Thunder (Hell's Handlers MC 10)

Well, shit, maybe she wasn’t broken after all, just pretty freaking bent.

CHAPTER FIVE

THUNDER’S ARM THROBBED with such intense, fiery agony, even the half bottle of moonshine he’d guzzled hadn’t killed the torturous sensation. When he’d first learned of the Hell’s Handlers tradition of branding their logo on the forearm of new patches, it had seemed like such a macho way to enter the brotherhood. Sear the symbol into his skin and be one with them forever. Endure the same pain all his brothers had before him. A bond in blood only a few understood.

Hell, he’d been fucking excited about it. Eager for the pain, even.

Until the moment Copper pulled the branding iron out of the bonfire, and the glowing tip careened toward his sensitive skin. Then all he’d wanted to do was puke and run screaming in the other direction. Somehow, he’d managed not to bawl like a little bitch when the red-hot metal turned his skin into barbecue. He’d also managed to stay on his feet, keep the contents of his stomach inside, and not scream. All requirements of the final test to be admitted into the club.

Now he got why Copper had him drink all that nasty shit right before branding him. And again after. The only thing keeping him from focusing on the ongoing discomfort was the fact his brain was sloshing around in the booze and unable to function.

So now, his arm screamed, and his head swam, but his body moved to the music like it was born to it. When you spent as many hours dancing as he had, no thought was required to get your groove on.

A few of the Honeys danced around him, or all up on him, really. He had no idea what the hell their names were. Hell, he couldn’t even pick their faces out of a lineup. Didn’t matter. All he wanted was to drink, dance, and enjoy his fucking night. For the first time in months, thoughts of Viper and questions over whether he’d failed a man he loved didn’t dominate his consciousness.

Booze did.

He’d patched in.

God, it felt so damn amazing to finally belong to the club. To finally have a family he could be proud of. A family he could love. After what he’d grown up with…

Well, shit, thoughts like that were bound to kill his buzz in no time.

He could save that for a rainy day when he was in the mood to be depressed.

“You move like a dream,” one of the girls whispered into his ear.

With his hands above his head and his eyes closed, he didn’t know which one she was. Nor did he care. He rode the drunken wave, enjoying the feel of his body pumping to the music the way he always did. “Thanks, babe,” he said on autopilot.

“I can only imagine how you work these hips in bed.”

“Like a fucking pro, babe. Like a fucking pro.”

She purred and ground her body against his; at least he assumed she was the grinder. Could have been one of the others, for all he knew.

“Any chance I’ll get to do more than imagine?”

Fuck, no.

“Hell yeah, babe. Good fucking chance.”

What were they talking about? The flirting rolled off his tongue without any effort from his wasted brain.

A tingle of awareness ran up the back of his neck as though one of the girls tickled him with her long nails, though none of them were touching him there. He opened his eyes only to lock onto the woman who’d been running through his thoughts far too much lately.

What the hell was Makenna doing here?

Behind the bar. With Monty’s arm around her.

Were they fucking?

And why the hell did that idea bother him so much?

If there was one thing Thunder knew—besides dancing and how to fuck—it was body language. He was a master at reading it. Came with the territory.

Monty wanted Makenna, that was for damn sure. He was practically slobbering all over her. Thunder would bet his entire hard-earned savings account that the prospect sported some serious wood down below.

But Mak? Her stance was rigid, body angled away from Monty, and her gaze was one hundred percent on…well look at that, she was staring at him.

Little ol’ Thunder.

Hmm, maybe a little test of the theory. He winked, and sure enough, her eyes flared, and she licked her lower lip—the lip with nothing more than a light sheen of gloss.

With her sexy yet understated outfit, subtle makeup, and big doe eyes, she was so out of her element, it was comical. She was also a welcome alternative to every single woman in the clubhouse.

And she wanted him. He’d put money on it.

For the first time in a while, he was considering a sexual encounter that didn’t include an exchange of cash or obligation. It’d been a long time since he’d gone after a woman because he straight-up wanted inside her pussy. Maybe it was time to give himself a little treat. One night of no-strings fun to celebrate his shiny new patch.