Curly (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 1)

Scott nodded. “Didn’t think so.”

“I’ll never be a completely straight arrow, but I’m not trying to spend another minute behind bars. If you’re looking for a place to land when you discharge from the military, I’d love to have you, but you need to accept that. We aren’t gonna be running drugs or guns, but I’m not looking to start a Boy Scout troop either.”

With a snort, Scott stared off into the distance for a minute. “I don’t see the world in black and white, Curly. Not anymore. Spent too much time in the gray zone ever to be called naïve or idealistic. I want a brotherhood. It’s what I’ll miss most about the military. And I want a group that isn’t gonna judge if I’m a little broken.”

Their gazes met, and Curly saw Scott in a new light. All he knew of the younger man’s story was that he was active-duty military, special operations. Whatever shit he’d seen and done in his time must have left a deep mark. What he saw before him was a man who understood pain, knew the darker side of life, and hadn’t quite found what he needed to heal.

“Pretty sure being broken is a requirement of this kinda life. I’m sure as hell not in one piece anymore.” Fuck, he’d fragmented before he hit puberty. Happened to a kid when his parents sucked. His father had hated him before he’d been born, demanding his mother abort him. Thankfully, he’d had a tough-as-nails grandmother who’d put her foot down on her daughter’s behalf. After his mother died, Curly’s grandmother tried to help, but his father didn’t make it easy. Still, she’d been the only stable force in his life until she passed when he was in his early twenties.

Finally, Scott smiled and lost some of his tension. “Anyway, I’m out in about a month.”

“Shit, you meant it when you said soon.”

“Yeah.”

“Chloe know?”

Blowing out a breath, Scott shook his head. “That’s why I’m here, though. Gonna fill her in on my plans this weekend.”

“Well, you can get my contact info from Rocket. If you’re serious, give me a call when you’re out. I wanna start with a core group who will be the exec board. Think you’d be perfect for it. From there, we’ll look for guys to start prospecting.”

Scott’s eyes popped. “You’d give me a seat on the board?”

“Fuck yes,” Curly said, and he meant it. “You’re exactly what I’d want in an enforcer.” He already had a choice—perhaps hope was a better word—for a VP, though it might take fucking miracle for the guy to sign on.

“Well, shit, thanks, man.” Scott held out his hand. “You’ll be hearing from me in a few weeks.”

Curly shook his hand. “Looking forward to it.”

Rare excitement simmered in his gut. The fluttering should have been pleasant, but a man never had anything to get enthusiastic about in prison. Not one goddammed thing. Even when he’d learned of the overturned conviction and settlement from the state, he hadn’t gotten excited. By that point, it’d been so long since anything good had happened he’d thought he’d lost the ability for happiness. Relief? Yes. Nerves? Fuck yes. But not joy.

His world lost all joy the day a drifter murdered a twelve-year-old girl in his hometown.

Now, closing in on a year back in society with people who supported him and didn’t cast judgment, his emotions were finally beginning to normalize.

For the past few weeks, he’d been stressing over his desire to bring the Handlers to Florida.

Could he find enough men?

Good men he’d want to call brother?

Men who didn’t believe the lies about him?

A few times, he’d come close to calling Copper and scrapping the whole thing.

But Scott’s interest solidified his commitment. Maybe he could pull it off and start up a Florida HHMC charter.

With a broad smile, another infrequent action, he rode out of the parking lot and began the journey toward his new life.

His free life.

One where no one would cage him ever again.

CHAPTER THREE

WHY WAS IT the doorbell only rang the second Brooke stuffed a huge bite of food in her mouth?

It had to be the universe’s cruel way of shaming her for her high-calorie breakfast choice.

“Mph, cming,” she attempted to yell around a mouthful of chocolate chip muffin. Dusting her hands on her frayed denim shorts, she made for the front door. She didn’t have any clients scheduled for a few hours, and those appointments weren’t at her home, so there shouldn’t be anyone darkening her doorstep. Especially not at seven on a Monday morning.

“If this is a solicitor, I’m siccing you on them, Ray,” she muttered to her five-year-old German Shepherd, who merely twitched an ear in her direction. When she’d first rescued him as an eight-month-old energetic puppy, he’d charge the door whenever the wind blew too hard. To the outside world, Ray was passive, even lazy, for not reacting to the doorbell.