Curly (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 1)

“That got me thinking,” Scott said.

The music grew even louder, which he’d have considered impossible five seconds ago.

“I’m gonna stroll around and casually drop them in the kennels, then get the fuck outta here. In twenty minutes, those pups will either be snoozing like babies or stumbling around like drunk frat boys. Either way, they’ll be useless in a fight. A hamster would be a fiercer competitor by the time I finish with them.” A sinister smile transformed his face into a scary mask of deviance. “What do you think?”

Fuck, Scott was a damn genius. Not only would this prevent any of the dogs from being fatally harmed, but it’d fuck with Prick’s business and wallet. There’d be no fight tonight. Curly wasn’t naïve enough to believe it’d be adequate to end the dog fights for good, but it’d undoubtedly derail this one. Damn, that was an exciting thought. Then his guys could use the info they gathered tonight to devise a plan to shut this shit down permanently.

“You sure you can be stealthy enough?”

“You kidding, brother? If I can sneak in a Taliban village, slide my knife deep into the gut of their leader, then slide back out without a goddammed soul knowing, I can feed some dogs on the sly.” The former Green Beret seared him with a look that had him lifting his hands in apology.

“Sorry, stupid question, brother. Do it. But then I want you out of here. After the initial panic, Prick will probably realize someone sabotaged him. He might ramp up security for next time.”

Nodding, Scott said, “Won’t be a problem. I have some ideas for that, too.”

“All right.” He gripped Scott’s shoulder. “Be careful as fuck.”

“Will do. This shit’s easy.” With a wink, Scott smiled as though the thought of jumping into danger excited the hell outta him. Maybe it did. Years of living in constant peril didn’t appeal to everyone, but it certainly drew Scott. Was he just an adrenalin junkie? Or was there more to his apparent enjoyment of violence?

Adjusting his hoodie, he shoved that question aside for another day. “Meet you at Brooke’s later?” She’d insisted they come straight to her house and let her knew every detail they’d learned. He was more than happy to oblige if it kept her away from this shitshow. Besides, he’d be going to her house anyway, seeing as how he’d spent the last six nights in her bed.

Stupid, he admitted that, but he couldn’t tear himself away from her. She was sexy, fun, kind, funny, compassionate, and the list went on. She was just a fucking unicorn among women, and she’d ensnared him in her magic trap.

“Yep. Midnight. I’ll be there.” Scott gave him a final nod, then faded into the rowdy crowd.

If he were smart, Curly would take his own advice and get the hell outta there, but the idea of exiting before he learned Scott had been successful didn’t sit well. He’d hang around until Scott finished dosing all the dogs, then head over to Brooke’s.

Within seconds, he’d lost sight of Scott in the mob. The guy was as stealthy as a goddammed ninja. As he scoured the faces of the men and women treating this sick event some kind of fucked-up house party, Curly came across Pulse and Jinx chatting with Prick.

Something Jinx said had Prick laughing and slapping him on the back. He had to hand it to Jinx. The guy had a personality that would draw his worst enemy to him. Had to make him lethal with the ladies. Pulse had mentioned something about Jinx drowning in pussy every time they went out.

Now it made sense. The younger man could charm the habit off a nun.

While he’d never been one people flocked to for his charismatic or easygoing nature, Curly hadn’t had a problem picking up women when he’d been Jinx’s age. Being president of an outlaw MC drew them from all around. Women looking for nothing more than the chance to wrap their lips around the dick of a powerful man. No commitment, no promises, not even the exchange of names most of the time. Back in the day, he’d loved that shit.

But by the time he hit thirty, he’d grown tired of the game. The responsibilities of running the True Outlaws MC had worn on him, and the stability of having an ol’ lady became more appealing. Joke was on him when she turned out to be a special brand of bitch.

Once he officially had the MC up and running, women would come crawling out of the woodwork once again. That was just how it went. Get together a group of single bikers who loved to party, and the women would be knocking each other over to get in the clubhouse doors. If he pleased, he could snap his fingers and have as many as he wanted ready to drop their knees or bend over and hike up their mini skirts for him. He could go back to living large and being a king.