Spec (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 2)

Fuuck. What the hell happened to the stuck-up woman who stared down her nose at him even though she was a good six inches shorter?

The nagging itch at the back of his mind made sleep impossible, wondering if he’d misjudged her all along. If he were honest with himself, he’d taken one look at her gorgeous face, expensive clothes, and prickly attitude and slammed his walls down. When combined with what he thought he knew of Deke’s family and guilt and other fucked-up shit in his head surrounding Deke’s death, he couldn’t stand the idea of her. She was a walking representation of how he’d failed Deke.

So, he’d become a massive asshole to keep her the fuck away.

But she’d seen through his antagonistic exterior to the disaster inside and tried to help.

Hell, she had helped more than anything he’d tried. More than therapy, pills, and alcohol. Even more than beating the piss out of motherfuckers. And that was saying something because he’d discovered the easiest way to quiet the demons in his head was to let them have control over his fists for a while. They’d quiet in the aftermath of a violent fight. At least for a time.

But Olivia, Deke’s fucking sister, the woman he’d pushed away with every ounce of his strength, saw through all that shit. She’d stripped herself bare, dropped to her knees, and sucked out every ounce of anguish through his dick. And even though it should’ve been as temporary a fix as fighting or fucking anyone else, he felt altered on a cellular level.

Why?

Why the fuck had she done it, and why had it rattled him to his core?

The question kept him awake most of the night. Eventually, he fell into his typical nightmare-plagued sleep but woke when the first sliver of sun passed through his blinds as usual. The two and a half hours of sleep he’d managed hadn’t done shit to solve the mystery of Olivia. Instead, he woke agitated and wanting to know what kind of game she was playing.

Taking a piss, drinking some coffee, and brushing his teeth did nothing to settle his mood.

He stared across the tiny apartment. The answer to his question resided two doors and thirty feet away. If he didn’t get it, today would be another bloody day. The need for another release simmered under his skin, and if he didn’t get relief, he’d pound it out of someone. Curly would strip his patch if he didn’t find a better outlet.

Olivia’s face mid-climax popped into his head. Goddamn, that had been a sight.

“Fuck it.” He stomped across the small apartment and out the door. Two steps later, he was pounding on Olivia’s door.

“It’s open. Come on in.”

Seriously? She’d been attacked outside last night and didn’t bother to lock the damn door? He twisted the doorknob. Sure enough, it turned, admitting him into her apartment. “Fuck,” he whispered.

Just as he was about to berate her for the dangerous move, she called out from the bathroom. “Hey, Brooke, just washing my face. Grab a seat. I’ll be right out. Oh, there’s coffee if you want it.”

He frowned. Brooke must have planned to check on her this morning.

The club’s first lady was a damn good woman.

If he were a good man, he’d announce himself, but no one would accuse him of being good these days. He took the few steps to the small bathroom that mirrored his own. Olivia stood in front of the mirror with her palms on the counter and head bowed.

Not washing her face.

Just staring.

She wore nothing but the oversized Handlers’ tee she’d worn to the police station last night. The same one she’d ripped off and tossed to the floor before sucking his cock. Long sexy legs extended below the hem of the shirt.

Were her knees sore? The tile floor wasn’t forgiving. Fuck, he hoped she’d woken with aching knees. He was a sick man.

After seeing her in that shirt, he was doomed to get at least semi-hard at the sight of his club’s logo for the rest of his life. The strange thing was the twist he felt in his chest along with the jolt to his cock. Something akin to pride at the sight of her representing the club that meant the world to him.

As though she sensed his presence, her head whipped up, and her eyes flared wide. “Scott,” she said with a gasp. “You startled me. I thought you were Brooke. She said she’d check in this morning.”

“Your door wasn’t locked.”

Straightening, she smoothed down the shirt. “I know. I left it open for Brooke.”

Tension thickened the air. Olivia’s eyes shifted left and right, focusing everywhere but on his face. Damn, she looked good. Fresh-faced and natural like she did last night. How did the woman not recognize how gorgeous she was without all the expensive potions?