Screw (Hell's Handlers MC 8)

PROLOGUE

GUMBY – 1997, ARIZONA

“The fuck you doin’ boy?” Will’s dad demanded a second before his meaty palm smacked against the back of Will’s head. The soda that had been an inch from his lips sloshed over the sides of the cup, sending a spray of sugary liquid all over the paperback in his lap. “Thirteen-year-old boy at a goddammed football game and he’s fucking reading.” His father shook his head, clearly disgusted.

Nothing new there.

“It’s homework, Dad. I’ve got a test on the first three chapters Monday morning.” Why did he bother explaining?

“Pay some fucking attention. Maybe you’ll learn how to start acting like a fucking man.” His father belched as though backing up the statement with action. As though the putrid, beer-tinged burp somehow set him a level above the rest of the men in the stands.

Speaking of…

As Will turned the novel over on his lap, careful to keep the wet pages flat, he did a quick scan of the crowd. Sure enough, more than a few disapproving glances and whispers were directed his and his father’s way.

Nothing new there, either.

Will’s family was trash, plain and simple. Last year, when the school district re-zoned during the summer months, he went from living on the wrong side of the tracks and going to a crappy public school to still living on the wrong side of the tracks but now attending a public school across town.

Where the rich kids went.

The middle school he now attended was chock full of the snobbiest kids he’d ever met. Kids who were dropped off by Lamborghinis and Ferraris. Kids who wore jeans that cost more than his entire family’s monthly food budget.

His father fucking loved it. Felt the fact his rundown two-bedroom shack somehow ended up in a new school district meant his status in life had elevated.

What a joke.

His dad still got up at four every morning to make it to the chicken factory by five where he worked a line, inspecting the packaging of the birds. He earned himself a few pennies above minimum wage. By two in the afternoon, he was home with his flabby ass planted in his fraying recliner where he remained until the six to ten beers he downed each evening finally put him to sleep.

Oh, yeah, that was a man Will wanted to be like. Fuck if he’d allow himself to end up like that. If reading and getting good grades got him a better life than his old man, he’d read every fucking chance he could get.

“You paying attention, boy?” his dad asked, gaze on the field.

No. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. You should be out there playing instead of always fucking reading.” His dad lifted the glass Snapple bottle he’d set between his feet and spit into it, adding to the muddy liquid already half filling the bottle.

Will’s stomach turned as it always did and he gazed at the field. Look at that, all it took was a nasty bottle full of tobacco spit to make him interested in watching the game.

Football, sports in general, just weren’t his thing. Never had been. He was a book worm, much more interested in learning the way things worked than running around outside. Lately, he’d been gobbling up books on car engines. Why couldn’t his father praise him for that? Didn’t men like cars?

“You’re tall enough to play this shit,” his dad went on as though Will was actually engaged in this conversation. “Or maybe basketball. Gonna be really fucking tall, like me.”

God, he hated any kind of similarity between them, even height.

His dad lifted one of Will’s arms and shook it. “Too bad these fucking things are all gangly and limp.” He snorted—a sound full of revulsion. “Long fucking arms and legs without any muscle. Guess you could be the fucking kicker.”

“Stop it,” Will said, yanking his arm free. His gaze caught one of a woman sitting a row down and a few people over. She wasn’t even pretending to hide her frown as she observed and probably listened to the interaction between Will and his father.

As the game clock ticked down way too slowly, he let his mind wander. At thirteen, he still had years of living with his father before he could get out of the house. When he was younger, he’d had dreams of leaving their shitty dust trap of an Arizona town and heading to a prestigious university. Leaving this life behind and making something of himself.

Recently, he’d read this account of a man who bought a motorcycle and traveled across the country, settling wherever he felt a connection. Sounded amazing. Perfect really. To be that free. He hadn’t been able to get the idea out of his mind.

College probably wasn’t a realistic goal. So far, he made good grades, but probably not good enough to get a full ride anywhere. And his family didn’t have two pennies to rub together. Even if they did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be given to him to use on an education. Maybe it was time to change his goals. To be realistic about what his life would be.