Maverick (Hell's Handlers MC 2)

One of the men gathered her into their arms and headed for the exit. With her swirling head, she had the sensation of flying through the air. After exiting the building, the men walked her through a clearing.

At one point, a loud whoosh and a flash of heat had her looking back at the house. Colossal orange flames shot from the roof toward the starry sky.

Holy crap. She’d been kidding when she suggested burning the table. But the Hell’s Handlers weren’t messing around. There were multiple benefits to torching the place.

Revenge.

Eliminating all the evidence.

And sending a message to anyone who fucked with them.

They’d fuck back. Harder and stronger.

Stephanie shivered despite the heat wafting from the burning house.

An intense wave of dizziness washed through her once again, this time blurring her vision. She fought, tried to stay awake, but the pull to nothingness was too strong.

Gray danced around the edges of her vision. A little nap was all she needed. When she woke, she’d feel so much better.

And hopefully, the gray would leave her vision. Because there was no room for gray. It was nothing but an excuse for traveling down the wrong road.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“EXCUSE ME,” STEPHANIE said to the sternest, most pinched-faced nurse to ever exist. Three hours had passed since she’d been brought in, according to the nurse, and she was finally settled in a room.

Now she needed a phone. Pronto.

“What?” It was like she’d had Botox gone wrong, and the doctor had frozen the wrong muscles, immobilizing her frown. She hadn’t shown a single expression beyond a sourpuss all morning.

So much for bedside manner. This woman was as fuzzy and comforting as a porcupine.

“I’m sorry, is there a way I can make a phone call? My cell was taken when I was abducted and held for two days.” Stephanie sent her a sweet smile. Maybe it was a bit passive aggressive to play on her recent experience, but come on, something had to crack nurse Beverly’s frigid exterior.

But sob stories about being held hostage, injured, and nearly raped apparently weren’t hot enough to melt her ice. “Next to the bed. Local’s free. Long distance is billed to you. Nine first.” Even her flat tone conveyed dissatisfaction with life. She left, closing the door just shy of a slam.

Stephanie stared at the phone waiting on a bedside table.

On her left side, of course.

She’d cracked the end of her left radius, and the arm was in a removable splint, mummy wrapped, and elevated on a pile of pillows. The ER doc hadn’t wanted to cast it because they needed access to the deep gouges and open wounds struggling against the handcuffs had caused. Once the lacerations healed, a fiberglass cast would be put on the wrist for a few months.

Goodie. She couldn’t wait.

There was no way in hell she was going to call Nurse Crotchety back in to ask for a favor so, with a resigned sigh, Stephanie contorted her upper body, stretched her right arm, and reached for the phone. Her back and shoulders protested with sharp aches and pains, but she managed to grip the corded phone and lift it into the bed. Thankfully, no one was around to hear the grunts and groans the simple task wrung from her.

By the time she had the phone in the bed with her, she was sore, tired, and panting like she’d just gone a few rounds with a sexy man. Ha, that was a funny joke. It had been two years since she’d even been in the vicinity of a partially undressed man. And that was only because her friend dragged her to the beach.

When this was over, she needed to find a man.

Maverick’s face popped up in her mind, and she nearly laughed. An outlaw biker with more ink than a Bic factory, enough metal to be a lightning rod, and a panty-dropping smile was so far from what she needed. Even if he’d probably give it to her better than she’d ever had it. It was a non-issue anyway. She was short and skinny with an unimpressive rack. Not exactly the va-va-voom men typically hungered for.

Jesus, she was losing her mind. “Get yourself together, girl,” she mumbled as she dialed the well-memorized number to her superior.

Stephanie’s boss answered on the second ring. “Baccarella,” he barked into his end.

After clearing her throat, Stephanie said, “Sir, it’s Agent Little.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Baccarella’s voice exploded through the phone. “What the fuck happened? Where the fuck are you? Where the fuck is Agent Rey? You both missed check-in. Fuck! I’ve got the Knoxville SWAT team mobilizing as we speak. Shit! Fuck! The whole fucking Bureau is flipping their shit. We thought you were both dead.”

Stephanie gave him a moment to rant and rave. Special Agent in Charge Gordon Baccarella was well known for his impressive verbal tirades during times of high stress. He had an infamous flash-fire temper. It ignited in an instant, burned hot and intense, but died out just as fast.