Curly (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 1)

“Can’t remember. I don’t listen to a thing that comes out of your fat mouth. Now you wanna come at me, go right the fuck ahead. You know where I live as well.” He spread his arms wide and gestured for Prick to come at him.

Brooke sucked in a breath.

“Nothing’s gonna happen,” Ty whispered down at her. “Prick’s too much of a pussy to take on Curly.”

Maybe, but the thought of him getting hurt because she ran her mouth had her feeling sick. Her husband always accused her of not thinking before she spoke. He’d hated it and berated her for it. Maybe it was one thing he’d been right about.

“Hey, everything okay down there?”

Brooke peered behind her to find Jinx standing at the opening of the hallway.

“Prick, you need an assist, man?” Jinx cracked his neck and stood with fists clenched as though ready to brawl.

Her eyes widened. Jinx’s antagonistic attitude toward Curly was the absolute perfect way to get on Prick’s good side, but if she showed her recognition of him, it’d be game over.

“Nah, this fuckface ain’t worth getting kicked outta the bar. Not done drinkin’ yet.” Prick rammed his shoulder against Curly’s as he stormed by. Curly’s torso twisted, but he managed to keep his feet planted on the floor. The second Prick passed him, Curly spun, and the murderous look on his face had Brooke clutching Ty’s shirt. She fisted the material at his waist to keep herself steady as she held her breath.

What was coming? Would Curly lash out and attack Prick, putting himself and the rest at risk for arrest, or would he swallow his pride and keep his cool?

With nostrils flared, Curly marched two steps forward.

“Are you going to stop him?” she whispered to Ty.

Before he had a chance to answer, Prick’s voice rose again. “Thanks for the offer of backup, my man,” he said presumably to Jinx. “Got something you might be interested in going down in two weeks. Let’s have another drink at the bar, and I’ll give you the details.”

That stopped Curly in his tracks. Pissed as he was, he wouldn’t screw up the reason they were there in the first place.

Prick slapped Jinx on the back, and they walked back toward the crowded bar together.

With a sigh of relief, Brooke released Ty’s shirt and walked over to Curly. “Mission accomplished,” she whispered with a slight grin. Excitement pumped through her veins, replacing the fear, and on impulse, she threw her arms around Curly in a victorious embrace.

He didn’t return the hug. Instead, his body remained rigid as a stone pillar.

Jerking back, Brooke could have kicked herself for the impulsive gesture. What the hell was wrong with her, jumping him like they were best friends. “I’m sorr—”

“We’re leaving. Get the fuck outside and into my truck.”

“Excuse me?” she drew back as though he’d slapped her.

He took one step forward, causing her to tilt her head back or be staring at his chest. “I said, get the fuck outside the bar and into my truck.” Then he dodged around her and stomped toward the exit. “Walk her out, Ty.”

Brooke whirled around. “He did not just order me around.”

A strangled sound came from Tyler’s compressed lips. Tracker, who’d remained a strong, silent presence, didn’t bother to suppress his laughter. “You better get out there, missy,” he said through his chuckling. “Daddy’s mad.”

“Oh, I’m going out there,” she snapped, surprised they couldn’t see smoke rising from the top of her head. “But not because he freaking told me to. Because I’m done with this shithole.” By the time she finished with him, Curly wouldn’t command her to do another goddammed thing as long as he lived.

As she tromped past the guys, Tracker halted her with a hand on her shoulder. “Go easy on him,” he whispered down to her. “He lost his fucking mind when he realized you might be alone with Prick.”

That took some of the wind out of her sails, but not all of it. Curly had pushed the wrong button when he’d barked his harsh order. Now that she knew it was out of fear, she didn’t want to rip his head off—she’d just knock it around a bit. Shaking off Tracker’s hold, she marched her way through the crowd toward the door.

“Shit,” Tracker whispered to Tyler as they rushed after her. “Hope Curly has plenty of ice at home. I have a feeling his balls are gonna need it.”

Brooke’s lips quirked. Damn straight he’d need some ice.

CURLY GRIPPED THE steering wheel so hard the leather creaked beneath his palms. Twice now, he had to witness Prick lording his height and strength over Brooke. And was she smart enough to back down?

Fuck, no.

The stupid woman had cajones the size of goddammed melons and got right up in Prick’s face with her fucking attitude. Had she no sense? One clock of Prick’s meaty fist and that jaw she flapped with her sass would be wired shut for weeks. And that was the least of what that bastard could and would do to her if she goaded him too far.