Curly (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 1)

Someone had been there. But when? Brooke was ninety percent certain this note hadn’t been there when Curly was over.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose to attention as a shiver ran down her spine. Another scan of the yard revealed no one beside her and Ray. They were alone. Ray’s presence allowed her to blow out a tense breath. If someone were in the backyard with them, they’d never escape his remarkable nose.

Prick. This had to be Prick.

Jesus, had he just waltzed into her backyard while she’d been sleeping? Never before had she given much thought to security. She lived in a fairly rural area with plenty of space between neighbors, quiet streets, and minimal crime. From the first night she’d stayed there, she felt safe alone, probably because Ray snoozed right beside her and would alert her if danger came too close. In addition, she had a heavy-duty lock on the gates and deadbolts on her doors. Those minimal safety measures had always seemed adequate when combined with the protective German Shepherd.

Could she have left the gate unlocked the night before?

No. She distinctly remembered securing the fence lock as she did every night after a final check on the dogs. During the days, she often left it open, but only when she was home. With the bolts still intact, someone had scaled her fence to deliver this early morning warning.

Prick, not someone.

Or maybe they’d broken the lock. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed the gate and the lock to be fully intact.

The dogs’ barks turned to desperate whimpers and hungry whines. With a sigh, she shoved the note in her pocket. It’d have to wait until later. There were hungry pups to feed.

She set about her morning chores, feeding, and watering the dogs, letting them out to relieve themselves, then making sure the kennels were clean. As she worked, her mind drifted back to the note. After her breakfast with Curly, she’d make a quick trip to the hardware store and purchase some security cameras.

Curly.

Should she tell him about the threat?

Would he want to know?

His hatred for Prick ran deep, rightfully so, but she’d already involved him and his friends in a situation that had nothing to do with them. He and his new club members were putting themselves at risk to help end the dogfighting ring. Telling him about the note would only anger him and possibly make him go after Prick.

Besides, she handled her issues.

Always.

She didn’t need anyone solving her problems, holding her hand, or taking over. Didn’t need it or want it. Been there, done that, and had thick emotional scars to prove it. As it was, she loathed the fact she needed Curly’s help to take down Prick’s operation, but it was admittedly a task she’d have difficulty accomplishing on her own, especially since the police refused to do their job.

But she didn’t have to like it. And she didn’t have to involve Curly in her personal affairs any more than he already was. Given what had happened last night, mind-blowing as it was, she needed boundaries. The very last thing she’d allow in her life was some tough biker thinking he had the right to tell her what to do and how to do it. Since they hadn’t discussed it last night, she’d have to make her position clear at breakfast.

Should be a fun conversation.

Many people would consider her a control freak, but after a decade and a half long marriage to Evan, she’d earned the right to regulate her own life. While married, the few decisions she been allowed to make were always wrong, always stupid, always criticized, always punished. After a while, kowtowing to everything Evan wanted became easier and safer, including giving him power over what she wore or ate. No more.

She valued the ability to make her own choices and govern her own life above all.

So, no, she wouldn’t be telling him. She’d pick up some security cameras, install them herself, and take care of the problem. The police might be able to look the other way on a dogfighting ring, but if a citizen came to them with camera footage of someone scaling their fence in the middle of the night, they’d be forced to act.

Right?

Shaking off the negative start to the morning, Brooke spent the next hour playing fetch, running with the dogs, and focusing on basic obedience skills her fosters had never learned. Once the pack was panting and tuckered out—her included—she returned the pups to their kennels so she could grab a quick shower and head out to meet Curly.

Forty-five minutes later, hair still damp, she sat across from Curly in her favorite breakfast spot. He wore an outfit similar to every one she’d seen him in thus far. Dark T-shirt and jeans with boots. How he didn’t melt into a sweaty puddle every time he walked outside, she’d never understand. Still, the simple attire suited him, and he wore it well.