would anyway. I wasn’t attracted to any of them. Was I a lesbian?

  God, girl, get it together. I couldn’t be a lesbian. Not that there was anything wrong with that, of course. You loved who you loved, but as far as I knew, it wasn’t for me.

  Finishing up buffing Kian’s bike, I stared down at my beautiful work. The tank was so damn shiny, I could see my reflection in the blood-red paint.