Thunder (Hell's Handlers MC #10) - Lilly Atlas Page 0,37

nearly a year.

Jazz wandered up behind Shell and circled her arm around her friend, patting her baby bump.

Two on one, just what he fucking needed.

“I don’t know, Shell, I think you should give him her address,” Jazz said with a slightly evil grin. She rested her chin on Shell’s shoulder.

“Thank you.” He pointed to Jazz. “You should listen to your sister.”

The two women shared a look that made no fucking sense to him, then Jazz snickered. “I’ll text it to you.” Then she pulled out her phone, and ten seconds later, his vibrated against his ass.

“Thank you,” he said as he threw his hands in the air and glared at Shell. “That so hard?”

Shell’s eyes narrowed, so he shut the fuck up before she got pissed, and he ended up with a visit from her unhappy ol’ man—and his prez.

“Thunder,” Jazz called as he strode toward the door.

Christ, what now? Hands on his hips, he turned back around.

“Have fun.” She didn’t even try to keep the obnoxious smirk off her face.

“Uhh, thanks?” What the hell did they know that he didn’t? Did she live in some roach-infested one-room shack or some shit?

He shivered.

Fuck, she better not.

He’d had enough of that shit growing up.

After a long shift at the gym, his GPS led him out to the middle of fucking nowhere, partway up the mountains, looking at two small houses side by side without any other nearby neighbors. From the outside, the place was plain-as-fuck brown with no landscaping, tan doors, and a large rectangular window on each side of the door.

Far as he could tell, it looked like a normal fucking place to live, if a little underwhelming.

“Whatever,” he mumbled to an imaginary Jazz as he climbed off his bike. He strode to the door with a large brass hook hanging crookedly from a nail and gave a firm knock.

Not ten seconds later, a deep voice called out, “Hold it right there, missy. What’s the rule about opening the door?”

He frowned and missed the answer as he looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, the mailbox said nine-zero-six-three; same number Jazz had texted. Maybe she got it wrong?

The door opened, and a very tall, relatively muscular guy who looked like he couldn’t have been more than twenty filled the space. Thunder’s eyes immediately went to the toddler, balanced on the giant’s hip. She had none of the same coloring as Makenna with blonde hair and pale skin, but her eyes were the exact same shade of blue. Same face shape, too.

His stomach dropped.

Was this her ol’ man? The one who called Saturday night?

“Kristy lives in the other house,” the guy said, as he began to back up and shut the door.

“Uh, wait.” Thunder stuck his boot out, keeping the door from closing in his face.

“I’m looking for Makenna.” He spoke the words to the guy but couldn’t take his eyes off the little girl who looked so much like a young, blond Mak.

“Who the fuck are you?” the guy asked, voice now full of menace.

Thunder shifted his gaze. “Not your concern.” Well, technically, it was his concern if Mak was his ol’ lady. Shit. Was she shacked up with some barely out of his teens kid? And, fuck, did she have a kid?

The guy’s eyes narrowed to displeased slits, but instead of slamming the door in Thunder’s face like he probably wanted, he whispered in the little girl’s ear. After she nodded with more enthusiasm than Thunder had ever shown for anything in his life, the guy set her down, and she ran off screaming, “Mommy! The man is here for you!”

Mommy?

Blood rushed blood from his face. His brain screamed at him to turn and book it the fuck outta there, but his feet stayed rooted to the ground. For some sick reason, he needed to lay eyes on her.

Mak was a goddammed mother, and she lived with a man who looked ready to rip Thunder’s nuts off.

And he was there to apologize for acting like an ass after a hot and heavy makeout session. How the fuck was he gonna get out of this one?

No wonder Shell hesitated to share the address.

And damn Jazz for taking sick pleasure in his humiliation.

And damn him for thinking she was different than the cheating housewives who paid for his time.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“DAMMIT,” MAK MUTTERED as she frowned down at her sauce-stained T-shirt.

She wiped the blotch, smudging it instead of making the situation better, then huffed out a “Whatever,” before returning her attention to the