Spec (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 2)

Scott, Scott something.

After stuffing as much as she could fit in a Louis Vuitton suitcase, she ran to her car. Tonight, she’d stay at a no-name motel, and tomorrow she’d find Scott.

He’d help her. Protect her.

He had to. It was a matter of life and death.

Hers.

“Thank you, Deke,” she whispered.

CHAPTER TWO

“SPEC,” CURLY SHOUTED from his recently constructed office. “Get your fucking ass in here.”

Scott sighed. Time to pay the piper. He’d been waiting for his president to lose it on him for a while now. Bunch of horseshit if you asked him, but he’d known it was coming. The rest of the guys had been giving him the damn side-eye for weeks, as though he were a ticking time bomb waiting to detonate.

But Curly had stayed quiet. Relatively.

Guess last night’s bar fight had been the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Uh-oh,” Tracker said with a laugh. “Somebody pissed off Daddy. Better go in there and take your spanking like a man, brother.”

Rolling his eyes, he flipped Tracker the bird and ignored Lock and Pulse, who snickered behind their beers. If they weren’t a bunch of fucking pussies, they’d be the ones about to have their ass drilled by the prez.

“What’s up, Prez?” he asked, pausing to lean against the doorway. The office was about ninety-five percent complete. He’d thought it was done, but Brooke insisted it needed to be decorated or some shit, and since his prez couldn’t say no to his woman, she’d be stopping by later to drop off some candles and pictures of babies in flowerpots or whatever the fuck it was woman liked.

Curly glanced up from the computer then gestured to the empty chair across from his desk. “Grab a seat.”

Scott did as instructed, propping his ankle on the opposite thigh. Damn, he wanted a few fingers of that half-empty bottle of whisky on Curly’s desk. It was the good shit the prez hoarded like it was his chest of gold.

The walls of the office were white and bare. Aside from a desk, computer, and a few chairs, the whole room was plain and boring as hell. Huh, maybe Brooke had a point.

“Scott, I heard—”

Shit, he’s bringing out the big guns with the real name. He held up a hand. “Look, Prez, how the fuck was I supposed to know that chick and her man got off on that shit?” Shrugging, he continued, “If I’d known they were doing some kinky role play and she was into it, I wouldn’t have beaten the guy’s ass.”

“Spec, you can’t keep—”

“The fuck was I supposed to do, Curly? They were in an alley behind the bar. I went out to take a piss, and I heard some woman whimpering and clearly saying no. The asswipe wasn’t listening, so I made him listen.”

Curly sighed. His hair had grown over the past few months, brushing his shoulders now with the spirals that gave him his name. After claiming he couldn’t wait to get out of the Army and have something other than a fucking buzzed scalp, Scott still kept his hair a quarter inch in length.

Old habits. And maybe something to keep a connection to Deke. It’d been nearly two years since his death. Sometimes, the army-short hair seemed the only remaining physical connection.

“You beat the man to a bloody pulp while his hysterical girlfriend screamed at you to stop.”

She screamed? He blinked, unable to recall anything beyond the roaring in his ears and the white-hot rage that tunneled his vision to one point—make the motherfucker pay. But Curly didn’t need to know he’d been in a semi-trance when he’d kicked that weak punk’s ass. Just like he hadn’t needed to know about it when Scott had fucked up two guys from his prez’s old MC in a gas station a few months back.

Bottom line, he wouldn’t stand by taking a piss while some jack-off abused a woman. Not after what his sister, Chloe, had suffered. “Prez, my sister—”

It was Curly’s turn to cut him off with a raised hand. “I get it, Spec,” he said with deep understanding. Last year, the prez’s woman had nearly been killed by her ex-husband. Scott had put a life-ending bullet in the bastard, but the traumatic memory lingered in Curly’s eyes.

Probably would for the rest of his life.

Chloe was Scott’s sister, not his woman, but she’d suffered a brutal attack he hadn’t been in the country to protect her from.

“There are other things you could’ve done besides break four ribs, his cheekbone, his nose, and give him a concussion,” Curly said, reading from a sticky note on his desk.

Damn, he’d done good. He fought to keep from smirking. He whistled. “I do good work. I’d only heard about two of the ribs.” It’d felt fantastic to let his beast out on that guy. Sometimes his anger felt like a living creature inside him. It needed time out of its cage to stretch its legs and wreak its havoc.