Screw (Hell's Handlers MC 8)

“Who the fuck are you?” Screw asked, his voice growing hostile.

She needed to do something before he went on the offensive.

Placing a hand on the center of Screw’s back, right over the Hell’s Handler’s insignia on his cut, she said, “It’s okay, Screw. This is Gumby. I know him from when I lived in Arizona.” On legs that felt like weak twigs, she stepped around Screw and in full view of Gumby.

He looked good. Handsome. Not wearing a cut, which wasn’t surprising since he was in another MC’s territory, he still looked like a cross between a badass and a bookworm. Black rimmed Clark Kent glasses sat on the bridge of his nose giving him the studious look she’d always loved. Such a contrast between the leather jacket, heavy biker boots, torn jeans, and mop of sandy hair. At some point over the last year, he’d filled out or maybe bulked up, as he didn’t look quite as rubbery as his name would suggest. Gumby would never be brawny like Screw, but he looked damn good with those long, lean muscles.

Neither said anything, both taking in the changes to each other’s appearance. No doubt Gumby was wondering why she wore long sleeves and pants when he’d been so used to her in edgy little tops and short skirts.

Finally, after what felt like hours of silent staring, Screw’d had enough. “Someone gonna tell me what the fuck is going on here?”

Gumby’s gaze shifted to Screw, then back to her. This time, his focus stayed on her face.

And his eyes narrowed. “You fucking hit her?” he asked in a voice so deadly Jazz gasped.

“What? Gumby, n—”

Gumby charged.

Screw nudged her aside and shot forward toward a raging Gumby.

“Guys! Stop! No!” Jazz yelled.

Gumby’s back hit the wall with a bone-crushing thud, but it didn’t seem to faze him. He wasn’t as brawny as Screw, but he’d been boxing for years. He brought a sharp elbow up, knocking Screw’s chin. Screw’s head flew back with a grunt, giving Gumby the second he needed to free himself. Just as he was about to reverse their positions and attack Screw, Jazz dove between them.

“Stop it!” she screamed. Thank God the music was louder than a stadium concert and this time her drama didn’t draw a crowd. Twice in one night? What the hell were they putting in the booze around here?

Standing between the two huffing and snarling bulls, Jazz said, “That’s enough.” One hand rested on each man’s chest and she couldn’t help but notice the difference in thickness of the muscles beneath her palms. Screw’s were large, bulky, the kind that could hold a girl still while he pounded her into oblivion while Gumby’s were leaner, ropy, the kind that spoke to stamina and extended bouts of bone-melting passion.

Jesus, what the hell was wrong with her?

“Gumby,” she said, turning her back on Screw. “He did not do this to me. Some drunk asshole out there was waving his arms around like an idiot and accidentally knocked me upside the head.”

She let that process for a moment, until the set of Gumby’s shoulders relaxed, and he nodded once. He could always be counted on to be reasonable, thank God.

Though she wanted to run to her car, drive away, and bury her head for the rest of the night, she had to face this. Had to face Gumby and find out why he was there. All of a sudden, visions of death and destruction bombarded her mind. Oh, God, had he tracked her down to tell her some horrible news? Bile rose halfway up her esophagus.

“Screw,” she said, shifting her attention to the man who had her head fucked up, down and back again. “I’ve known Gumby for years. Can you please give me a few minutes to speak with him alone?”

“No fucking way. You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.”

Those words should not have sent a thrill through her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THIRTY MINUTES AFTER he walked into another MC’s clubhouse and found Jazz with some fucker’s hands all over her, and a bruise on her cheek, he was seated in a booth at a closed diner, pretending he wanted the piping hot coffee she’d made. What he really wanted was to smack the smirk off the douche bag with his arm resting on the back of the booth behind Jazz.

Though it’d be immensely satisfying, Jazz probably wouldn’t appreciate him bloodying her man’s lips. Especially since they looked so soft and full. They’d stretch to make a fucking perfect O shape as he slid…

Oh, fuck.

No.

Not no; hell-fucking-no-way-on-this-mother-fucking-earth.

Gumby may give in to that side of himself on occasion. Usually in dark corners of some seedy club, but he refused to feel even an ounce of attraction toward this man.

This smug fucker clearly enjoying his advantage.

After a few minutes of an intense stare down with the meathead, Jazz broke Gumby’s eye battle with the other biker by looking up from her coffee with a sigh.