Curly (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 1)

“Holy shit,” Nancy said as Curly threw a leg over his bike. “I knew I’d seen him somewhere. Is that—?”

“Yup,” David said with a curt nod. “Pretty sure it is.”

Brooke frowned. “Who?”

“I forget his real name,” Nancy said, “but he goes by the handle Curly. He used to be the president of the True Outlaws Motorcycle Club. He got arrested, oh what was it? More than ten years ago, I think.”

David nodded his agreement though his gaze remained on Curly.

“Arrested? What for?”

“Murdering a twelve-year-old girl.”

Brooke’s blood ran cold. “Shit,” she whispered. “I read about that. Wasn’t he just released after like thirteen years in prison? Turned out the cops fucked up the investigation and arrested the wrong man. He never committed the murder.”

“Yes,” Nancy answered. “That’s him. That man must have a lot of bitterness hiding behind those sexy eyes.”

“Watch yourself around that one, Brooke,” David said, serious as death. “He may not have killed that girl, but the True Outlaws were about as bad as it comes. He might be innocent of that crime, but he’s not innocent of much else. You don’t want a guy like that want hanging around.”

“Don’t worry. He won’t be hanging around. All he wants is a dog.”

Her gaze remained glued to Curly’s back as he rode further away. Thirteen years behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit. How did he make it through each day without resentment consuming him? The knowledge that the system could fail someone so completely had her stomach roiling.

Then again, she knew firsthand how easy it was for the system to crash and burn. And she understood somewhat what it meant to live in prison. Hers was constructed of gold and silver instead of iron, and her bars had been metaphorical, but they’d held her captive nonetheless.

It’d be best if she put Curly out of her mind. She had enough of her own issues to deal with. Adding worry for a damaged biker to the pile would be a mistake. Tomorrow she planned to pay a visit to the farm she suspected of being used for dog fighting. She’d need her head in the game, not in the clouds, if she wanted to scope out the farm without being caught.

Man troubles were the last thing she needed, now or ever.

CHAPTER SIX

CURLY GLANCED AROUND the vast open space spread wide before him. Damn, Prick owned a lot of land. Of course, the asshole hadn’t done a damn thing to take care of his property and probably never would, but with a bit of effort, this place could be gorgeous. Plenty of space for a dog to run and play. Hell, he could get twenty dogs if he had this much land.

Someone like Brooke would love all this land for her squad of dogs.

Thoughts of the pretty dog trainer had him smiling. He liked a woman with spunk. Had this been fourteen years ago, before his arrest and his ol’ lady’d shattered his trust in relationships, he’d have been all over a woman like her. Though back then, he tended to go for the stereotypical patch bunnies. Maybe Brooke only caught his eye because of those fourteen years of challenge and change.

Not that any of it mattered. She was a supplier for a pet. Nothing more.

He had enough on his plate without a woman, that was for damn sure. For the past thirteen years, Curly had imagined this moment countless times. Not a day went by where he hadn’t dreamed about confronting Prick over the role he played in destroying Curly’s life. In the beginning, he’d been out for blood, and nothing short of Prick’s death would have satisfied him. As the years behind bars crawled by, the fantasies grew less violent, but never once did they end in forgiveness or renewed friendship.

From what he’d pieced together, Prick had been one of the few Outlaws who still lived in Florida and stayed out of prison after Curly’s trial. Seemed as though he’d been granted immunity for his crimes by aiding the police in fucking Curly over. The only positive to come from the entire clusterfuck was that Prick’s evil plan backfired. He’d hoped to slide into the Outlaw’s president’s chair and lord over the club, but after Curly’s conviction, the club crashed and burned in a major way. Those who escaped arrest fled town to avoid future incarceration, and the ones who spent time in jail hadn’t returned post-release. Even Prick had left town for a while, but the fucker had returned almost a decade ago.

Nicknamed for his thorny personality, Prick now ran with a small crew of bikers who didn’t have the numbers to call themselves a club. Just a rag-tag group of ex-cons and assholes who had nowhere else to land. It’d been simple enough to sweet talk a county clerk into giving up Prick’s address. She had no idea his involvement in Curly’s arrest. They’d all gone to high school together, and all the woman remembered was a close friendship between the two back in the day. Curly remembered her having quite the crush on any man in leather, which seemed to stick all these years later. She’d been more than thrilled to help reunite to club brothers.