Curly (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 1)

With a nod, he kissed her forehead. “I’ll text you the details.” He couldn’t resist brushing her hair back from her shoulder. “Come lock up after me.”

Something close to discomfort flickered in her gaze when he said that, but it disappeared as fast as it came.

“Right behind you,” she said.

As he collected his puppy, Brooke went to the front door and opened it for him. Arms full of squirming dog—he really needed to start using her leash—he stopped in front of Brooke.

No surprise, her attention went right to the pup. “Bye, Harley,” she crooned. “You’re such a sweet girl,” she said as she rubbed the dog’s head.

“She’s not the only sweet one here.”

Brooke blushed but kept her gaze on the dog.

“Thanks for today. Best day I’ve had in more than fourteen years.”

“For me too,” she whispered without looking at him.

He snagged her chin, kissed her quick, then left her staring after him as he tucked Harley across his lap so she could ride with him on the bike. They’d tried this a few times, and she’d loved it.

Though he didn’t turn back, he felt the weight of Brooke’s gaze on his back as he rode down her street. If all went according to plan, he’d be getting his hands on the land that abutted her property.

They’d be neighbors.

What else would they be?

Friends?

Fuck buddies?

It seemed all either could give.

It was certainly more than he’d had in the past decade and probably more than he deserved.

Even if a rogue part of him wasn’t convinced it would be enough.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

SOMETIME AROUND NOON on Sunday, while Curly was finishing up painting the exterior of his house, the rumble of motorcycle pipes alerted him to Scott’s arrival. After wiping the sweat from his forehead with his shirt, Curly climbed off the ladder just as Scott pulled into the wide driveway.

“Damn, it’s hot as fuck here, brother,” Scott announced as he yanked his helmet off. His hair stuck to his forehead until he ran a hand through it. “Thought I’d melt off my bike before I got here.”

With a large smile, Curly met him halfway between the driveway and the house. They embraced, slapping each other’s backs. His excitement at having Scott there was genuine. He was a link between the Tennessee and Florida Hell’s Handlers, and Curly needed that connection. Scott knew Rocket best, but also Copper and many of the other guys. Scott understood how the club worked and shared Curly’s vision for this charter.

When his sister, Chloe, first hooked up with a biker, Scott had flipped his shit. She’d been horribly assaulted by a madman, which set her special forces brother off. Though Rocket had been the one to save her, Scott couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of her tying herself to someone who often walked on the wrong side of the law. The past few years had changed Scott’s opinion on the club, and leaving the military brotherhood left a void Curly hoped to fill.

“Damn, it’s good to have you here, man. Come on in. House is cool. Beer is cold.”

“Perfect. I’ll grab my shit later,” Scott said as he walked next to Curly into the house.

Five minutes later, they were back outside, this time with a few beers and a bag of pretzels between them.

“Were you telling me you stumbled on some trouble already?”

With a grunt, Curly settled back in one of the new chairs he’d purchased for the porch. His home wasn’t nearly as impressive as Brooke’s, but it suited for now, and he planned to move soon anyway. He’d build himself a house on whatever property they ended up acquiring as a clubhouse—hopefully Prick’s farm.

“Yeah. Got a motherfucker running a dogfighting ring and dumping the bodies near the house of a friend of mine.” Calling Brooke a friend left a strange and unpleasant taste in his mouth. “She’s tried going to the cops, but you can guess how that went.”

“All talk, no action.”

“Pretty much.”

“Why you so invested in this?”

It took a few minutes, but Curly caught Scott up on the details of what had happened around his arrest and the role Prick played.

Once he had all the details, Scott shook his head. “Fucking bastard,” he said with a surprising amount of venom. He shoved out of his chair and whipped his empty beer bottle over the fence. It crashed into a tree, splintering into a million piercing shards. Then he stood staring after it with his hands on his hips.

Curly raised an eyebrow. Apparently, Scott had quite the quickfire temper. They were casual friends, soon-to-be brothers, but he and Scott hadn’t exactly spent a lot of time together. Scott’s immediate and furious outburst wasn’t exactly expected.

“Sorry,” he said as he turned back. “I’ll clean it up. I just fucking hate assholes like that.”

“You and me both, brother. Listen, I got the rest of the guys coming by around six tonight so we can put our skulls together and come up with a plan. Next dog fight is in six days, but we won’t know where until the day of.”