Maverick (Hell's Handlers MC 2)

One thing was clear: Maverick didn’t like to be seen as weak or lesser in any way.

“Zach, help Stephanie,” Toni yelled. “This beast is too high for her to be climbing in when she’s all banged up.”

“I can do—"

“Babe”—Zach rolled his eyes at Toni—“quit handing out orders, or I’m gonna give you a few orders when we get home.”

Stephanie bit her top lip to keep from giggling.

“Not a deterrent, big guy,” Toni said.

God, this group was hilarious. Stephanie loved hang—

Criminals, criminals, criminals.

“All right, darlin’, let’s do this.” Zach helped her to stand then slid one arm around her waist and the other under her legs. She let out a squeak of surprise when her feet lifted off the ground.

“My legs are fine,” she said as he deposited her into the car. Maverick was staring at Zach like he wanted to strangle his friend. Zach just smirked and did a piss-poor job of suppressing a chuckle.

“Just following my woman’s orders,” he said. “Comfy?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Thank you. Both of you. You’ve been through some trauma yourself, Toni. You should be resting.”

“Nah, staying busy keeps my mind off things,” Toni replied.

With a smile, Zach kissed the top of her head like she was his little sister.

Some kind of strange growl came from Maverick and had Zach cracking up. Whatever the hell that was about, she had no idea.

“All right, let’s rock and roll,” Zach said, climbing behind the wheel.

“Don’t think these two will be rocking or rolling for a while,” Toni said.

Stephanie peeked at Maverick. His eyes were closed, and his head rested against the back of the leather seat. The poor guy’s bruised face and rigid body spoke at how uncomfortable he was. Yet he hadn’t uttered one word of complaint. In fact, he’d spent the majority of the past two days in her room, entertaining her, cheering her up, keeping her mind off her own discomfort.

A week ago, if someone had asked her to describe her ideal man, she’d have said athletic, light hair, and on the muscular side. No ink. No piercings. She wouldn’t have described a man who looked, behaved, or lived in a way that even resembled Maverick.

Except for one thing.

She wanted a man who cared for her deeply and wasn’t afraid to let others see it. Even if it wasn’t a romance between them, Maverick had been more than willing to let anyone who came within a mile of her know he had her firmly under his wing and protection.

Kind of a nice feeling.

And at that moment, beat up and sitting in that SUV, if someone had asked what kind of man she was attracted to, she’d have said an alpha bad boy, covered in ink, with a snarky, flirty personality.

Why the hell did life have to put him in her path? There was nothing there but the potential for pain.

And possibly prison time.

“WHERE IS HE?” Maverick asked the moment his ass hit the unforgiving metal chair. He stared straight into his president’s eyes. Sure, his body was busted to all hell, but he wasn’t weak. Not by a long shot, and he refused to be treated as such.

The club had King in their custody, and Maverick wanted a piece of the asshole. Hell, he wanted the whole thing if Copper would allow it. But Copper would want his own pound of flesh. King killed Special K, one of the prospects about to be patched in. In fact, Special K was recruited by Copper himself. Not something that happened too often. So there was no way Maverick would have free reign to let his fury out on King, but he’d certainly get to play a bit.

“He’s in The Box,” Copper said, referring to a basement room the club used for sensitive situations like this. “You sure you’re up for this now? We can keep him on ice for a few more days until you’re feeling stronger.”

Blood boiled in Maverick’s veins, and he leveled Copper with a stare so searing he was pretty sure his club brothers wouldn’t have believed him capable.

A chuckle came from next to Copper. “Okay, then,” Viper, the VP, said. “Looks like the boy wants some revenge.”

The boy. What bullshit. Mav was a thirty-eight-year-old man. Not a fucking boy. And while Viper didn’t mean it—hell, he called anyone under fifty a boy—it still grated. Because Mav had spent his entire youth being viewed as weak, lesser, inadequate. All because he wasn’t a mountain of muscle like his old man.

Next to him, Zach shifted. “Look, it’s Mav’s body. He wants to risk fucking it up further, who the hell are we to stop him?”

Zach was a good friend and an even better brother. Always had Mav’s back.

“I’m good, Copper. Promise. Just need to dish out some MC justice.”

The smile on Copper’s face was hidden by his bushy red beard. The thing was getting downright scraggly. Not that anyone in their right mind would tell the prez he needed a trim. Not anyone but Shell, the spitfire who’d harbored a deep and unrequited love for Copper for the past decade.