Joy (Hell's Handlers MC 7)

He didn’t want the motherfuckers who’d committed those crimes living in his town, harassing his club’s women, or fucking up the Handlers’ businesses. He rotated his neck right and left. As a loud crack reverberated through the room, he blew out a breath. Time to deal with this shit.

Steady as an ox, he punched the ten digits into a burner phone. One, two, three rings, and then, “The fuck is this?”

“Think that’s my question,” Copper said to the deep rasp on the other end of the line.

The man, Blade, he assumed, chuckled. “Irish accent. Must be Copper, President of the Hell’s Handlers Motorcycle Club.

“It’s Blade, right?”

“I see you’ve done your research. Impressive.”

Copper grunted. “Not sure what you’ve heard about me, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t that I’m a fucking idiot.”

Another laugh from Blade, this time longer and louder. “No, I’ve heard you’re a mean motherfucker. And that you’re possessive of your town. That your club has killed off more than a few who threatened your reign as king. Even heard a rumor you offed the town sheriff.”

Not true. Though the club had run him off with threats to his life. But the sheriff, crooked as he’d been, also happened to be the father of an ol’ lady. So, Copper had refrained from killing the man. Some of his deputies hadn’t been spared the Handler’s wrath, however.

Why deny it? Whatever got this guy to leave. “That what you plan on doing? Moving in on my kingdom?” As he waited for the answer, Copper gazed out the window at the leafless trees making up the winter woods. As usual, this time of year, his urge to ride his motorcycle through the mountains peaked. Something about being unable to ride had the need skyrocketing. Too bad the forecast called for fucking snow.

“Well, I guess that all depends on how well you play with others,” Blade said.

“Not too fucking well,” Copper said.

“Then we may have a problem.”

Fuck.

“You are setting up shop here in Townsend?” Copper asked.

“Close by is my plan.”

“It’s a shitty one.”

“Hmm.” Blade laughed. “I disagree. Location is prime. Lots of tourists, lots of…isolated areas. Easy to move through the mountains unseen. This is the perfect area to move my products between the north and south. No, this seems like just the spot to me.”

His product? What was it? Drugs? Women? Guns?

“Lefty thought that too.” If Blade was as clued into the Handler’s dealings as Copper thought he was, there was no way the man didn’t know all about the gang leader Copper and Rocket had killed. Lefty had been a rapist pig who traded kidnapped women like playing cards. Someone cut from the same cloth as Blade.

“Ah, but Lefty was stupid and greedy. I’m neither of those things, Copper. I’m fucking smart, and I know how to bide my time. I also have a very loyal club at my back. Heard Lefty couldn’t pay a fucker to be loyal to him.”

A soft knock on the door pulled Copper’s attention from the window. Shell popped her head in but winced when she realized he was on the phone.

“Sorry,” she mouthed then started to duck out.

Copper shook his head and waved her in. He continued to signal for her to come closer until she was climbing onto his lap with a guarded look. Normally he’d never allow her to be burdened with club shit, but he needed her close, and she’d already been tossed in this lion’s den. “You willing to risk your devoted followers just to set up shop here? Because I’m telling you now in plain English, you’re not fucking welcome.”

Shell stiffened, but he ran a hand up and down her back. Maybe he should have let her slip out of the office.

“You know, prez,” Blade said. “I think I am. My men are my army, and we’ll fight to keep what we have and get what we want. Now, unlike you, I can play with others, so I’ll leave the ball in your court. Either move over and let me in your sandbox or be ready for the mother of all dust storms. ’Tis the season, Copper.”

The line went dead.

Copper gripped the phone, not even aware of how he’d nearly crushed it in his palm until Shell’s gentle fingers pried his fist open with a soft touch. “Hey,” she said, drawing his focus to her solemn face. She gave his beard a little tug. “Talk to me.”

He shared with her often, not enough to have her up worrying at night, but what he needed to ease his weighed down soul. “It’s not good,” he said.

Her hands moved up, rubbing the soft hairs on his face. His woman loved the feel of his beard. Especially between her legs.

“Then you’ll do what you always do.” She spoke with such faith, such confidence in him he couldn’t help but crack a smile.