Spec (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 2)

The trust account had enough money to live comfortably for years, maybe even the rest of her life. Lance wasn’t aware of its existence, but she hesitated to tap into it too much out of an abundance of caution.

Despite it all, a text from Lance came through at two that morning. Not an email or a DM but a text, which meant he was actively hunting her and making progress. The unfamiliar number and vague threat meant nothing. This was all Lance.

Lance: A princess can’t survive outside the castle. I’m getting closer to finding you. See you soon.

Not long ago, as in a few months back, she’d have agreed with him. She never imagined she’d be happy without her designer shoes and purses. Or without her luxury mattress, spa-worthy master shower, or thousand-dollar espresso machine. But it turned out she could live without her weekly spa trips, mimosa brunches, extravagant shopping trips, and oversized mansion. She could live without all that and not even miss it. She’d discovered that mani-pedis with vapid friends, endless party planning, and flashing her pearly whites from the side of a powerful man didn’t fulfill her as much as living in a shoebox with people who respected and appreciated her for who she was. People who had real conversations, real problems, and real lives they loved.

Minus Scott. Until last night.

“Jesus,” she whispered out loud as memories of Scott’s hands and mouth tortured her senses. Would it happen again? Should it happen again? Those questions potentially had very different answers, but neither was more important.

“One man problem at a time, Liv.” As much as she’d rather dwell on her issue with Scott, Lance had the power to destroy her life in a very real way. What did she do now? Get another phone number? He’d probably find that one out as well. Clearly, she’d overlooked something when covering her tracks. If he found her phone number, could he find her just as easily?

“Shit,” she whispered as her stomach soured. Lance had the power to rain down hell on the MC. He had legal contacts, judges in his pocket, cops on his payroll, and government officials bowing at his feet. He could destroy the lives of men she’d come to value more than her own family. “What have I done?”

“You know, talking to yourself is the first sign you’re losing it.”

Oliva jumped, then whirled around to find Tracker standing in the open door to the clubhouse’s kitchen. “Holy crap, you scared me,” she said as she stuffed the phone into her short’s back pocket.

“I know. That’s what made it fun.” His unrepentant smirk and chuckle had her rolling her eyes. “What are you up to in here?” he asked as he sniffed the air.

The man had more tattoos than anyone she’d ever met. Sure, she had friends with a tramp stamp or knew guys with some ink on a shoulder, but in her world, that was it. Tattooed skin wasn’t considered high-class enough, especially if it couldn’t be hidden under a simple jacket. Tracker had sleeves on both arms, and she guessed plenty of ink under his clothes. If it weren’t for his easy smile and chill personality, he’d have intimidated the hell out of her.

Maybe it was this whole transformation from rich girl to woman on the run that had her relaxing her uppity standards.

“I’m making dinner,” she said, wincing as she heard the words come from her mouth.

Tracker raised an eyebrow. The left side of his mouth curved up in a smirk. “Do you know how to make dinner?”

“Shut up!” She grabbed a dishtowel off the counter and threw it at him. “I can handle it. I’ve been practicing.”

“It was an innocent question!” He caught the towel before it made contact, then raised his hands. “I’m not stupid enough to speak ill of the chef or turn down a free home-cooked meal. Whatcha making?”

“Pulled pork sandwiches, cornbread, and a few veggies. Nothing fancy.” She held up the recipe on her phone.

“Huh,” he said, lowering his arms.

“What?”

“Kinda figured you’d be serving us caviar and foie gras, whatever the fuck that is.”

“Okay, that’s it!” She rushed forward, making a shooing motion with her hands. “Get out of my kitchen. And keep your brothers out too.”

Laughing, Tracker backed out of the kitchen.

“And foie gras is liver of a chicken or duck,” she yelled after him.

“Fucking gross!” he called through the door.

Oliva giggled as she continued working on dinner. After the way the club rallied around her last night, she wanted to do something to say thank you. A meal seemed so inadequate, but these guys liked to eat and couldn’t cook for shit. Not that she could either, but she could read and follow directions. Hopefully, those skills translated to pulling off an edible meal. Brooke would also appreciate a second set of hands helping with family dinners, as she called them.