Maverick (Hell's Handlers MC 2)

She had this urge to go to him and soothe him. Press her lips to each and every bruise and promise him as he’d done for her that he’d be okay. He’d heal.

Something about him captivated her. He wasn’t her type. Not at all. She tended to date nice guys, on the rare occasion she actually had a date. Easygoing, laid-back men, willing to put up with her long hours and intense job. After working in a field that taxed her both mentally and physically, she gravitated toward men who didn’t do either. Who just let her be and went with the flow.

Of course, she was often bored after the third date, so maybe when—because she was working on remaining positive—she got out of the damn basement, she could take a good hard look at her type.

Piercings on men were something Stephanie had never understood. She could handle an earring if it came along with a guy who caught her attention, but nothing else. Yet on Maverick…it just fit. He should look like a thug or at least a facsimile of the many gang members she’d run across in her career, but he didn’t.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was on the leaner side. Not unmuscular, but the long, elastic strength of a runner as opposed to the brute bulk many of these guys used to their advantage. Then there was his hair. It screamed hipster. Long on top, the ebony hair was shaved on both sides. She’d actually seen it in an article at her salon not long ago. It was called an undercut.

Really, what endeared him to her was his personality. Quick wit, charm, and the desire to comfort her made it impossible to write him off as nothing but an outlaw biker. But he was an outlaw, a criminal, and she’d do well to remember that. She could come to grips with the fact that she was attracted to him—that was just a combination of chemical reactions and the heightened senses of an adrenaline spike. But make no mistake, she’d arrest him in a heartbeat if she had to.

Because she was the law.

And he was a one-percenter.

Who probably belonged behind bars. She knew a fair amount about his MC, and while they weren’t involved in drugs, prostitution, or gun running, they weren’t saints. Just because the FBI had bigger fish to fry didn’t mean the Handlers didn’t break the law.

“You stare much harder, and I just might blush.” Maverick’s sleep-roughened voice made her flinch, then wince when the abused muscles in her shoulders rebelled against the unnatural position.

“Sorry, babe,” he said. “Those arms must be feeling like overstretched rubber bands right now, huh?”

Her face heated at being caught staring without really seeing. Hell, she’d been looking right at him, but so lost in her thoughts she hadn’t even realized he’d woken up. “Something like that.”

He shifted or tried to as much as his bindings would allow, which was about an inch, then emitted a pain-filled grunt. “Motherfucker.”

“You all right?” He looked like shit. There was so much bruising on his chest and torso the tattoos were lost to the deep purple contusions. When he’d been dozing this time, air whistled through his lungs with each inhalation. She didn’t know squat about medicine, but she knew breathing was vital and wasn’t supposed to sound like that.

“Just peachy, wildcat. Don’t worry about me. Got hurt worse last week when I was between these two hotties with talons for nails. Let me tell you, those bitches could scratch.”

Stephanie snorted out a laugh while her mind raced. Was that a true story? Or just bluster to keep her from knowing how bad off he really was? “Two, huh?” For some inexplicable reason, the thought of him with two long-nailed, busty bleach-blondes who were gymnast flexible irked her. Okay, so maybe she’d added the cup-size, hair color, and flexibility herself.

“Yeah. Slow night.” He winked, and Stephanie laughed.

“You’re so full of shit.”

He winked again. “You’ll never know. How you doing? You freezing your ass off?”

“I’m cold, yes, but unfortunately my ass is still there. What there is of it to begin with.”

Now it was Maverick’s turn to snort. “Already told you that was a good thing, wildcat. If you don’t believe me, I may have to show you exactly what I mean as soon as we bust out of here.”

Heat spread through her even if she didn’t believe him. Two chicks in one night was a slow night? Yeah, men like him didn’t go for uptight, workaholics who hadn’t been laid in years. Not that it mattered. Because, hello?

Criminal.

As in breaker of the law.

Wrong.

Not right.

At least this time she knew up front he wasn’t a law-abiding citizen. No chance for the shock of betrayal she’d suffered in the recent and distant past.