Screw (Hell's Handlers MC 8)

Screw snorted. If they hadn’t all picked up on the fact their prez was fucking his ol’ lady in his office before, the quick ’n dirty hair fix was a dead giveaway. On a normal night, Screw would have been the first one in there with a quip about joining in or position recommendations. Especially since Mav was away on an impromptu honeymoon. But tonight, he just couldn’t conjure enough energy to give a shit about shocking them with a crude joke.

“Uh, I forgot to tell you Jazz was coming by,” Shell said, face cherry red.

Jazz stepped forward. “Yeah, I need to talk to you about something, Copper.”

If he’d been a dog, this was where Screw’s ears would have perked up. Over the past few months, he’d become somewhat of a Jazz expert as far as her mannerisms, moods, and emotions. Came from staring at her so goddamn much. He pretty much had each of her facial expressions nailed down.

All except her O face, of course.

Something in the tone of her voice had him and from the looks of his brothers, most of the gang going on high alert.

“This a conversation for my ears only?” Copper asked as he rubbed thick fingers through his beard.

“Uh, no,” Jazz said with a shake of her head. “I mean, I’m not sure you’ll want everyone to hear it, but it’s something the club needs to know. It’s important.”

Basically, club shit that wasn’t for the motherfucker’s ears.

With a muttered, “Fuck,” Copper waved Jazz his way. “Come on into the chapel. I’ll have the guys join us if you don’t mind.”

The way her eyes bugged at the invitation into the chapel should have had Screw laughing, but his stomach had already begun to cramp with anticipation of what he just knew was about to be bad news. Five minutes into being the enforcer, hell, they hadn’t even gotten him his patch yet, and his gut was screaming. He was about to be tested.

As the ol’ ladies climbed off their men’s laps and gathered together at the bar, Jazz whispered something in Gumby’s ear. He shook his head and spoke back to her, deep grooves forming between his eyes as he frowned. Screw had the strangest urge to press his lips to that very spot.

Shit, his head was fucked tonight.

Jazz shook her head, also frowning, then started to turn, but Gumby grabbed her and hauled her back.

She pushed against his stomach and Screw jumped to his feet.

Did she not want the fucker’s hands on her?

Before he had a chance to barrel that way, Gumby’s gaze met his. A fuck-you smirk tilted his lips exactly one second before those goddammed things landed on Jazz’s. She allowed it for a second, but quickly pulled her head back with a shake. When she turned this time, her eyes immediately landed on Screw and the guilt was clear.

Interesting.

She ducked her head and preceded him into the chapel.

Any other time, Screw would have taken a seat next to Jazz and flirted her ears off. Tonight, with the sour taste in his mouth and too much shit bouncing around in his head, he found himself not in the mood to banter with her for the first time since he’d met her. So instead of sitting at her side, he chose a spot opposite her. Not only would he not have to smell the motherfucker on her, but he had a clear view of every emotion that crossed her face.

Like now, with her rigid shoulders and wringing hands, she was nervous as fuck.

Screw sighed. “Hey,” he said across the table.

Her head snapped in his direction.

“Take a breath and sit. It’s just us.”

As though he’d given her permission to finally exhale, air whooshed out of her lungs. Then she nodded and slid into the seat.

“All right, Jazzy,” Copper said, keeping his tone light and friendly. Though rough, gruff, and often impatient, Copper was a damn good leader who know how to put people at ease when necessary. “What’s up?”

Which was now for sure.

“All right.” She drew in a breath as though fortifying her courage. “About half an hour ago we were getting gas—”

The word we hit him like sandpaper scraping across his skin, but he bit back the caustic and snarky comment on the tip of his tongue.

“—I went inside to grab coffee and while I was there, a group of bikers came in. They were wearing Chrome Disciples jackets.”

“Fuuuck,” Zach muttered, as he shoved a hand through his hair.

“Motherfucking shit,” Jigsaw murmured.

Then there was Rocket, who in rare outburst slammed his palm against the table as he bit out a curse.

Copper lifted a hand, effectively ending the eruptions. “As much as it sucks,” he said, “none of this is a surprise. We knew they’d be back and to be honest, I’m surprised they stayed away this long.”