Little Jack (Hell's Handlers MC 6)

“Wow,” Holly said, taking a step back. With her hair a little more mussed than it had been a few minutes ago, she had that just fucked look about her. “A girl could get used to that kind of goodbye.”

She took a step, nearly fell on her face, then laughed when LJ caught her under her arms. “You made me weak in the knees, Jack.” After winking at him, she made her way to the door.

“Come on, bud,” LJ said to Biscuit who’d flopped on the floor in the kitchen and watched the scene unfold, as was his typical MO. “Let’s make sure mommy gets out okay.”

With a giant yawn, the mastiff climbed to his feet and lumbered after LJ. They stood side by side on the balcony in front of the apartments, gazing down at the parking lot below.

Holly climbed into LJ’s massive pick-up with a scrunched brow. He hadn’t been kidding when he told her he was happy to lend her the truck while her car was laid up. But now, seeing her frown at the backup camera, he couldn’t help but have doubts. Well, she’d have to learn how to drive the beast some time or another and baptism by fire seemed the quickest way to go.

After navigating out of the parking spot and successfully avoiding taking out the cars on either side of her, Holly waved and gifted him with a triumphant smile.

“Inside, buddy,” LJ said to the dog with a pat on his head.

Biscuit looked up at him and whined. “Come on, you big baby. Mommy will be back in a few hours.” What he didn’t say was how much he got that whine. Part of him wanted to join in the pitiful song. Once back in LJ’s apartment, Biscuit plopped down next to the couch. Though he’d seen it at least a hundred times by now, LJ never failed to feel envy of the pooch’s ability to fall asleep in under two seconds and stay in that state no matter what occurred around him.

For a few hours, LJ puttered around his apartment, completing tasks he’d been putting off since spending all his spare time with Holly. He washed some clothes, wrote up a few estimates for construction projects, and was about to chill with a Netflix binge when there was a knock on the door.

With a deep bark, Biscuit lumbered up and loafed over to greet the guest. Or guests. Copper, Rocket, and Zach stood outside his door. “Shit, did I forget we had something today?”

Copper chuckled and rubbed Biscuit’s head. The dog immediately stopped barking and practically purred at the attention.

Worst guard dog ever.

“Nah, brother,” Copper said. “You’re good. Just had some shit to run by you. Sorry for busting in unannounced.”

“Ain’t a thing. Come on in. Want a beer?”

“Hell yes,” Zach said while Rocket and Copper both nodded.

As he went to the fridge to grab four beers, LJ took a moment to shake off his nerves at the arrival of his president and half of the MC’s executive board. Even though he’d been affiliated with the club for nearly sixteen months, he was the baby brother. A brand-new patch. While he respected the hell out of Copper and considered the man fair and levelheaded as a president, LJ was acutely aware Copper could make his life a living hell if he so desired.

Two long-necks dangling from each hand, he returned to the small living room, made even tinier by the presence of three additional huge men. Biscuit had returned to his spot next to the couch, snoozing once again. At least someone managed to be anxiety-free.

“What’s up, Prez?” LJ asked as he handed out the beer, then tossed Copper a bottle opener.

“Shell received a letter today. Delivered by a courier, all official and shit.” He popped the cap off his beer then took a long sip, seeming to need to get a handle on his frustration.

LJ raised an eyebrow. “What kind of letter?”

“It was a certified letter, made out to Shell, signed by a judge.”

LJ accepted the bottle opener from Rocket after his brother opened his beer. “What did it say?”

“It was an official denial of the permits we need for the charity run. It clearly stated if we ignored the edict and organized the event anyway, we’d be subject to fines and possible arrest.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” LJ said, but none of the men appeared remotely jokey. “What a shit fucking move.”

“Tell me about it,” Zach said. “Fucking charity run for fucking children. It’s a low fucking blow.”

“We’re not giving a shit, right? We’re still putting it on?”

Copper nodded. “Yes, but we need to brainstorm some ideas so we can do this without risk of arrest. If it were just me, I wouldn’t give a shit, but I ain’t putting Shell at risk of being locked up.”