Curly (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 1)

“I-I never talked to her, Evan. I’m s-sorry if her leaving hurt you.” The bullshit lies were nearly impossible to speak when all she wanted was to tell him what a piece of trash he was.

“My parents cut me off. They took back control of my trust because I couldn’t keep a wife, and it embarrassed them. My father told me not to come back to work until I got my personal life in order.” He marched over to her until she had to crane her neck to see his face and the very serious barrel of the gun which pointed directly at her head. “This is all your fucking fault. You were a shitty wife, and you’re still fucking up my life five years later.” Bloodshot eyes met her gaze.

When was the last time he’d slept? Or eaten?

Brooke swallowed a burning throatful of bile. “W-what can I do to h-help you, Evan?”

He laughed a high-pitched hysterical whoop that sent a chill down her spine. “I don’t want hour help. I want you to hurt. I want you to suffer. I want you to lose everything as I did. I want you to watch as I finish the job and burn down the rest of your life.”

Her jaw dropped, and she gasped as her stomach plummeted. A sense of impending doom overrode all other sensations.

This wasn’t going to end well for her. She could see it now.

Evan had burned down her kennel.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CURLY HAD CRAMMED a month’s worth of bullshit into the past two days.

Using an attorney Scott recommended from his military days, they were able to push through closing on the property in record-breaking time. He’d charged a fuck-ton for the service, but Curly was more than happy to fork it over.

Now the club owned the farmland and renovations could begin. He’d met with multiple contractors who’d listened to his vision and would be sending bids over the next few days. Along with that, he’d had Tracker put pressure on a fence company, and by now, Brooke’s fence should be good as new.

Jinx, tasked with keeping an eye on Prick, reported the asshole had left town that morning. One of the losers he rode with helped load his truck and drove since Prick would be riding a different set of wheels for the foreseeable future.

Life seemed to be moving in a positive direction or once, but Curly wasn’t holding his breath. He knew shine could turn to shit in the blink of an eye and tended to err on the side of caution. Ty teased him relentlessly about being a pessimist.

Fuck that. He’d more than earned the right to be skeptical of the world.

He’d spent thirteen years behind bars for a crime he hadn’t committed, for Christ’s sake. He wasn’t a pessimist; he was smart.

On top of all the running around over the past few days, he’d spent a solid chunk of time obsessing about Brooke. She’d get one final day of reprieve before he sought her out. Thankfully, her friend Nancy was on his side. She’d been keeping him apprised of how Brooke was healing. Though she’d sustained minor injuries, he still worried.

He expected to receive a furious phone call the moment she discovered her fence had been repaired behind her back. It didn’t matter how much she railed at him, he had no intention of apologizing.

He cared about her, and the idea of her not being able to house her dogs for weeks because of a fencing issue he’d caused wasn’t acceptable. Having her pups home would be her number one priority, and if he could make that happen, he’d do it without an ounce of remorse. She could kick him in the nuts for all he cared. At least that would mean she was touching him.

What did it say about him that he wanted to be around her even if she felt bloodthirsty? After spending every night in her bed, not speaking to her for three days sucked. It reminded him of the few times he’d been in solitary confinement early on in his imprisonment. This sense of extreme isolation and frustration twisted together. A phone call, a text, a wave as she drove by, hell, anything would be better than nothing at this point. He’d about reached his limit, and tomorrow would put an end to the separation.

Hopefully, the few days apart had given her time to think and process. Curly wanted her. He wanted more than sweaty nights and occasional dates.

He wanted her independence.

He wanted her smiles.

He wanted her stubbornness and intelligence.

He wanted that soft heart hellbent on saving every canine in sight.

He wanted her love.

And he wanted to give her his love. Turned out, it didn’t matter if he’d told himself he couldn’t have a relationship, wouldn’t let a woman get close to him, wouldn’t fall in love. It had happened anyway without his consent and out of his control.