Spec (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 2)

“Fuck’s up with you tonight, brother?” Tracker asked with a smirk as though he knew damn well where Scott’s mind was.

“Nothing. I’m good.”

“Thinking about a little brunette firecracker?”

He shot Tracker a death glare. Of course, the asshole just laughed.

Curly watched the exchange with a flat expression. Once Tracker was done razzing him, Curly strode over. “Need your head in the game, Spec, in case shit goes south in there. Your brothers need to trust you’re at your best when you have their backs. I’m not sure you’re the best one for this tonight.”

That sobered him up quickly. He narrowed his eyes at his prez. “Are you questioning my loyalty to the club?”

A grin broke out across Curly’s face. “Nah. Just fucking with you. Pretty sure you could fall asleep during the meeting and still kill the whole room if necessary.” Curly slapped him on the back. “Just try to wipe that lovesick look off your face before we go in.”

Lovesick? What the fuck?

“That ain’t a lovesick look, prez,” Ty chimed in.

“Thank you,” Scott muttered. “Finally, someone’s making sense.”

“That’s what we called pussy-whipped.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

They laughed together for a moment before falling serious. Most civilians would think they were crazy for joking at a time like this, but dark humor had helped get him through tenser situations than this, and the joking kept his anxiety down. It seemed the rest of the guys agreed.

“Okay,” Curly announced. “Spec and Ty are with me. The rest of you hang out here until we get back. Stay vigilant. I’m sure Lobo will send someone out to babysit you. Don’t make me walk out to a blood bath, okay?”

Rolling his eyes, Tracker nodded. “Got it, boss.”

Pulse and Lock nodded their agreement. Jinx didn’t, which had Scott’s senses on alert.

“Let’s do this.” Tracker held out a fist they all bumped with as they walked toward the bar.

A handful of cars and bikes sat parked in the lot. Other than that, the place was quiet. Was the bar open to patrons? Maybe Lobo shut it down for the evening, or perhaps they did shitty business. Either way, the lack of civilians worked in their favor if this meeting took a downward slide. They’d all be fucked if bullets started flying and some drunk college kid took a wild one between the eyes.

He stayed fully alert, scanning high, low, left, and right. He clocked everything from the number of cars to their positions in the lot to the location of the windows on the building and possible evacuation routes. As they neared the front entrance, the door opened, and a bald giant stepped outside.

“Jesus,” Ty muttered. “Guy’s fucking huge.”

Seriously, it was as though someone shaved the Hulk’s head and painted him. This guy could crush skulls in one hand.

Scott rolled his eyes. “It’s a stupid fucking show of force,” he whispered. “Sure, he’s huge, but he’s probably slow as a fucking sloth. Bet you fifty bucks you’d have time to run back to your bike and grab a gun before he got his hands on a single skull to crush.”

Hulk didn’t speak. Instead, he grunted and jerked his head toward the door.

“If you didn’t catch that, it was neanderthal for, ‘Welcome, thanks for being on time. Please head inside,’” Scott said.

Ty coughed to cover up his laugh while Tracker laughed loud from a few feet back. For his part, Curly tried to play the no-nonsense president by shooting Scott a glare, but his quirking lips gave away his amusement.

Scott shrugged at the prez. They were dealt these rotten lemons, so they might as well make some shitty lemonade.

With a glower their way, the Hulk grunted again and puffed out his barrel chest.

Scott barely resisted rolling his eyes. “Yeah, we get it, big guy. You’re huge. You’re tough. You ate a dozen raw eggs and took an extra testosterone shot this morning. Stand down.”

Curly gripped Scott's cut as the guy opened his mouth, most likely to eat some small children. “Get the fuck inside,” he muttered.

“Sure thing, boss. Catch you later, Hulk,” he said as he strode into the building.

“Christ,” Curly muttered to Ty. “Think I liked it better when he was in a shit mood and lost his temper every five minutes.”

Huh. Scott frowned as he walked into the bar. The prez had a point. If Hulk had flexed and postured a few weeks ago, Scott would’ve lost his shit, flown into a rage, and ended up bloody. Tonight, he was throwing witty quips instead of fists.

What the fuck was that about?

The question would have to wait.

They stepped into the bar, and Scott instantly went on alert. His nerve endings tingled, and a buzz zinged through his blood as well-honed senses kicked into full alert mode. Without needing to think about it, he began clocking every inch of the room, starting with possible exits.