Rocket (Hell's Handlers MC 5)

The woman was fine as fuck.

And she was out of her goddamned mind.

“Here you go, man,” the bartender said as he placed Rocket’s double of Jack in front of him. “You starting a tab?”

“Nah, just the one, thanks.” He dropped a twenty on the bar top, and waved the bartender away when he lifted a brow in an unspoken, need change?

One drink was all he’d have time for, if that. Chloe wouldn’t stick around long. God knew, after practically stalking her for months, Rocket had her routine down pat. And it was a disturbing fucking ritual.

For the first three months following the assault, Chloe rarely left the house. While concerning, her self-imposed house arrest wasn’t exactly surprising considering what had been done to her. Then, one night, out of the blue, she emerged looking like sex on a stick. She drove to this very bar, had one drink, picked up a polished and manicured gentleman, and drove to a fairly nice motel. The pair had disappeared into a room, and Chloe emerged an hour later almost to the second.

And so began a habit she engaged in every Friday and Saturday night.

Every week.

For the past two months.

The bars changed, the dresses changed, but the pattern never did.

One drink.

One guy.

One room.

One hour.

And Rocket, being the stupid fuck he was, followed her every single time.

He told himself it was to protect her. To make sure Lefty never came sniffing around again. In reality, it was the unsolved mystery of what the hell she was doing that drew him in like a fish on a hook. And the boner he got pretty much any time he laid eyes on her? Yeah, that had nothing to do with his stalker act.

Any one of the men she invited to the hotel room could hurt her in ways he’d describe as unimaginable, but unfortunately Chloe didn’t have to imagine. She knew exactly what the fuck could happen to an unprotected woman.

Which made this entire thing, including Rocket, crazy.

What the hell was she doing in there?

Drugs? Crying on their shoulders? Raging?

Surely, she wasn’t fucking them? Not after what she’d been through.

Drugs seemed the most logical answer. Self-medicating to chase away the demons she hadn’t been allowed to purge through therapy. But why snag a random guy? And she always left the hotel room looking as put together as when she went in. Not a hair out of place. Not a wobble in her step. She even drove home without swerving.

Drugs were seeming less and less likely.

Most nights, Rocket lurked in the shadows to avoid being spotted, but tonight, the overcrowded bar had him sitting much closer. In fact, he was on the barstool next to her, however her attention was fully trained on the man sitting to her opposite side. The suit had come on to her before Rocket made it through the door, and she’d never so much as glanced his way. Some snooze fest in a fucking Armani suit. Actually, most of the men in the bar, including Rocket, were dressed in professional attire. The place was hands down a martini and banker bar.

As were all the establishments Chloe visited. Swanky, post nine-to-five meet-up locations Rocket wouldn’t be caught dead in, if it weren’t for his newfound obsession. A whiskey swilling, music blaring, dive bar was much more his speed. But concessions had to be made if he wanted to continue stalking Miss Chloe. He’d have stuck out like a sore thumb in jeans and a leather cut. Not that he gave a shit. Fitting in with this crowd was dead last on Rocket’s priority list, but remaining incognito was at the top. She’d never seen his face, but a Handlers’ cut carried the risk of freaking her the fuck out.

“Excuse me if I’m overstepping, but that dress makes your eyes look like two sparkling emeralds,” the bro on Chloe’s left crooned.

Rocket couldn’t keep his eyes from rolling skyward. Was that the shit women in these snazzy joints wanted to hear? Sure, the guy’s description might be dead on, but, shit, who spoke like that? In his experience, women preferred a dirty mouth working hard between their legs to a sweet one whispering in their ear. Talk was cheap, but oral? Yeah, that was the shit.

“Thank you,” Chloe responded, her soft voice stroking over Rocket’s dick.

No doubt about it, he was a sick fuck. No matter how many times he jerked off before tailing Chloe, or how many lectures he gave his damn cock, the prick wouldn’t lie limp in her presence. No, it filled to capacity just from the sight of her. Now that he was close enough to smell and hear her? He was in some serious damn discomfort.

A hard cock was probably the last thing Chloe wanted anywhere near her. A mere five months ago she’d been raped. By three vicious men. Rocket gripped the glass in his hand to a near shattering point. His hands ached to squeeze the life out of Lefty. The MC was working hard on finding him, but it’d proven more difficult than they’d anticipated.