Brooks (Henchmen MC Next Generation #11) Read Online Jessica Gadziala

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Biker, MC Tags Authors: Series: Henchmen MC Next Generation Series by Jessica Gadziala
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Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
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The thing was… it was a custom watch.

It had been passed down from my grandfather to my father and, finally, to Clay. It had a face I’d never seen the duplicate of.

It had the normal times in roman numerals, of course. But it also had little circles featuring the days of the week, a day/night display, the months to the year, and moon phase indicator.

On top of all of that which made it unique enough, it was a gold watch with a deep hunter green face.

And while it worked properly, so long as you wound it, the second hand hadn’t been working in years.

Maybe there was another in existence.

Who knew if my grandfather’s tale about it had been correct.

Still, though, I couldn’t look away.

In fact, I laser focused on it, even as the crowd cheered, and the unique sounds of fists hitting another body, and the accompanying grunts, filled the air.

I was perched on the edge of my seat, trying to get closer, trying to get a good enough view of it to put my fears to rest.

I was watching the face.

Watching the second hand.

My stomach twisted hard.

It wasn’t moving.

It wasn’t fucking moving.

He was wearing Clay’s watch.

The watch he never would have lost or gotten rid of.

The only time he ever took it off was to place it on the nightstand before bed, then on the counter in the bathroom when he showered.

He’d had it for over a decade.

I’d never, ever, seen him without it.

I guess, in my haze of shock and grief, I’d never thought to ask about it. I think a part of me assumed that he’d had it on him when he’d been buried.

But, clearly, he hadn’t had it on him when he’d crashed.

Which meant it was with his possessions.

The ones Brooks had gone through.

Gotten rid of.

I wanted to jump up, to approach the man, to beg him to let me buy it back, to offer whatever it took.

The problem was, I didn’t have that kind of money.

Even used, I was pretty sure that watch would cost somewhere in the five figures.

I didn’t have it.

I couldn’t buy it back, even if he was willing to part with it.

It was gone forever, this piece of my family legacy, of Clay.

My lower lip trembled as I watched the man throw his arms up in the air, cheering on his fighter.

But it wasn’t long before my system, so intent on not crying, for reasons I didn’t even begin to understand, turned from pain to rage.

At the only person who could possibly be to blame for that watch being on someone else’s arm.

Brooks.

Brooks had done this.

Packed up all of Clay’s things, shipped them off to charities and pawn shops like they meant nothing. Like they weren’t all just little pieces of a brother I would never get to see again.

Suddenly, I was on my feet, my heartbeat thundering in my chest as I climbed off the platform, pushing through the crowd of people, dropping my glass on a table as I passed.

“Hey, are you okay?” Jax’s voice called, and it was only a second later when I felt his fingers at my elbow again, making me turn to face him.

“Yeah. I just… I have to go,” I said, yanking my arm away, and slamming my hands into the bar on the doors, leaving the noise behind me with a quiet click.

“Everything okay, baby girl?” the bouncer’s voice met me as I charged past him, out into the thick air, the wind kicking up, a premonition that thunderstorm the forecast had hinted at was about to blow through.

“Yeah, I… yeah,” I said, rushing past him, past the lot, and around the building, only to get to the closed gate, the intercom on the other side. “Ugh!” I yelled, reaching up to shake the fence.

Not a second later, I heard the beep, then saw it sliding over.

One look back showed me the bouncer standing there, his phone in his hand.

He gave me a nod, acknowledging my silent gratitude as I rushed through, making my way down the silent side street lined with cars, until I reached my own.

“That bastard,” I snapped, tossing my bag on the passenger seat as I tried and failed to stick my key in the ignition twice because my hands were so shaky with my anger.

The clubhouse was only a few streets over from the fight club, and I only felt my emotions surging as I neared it, then pulled into the lot.

Now, logic might tell someone that storming into an outlaw biker club in a rage and ready to scream at one of the members might not be the smartest idea.

What can I say?

I was anything but logical as the knob turned in my hand, and I flew inside, making the heads of several men turn over to look at me.


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