Curly (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 1)

With a roll of her eyes, she huffed. “Okay,” she said, lifting her hands in surrender. “I promise I will not go over there and make a scene.”

“You’ll let the police do their job?”

“Yes, David. I’ll let the cops do their thing.” She’d just aid them as much as she could.

Slyly.

Stealthfully.

He studied her for a few more seconds as though trying to determine whether she meant her vow. Finally, he nodded. “All right. Let me help you get this guy settled. I’ve already been on the phone with the pit rescue, and they’ll be picking him up on Tuesday.

“Okay. Let’s put him in the quarantine kennel since we don’t know how he’ll react around other dogs.”

“I vaccinated him for a bunch of diseases, but you know that takes time to be effective, so I think this is best,” David said with a nod.

“Just gotta grab my boots. Be right back.” She darted into the house.

Tim, a buddy of David’s, ran an incredible pit bull rescue foundation about four hours away. They rehabbed and re-homed some of the most aggressive and abused dogs she’d ever encountered—dogs most would consider terminally unsafe and recommend putting down. The man was a freakin’ miracle worker. She swore he had canine blood running through his veins. It seemed the only explanation for the way he got these mistreated and damaged dogs to trust him. She had rehabbed a number of mildly aggressive and reactive dogs, but fighting dogs were in a class of their own. Many bred these dogs for the sole purpose of battling other dogs. They were isolated and trained to fight their entire lives. Given the rest of her skittish menagerie, it was too dangerous to have those animals roaming around her place. Thankfully, Tim never turned down a dog, no matter how precarious the prognosis.

After she’d shoved her unsocked feet into her rubber boots, they walked around the back of her house, where she’d had two structures for her fosters. The biggest held six eight-by-ten-foot kennels where she could house any size dogs. The smaller was the size of a shed and held one kennel, which she’d coined the quarantine kennel. She used it if she was fostering an ill dog or one awaiting vaccinations. In this case, it’d be perfect for a dog who needed to be isolated from the others for safety reasons.

The land behind the kennels—the rest of her six-acre property—was designed to be dog heaven. Fully fenced in, the pups had plenty of space to run free, obstacles to jump on and run through, toys galore, and even a built-in dog water fountain. There was also a smaller circular fenced-in area she used for training.

What could she say? She took her job seriously.

Really, she just loved dogs to distraction and preferred their company to people’s nine times out of ten. David and Nancy were the few exceptions.

She unlocked the temperature-controlled shed and stepped in. One corner held a large dog bed, while another housed a pile of toys. Large windows at a dog’s eye level along the back allowed them to see the world even while quarantining.

“Help me lift him?” David asked as he pulled the wagon into the building. “I’ll take his head just in case. I’m pretty sure he’ll be zonked for a few more hours, but you never know.”

“Gotcha.” Brooke moved to the hind end of the dog. She carefully worked her hands under his injured body then squatted, prepared to lift the dead weight.

“Okay, on three,” David said from his end. “One…two…three.”

Brooke straightened her legs and hefted her portion of the dog. She was no slouch, yet the muscles in her arms bunched and strained under the dog’s bulk. “Wow, this is one big boy,” she gasped as they shuffled sideways to clear the sides of the wagon.

“Yeah, he is solid muscle. Only good thing about some of the fighting dogs is that they are fed the best food to keep them fit and strong.”

Yeah, solid was a damn good way to describe the heavy beast.

“Ready to lower him to the bed?”

“Uh, yes. And I think I need to bump up my workouts.”

Laughing, David nodded. “I hear that.”

As best she could, she bent her knees to keep from wrenching her back while they set the dog on the plush bed. He let out a little sigh as though he already felt more comfortable. She sure hoped her home could provide some measure of ease for the poor guy.

“There you go, buddy. We’re gonna take good care of you.” Brooke ran her hand over his massive rump once before straightening. She ignored the cracking of her knees and the slight ache in her back. At forty-one, she wasn’t close to old, but she certainly didn’t feel as limber as she once did. “I wonder what his name is.”