Maverick (Hell's Handlers MC 2)

“The fuck you want?” Rifle-boy broke the silence first. Not surprising, but a stupid move on his part. Even if most men couldn’t handle Copper’s particular brand of laser-stare, he should have held out a little longer.

Weak sauce.

“Here to see your boss, little boy.”

On his bike between Copper and Maverick, Zach chuckled, and Rifle-boy seethed and turned a furious shade of crimson. Seemed he’d yet to learn the simple sticks-and-stones lesson most learned as kids. If some childish name-calling got him that hot, it’d be easy as fuck to get him to lose his temper and do something stupid.

“Only little thing here is your dick, old man,” Rifle-boy responded.

This time, Mav joined Zach in a good, loud laugh because, come on. Thirty-nine did not an old man make, and Copper was six-five, two-seventy. There was just no way in hell the man had a small dick. It was a physical impossibility or something.

Unlike Rifle-boy, Copper let the insult roll right off his massive shoulders. “Wasting my time, boy. I ain’t here to look at your ugly fuckin’ face. Get. Me. Your. Boss.”

Copper’s voice held so much command even Rifle-boy seemed to grasp the urgency of the matter. But, seeing as how he was a stupid shit, he clenched his jaw, held his weapon tight across his chest, and didn’t budge.

Idiot.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Copper muttered. Prez had little to no patience for morons, and this guy topped the charts. Whether in a gang or an MC, if you’re low level, you’re a soldier for the cause. That meant you didn’t make decisions. This kid’s job was to take the request to his leader and let the big boys make the decisions. If Lefty had already banned Copper from the premises, bullets would be flying. But Mav had a sneaking suspicion Lefty was going to try and buddy up to Copper.

The Handlers had the numbers, which meant they had the muscle. Lefty did not. All he had were disloyal men who didn’t give a shit that Lefty killed the man who should have succeeded Shark. If they’d had any loyalty, any pride in their gang, they’d have walked when Lefty murdered Sixer. Instead, they just attached themselves to whoever promised a quick buck.

The door to the warehouse opened, and out strode a man who had to be Lefty. Average height with messy black hair, a black wife beater, camo pants, and a rolled bandana tied around his head, this joker looked like some kind of Rambo wannabe.

Zach tried to cover his snort with a cough but failed miserably.

“Stand the fuck down, Whip,” Lefty said, then whispered something in the kid’s ear. “Copper and the fuckin’ Handlers are always welcome here.” He waved them toward the entrance. “Come on in gentlemen. Least I owe you for getting Shark out of my way is a drink.”

Three guys walking into enemy territory with nothing more than a couple of handguns and a baseball bat wasn’t typically a smart move. In this case, however, Lefty wanted to kiss their asses, get on their good side, and he was also smart enough to realize that if something happened to Copper, Zach, or Mav, his entire baby gang would be slaughtered within hours. Nothing was going to happen here but the laying of some ground rules—Copper-style.

“Guess we’re drinking,” Zach muttered as he pulled out his phone. He shot off a quick text, presumably to let Toni know they might be a while. Steph had planned on a late breakfast at the diner where both Toni and Shell were working today. Hopefully, the women would keep her company and filled in on the timeline so she wouldn’t worry.

Jesus, there he went thinking like she was his ol’ lady. They’d fucked, multiple times throughout the night, but still, it was only fucking. Just because it had been the most intense fucking of his life and he wasn’t nearly ready to give that shit up, didn’t mean he owed her any explanations about him or his life.

Then why can’t you think of anything but her all day every day?

“Thanks, Lefty. We’re a little parched after our ride,” Copper said, all friendly-like as he climbed off his bike.

The trio followed Lefty into the building past Rifle boy, who looked like he’d love nothing more than to ram that gun up their collective asses. As they passed, Zach went out of his way to slam his shoulder into Rifle-boy, nearly knocking him to the ground.

“Well, shit, you okay there, buddy?” Maverick asked. He slung his arm across Zach’s shoulders. “Sorry about my friend here. His vision ain’t so good. Can’t see anything under five feet ten inches. What are you five-six? Five-seven?”

Rifle-boys nostrils flared, and he snarled but held his tongue. Whatever Lefty whispered to him must have been some good shit.

The warehouse was pretty sparse inside. A half-built bar lined the left wall and a card table with four folding chairs was the only piece of furniture in the place. The walls were cracked and bare, and the floor was covered in a combination of sawdust, leaves, and trash. Place was a dump.