Spec (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 2)

But now that his cock had a taste of her sweet pussy, he couldn’t walk away. Combine it with how goddamn alive he felt right now, he knew she had her hooks in him.

The woman who acted opposite to everything he’d judged her to be.

Fuck.

“Hey, brother,” Tracker said as he walked into the chapel.

“Hey, Track. Want a beer?” Sure, it was early in the morning but fuck it.

“Thanks.” Tracker grabbed a beer from the icy bucket Scott had set in the center of the table.

He’d arrived first. After last night, Curly probably wanted to roast his ass over an open flame. The least he could do was show up early for church and make an effort to be a team player.

The prez worked his ass off to keep the cops away from his club. After spending thirteen years behind bars, partly because of his old club and partly because of a dirty fucking cop, Curly didn’t play nice with the police. His showing up at the station last night had been a huge fucking feat, one he was probably pissed as hell about today. Shit, thoughts of the police station had him recalling the way he’d nearly lost his shit. If it weren’t for Liv and the brave way she’d marched her sexy ass in and demanded his release, he’d have fallen into a full-on panic attack in front of the officer.

“You doing all right?” Tracker asked as Pulse walked into the chapel.

“Yeah, I’m good.” Scott held his fist up for Pulse as he came around the table. His brother tapped it with his own, then plucked a beer from the bucket.

Locke arrived next, followed by Jinx, laughing to himself about something.

“You sure?” Tracker asked with narrowed eyes. He took a long pull from his beer. “Figured you be even more of a cranky asshole today than usual after all the shit that went down.

“Seriously,” Jinx cut in. “You seem fucking different.” He waved a hand. “Almost, I don’t know, bouncy.”

Different? Bouncy? Scott snorted. Thankfully, he didn’t have a mouthful of beer. “The fuck? You still trashed from last night? I’m sitting on my ass drinking a beer. I’ve barely said two words. What the hell makes you think I’m different? Or bouncy? For Christ’s sake, what does that even mean?” he asked, laughing.

“Jinx is right!” Tracker straightened and pointed his beer bottle in Scott’s direction. “He’s fucking laughing. Who the hell are you, and what have you done with Spec? You know the guy. Looks just like you, chews nails, drinks gasoline for breakfast.”

“Barks at everyone,” Pulse added.

“Kicks puppies for sport,” Jinx said.

“Shaves with a chainsaw,” Tyler said around his laughter.

Snickering, Scott shook his head. This group was a bunch of idiots.

“Ooh,” Ty said as he joined them in the chapel. “We listing Spec’s finer qualities? Don’t forget how he makes small children cry for kicks and giggles.”

“Very funny, assholes, I get it. I’m an irritable bastard.” He lifted his hands in surrender as he settled back in the chair. “Put your weapons away.”

“This is so weird,” Tracker pretended to whisper to Lock. “He’s still not getting pissed.”

“Sorry, I’m late,” Curly announced as he strode into the room. He closed the thick double doors behind him. Made of dark wood, they spanned the ten-foot-high ceiling and were heavy as fuck. A local metal worker had made the Handlers’ logo into an impressive set of door handles, split down the middle. It was badass, and Scott loved walking through those doors into the chapel.

All of them had collaborated on the clubhouse’s design. Curly could’ve done the whole thing himself, but that wasn’t the kind of prez he wanted to be. He’d wanted all his guys to view the clubhouse as home. So they’d pooled their ideas and created a haven for all of them.

Inside the chapel, an oval table made from the same dark wood as the doors filled most of the space. Fifteen men could easily fit around it. Someday, they’d have a larger membership, but Scott had no problem with a small club and taking their sweet time to find prospects.

Not just anyone could patch, and Curly planned to be one picky bastard when it came to letting men prospect.

Halfway to his seat at the head of the table, Curly paused. “You look different, Spec.” A frown scrunched his face. “Can’t figure out what it is, though.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Scott grumbled as the rest of the guys burst into laughter.

It was damn good to hear everyone laughing after the stress of the previous night, even if he had to be the butt of the joke.

“What’d I miss?” Curly asked as he reached his leather chair. “You know what? Forget I asked. Not sure I wanna know.” His ass hit the seat. “Okay, this shit from last night…”

He lifted his gaze and speared Scott with a lasered assessment. “You square?”