Maverick (Hell's Handlers MC 2)

But even that made him who he was. A little bad, a little naughty. A little forbidden. And hella sexy.

Stephanie was so lost in thought she hadn’t noticed the woman hovering at the edge of the woods in a shimmery metallic dress with a plunging neckline that showed off everything but her nipples. It was a mini dress, but that didn’t prevent it from having a slit that went so high, it was obvious she wasn’t wearing panties.

She had to be freezing her ass off.

Whatever she had to say, it certainly wasn’t going to be an apology or a welcome to the club speech, that was for sure. Steph had glimpsed her around the clubhouse a time or two over the past few days and, though she stayed away, she’d shot death glares at both her and Maverick.

“What do you want, Carli?” she asked as she stopped about two feet away from the woman. Far enough that she couldn’t get bitch slapped but close enough to notice that there were indeed goosebumps all over the crazy woman’s skin.

“Heard you on the phone,” she said with a smirk.

Stephanie’s heart skipped a beat. This stupid club whore could ruin everything. Copper would order her death if they found out she was FBI. And now her fate rested in the hands of a jealous Honey. Sweat broke out along her hairline despite the chilly air.

“And? I have a life, Carli. And people in my life that I like to speak to. Sorry if that’s a problem for you.” She put her hands on her hips and tried to portray a don’t-give-a-shit attitude.

Carli tossed back her head and laughed. “What, are you married? Got a boyfriend back home who thinks you’re on a little work trip while you came here to get some biker dick?”

Stephanie’s knees went weak with relief. She could have grabbed the stupid woman and kissed her. That’s what Carli thought this was? She hadn’t listened very carefully if she thought Steph was fucking Baccarella. Just the notion of it made her want to hurl. “Look, Carli, I’m not about to get into a catfight with you, no matter what bullshit you vomit at me. So just get out of my way, stay out of my business, and keep the fuck away from Maverick.” As she walked past Carli, she slammed into her, and although she was a good three inches shorter, even more if you counted Carli’s stilettos, she managed to make the other woman stumble.

Okay, maybe she was up for a catfight. Just a small, teensy one.

“See you at the party tonight, bitch,” Carli called to her back. “It will be fun to tell Maverick he’s getting someone’s sloppy seconds.”

Don’t take the bait. Don’t take the bait.

“What do they call it when you’ve been fucked by every guy in the club? Sloppy twentieths just doesn’t sound right.”

Whoops. She took the bait. Really not wanting to have her hair pulled and face scratched, Stephanie picked up her pace until she was practically jogging toward the clubhouse. She couldn’t resist one peek over her shoulder. Carli stood at the edge of the woods, hands on her hips, in that ridiculous excuse for a dress. Her eyes were narrowed and Stephanie could practically see the venom dripping from her fangs.

When she reached the clubhouse, she ran around the side of the building and bent forward, propping her hands on her knees. Her breath came in quick gasps, not from the jog, but from the close call. She had to be more careful. Not all the Honeys were as dumb as Carli. And the Handlers themselves certainly weren’t fools. If someone else had tracked her, she’d be halfway to a grave right now.

Too close.

Hopefully, Carli would keep her trap closed, but just in case, Stephanie needed to come up with a story for Maverick.

About why she was out in the woods.

Talking on the phone.

To a man.

Piece of cake.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“CONGRATS, BROTHER,” MAVERICK said, slapping Screw on the back.

Screw smiled, though he looked a little green and halfway to shitfaced. “Thanks, Mav. Jesus fuck, that shit hurt. I don’t know how you survived—oh fuck. Shit. I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Even though his insides clenched and his arm felt like it was burning all over again, Mav waved him off. He wasn’t about to ruin Screw’s big night over a thoughtless comment made after the guy downed a shit ton of moonshine. “No worries, brother. It was fucking rough, I can tell you that much.” And even worse was the pain of seeing a blank forearm every day. I’ll walk you in. Get your shirt on, get some more booze in you, and find you some pussy.”

“Thanks,” Screw said. “Might make me a pussy to say this, but I’m feeling like a fucking baby horse with wobbly legs.”