Screw (Hell's Handlers MC 8)

Out of character, Screw remained silent and watchful on the couch next to Jazz.

She stood, following his path across the room. “Gumby, I promise you, it wasn’t one of your brothers. No one associated with the club hurt me. They would never have cu—” She caught herself with a shake of her head. “They’d never have hurt me.”

The relief at her declaration did nothing to mitigate the ache in his chest. Each heavy thrum of his heart felt like a hammer hitting his ribs. They stared at each other until Screw finally had the balls to ask what Gumby couldn’t.

“Jazz, were you…” He cleared his throat. “Were you raped?”

She turned her sad eyes on Screw. “No,” she said, though Gumby didn’t think either of them believed her. It wasn’t the first time she denied the claim, but sexual assault seemed the most obvious reason Jazz would be terrified to reveal her body, especially in the presence of men. It’d also explain why she hadn’t pursued anything with Screw, Gumby, or any other man since coming to Townsend.

Yeah, he’d asked around.

With a resigned sigh, her shoulders slumped, and she walked back to the couch, gesturing to the cushions. “Please come sit,” she said. “I can tell you don’t believe me. I’ll tell you what happened.”

He did as she asked, taking a seat beside Screw. Though their bodies weren’t touching, in fact a good foot separated them, something about having the other man nearby provided a sense of comfort. Jazz’s story was going to be brutal; he knew it in his bones. But having someone else experience the devastation alongside him eased his dread.

Strength in numbers.

Jazz didn’t return to the couch. She didn’t sit at all. She almost appeared lost in her head as she began to pace the length of her small den, hands wringing.

Pressure against the side of his boot had Gumby glancing down. Screw’s foot rested right against his own, having crossed over into his personal space. Gumby glanced at the other man who watched Jazz like a hawk. Even though Screw made no acknowledgment, Gumby knew the move was an intentional lending of physical support. And he appreciated it so much more than he could say. Something shifted in him, something more than just the sexual desire he felt for Screw. He was drawn to the other biker in a way he’d never allowed himself to be drawn to another man. In fact, the only experience he could compare it to, was the pull he felt to Jazz.

Unacceptable.

He couldn’t be drawn to a man in such a way. Had to be the high emotions flying around the room. Regardless, the confusing reaction was something to be analyzed later. Not now. Now they both needed to focus on Jazz. And if he needed Screw’s presence to get through her tale, so be it.

A worry for another time.

“I’m not sure where to start,” she said without glancing their way.

Gumby shared a look with Screw. The other man sat perched at the edge of the couch, bouncing one knee and gnawing his lower lip. From what he’d gathered, Screw didn’t do serious often. In Gumby’s experience, those kinds of people were often using jokes and teasing to deflect, to keep from feeling deep emotions. Here and now, the man was denying his nature. Allowing Jazz to reach in and wound his insides with what would no doubt be an agonizing story.

If he could protect Screw from the pain, he would, but the man deserved to know as much as Gumby did. So he reached out and placed a hand on Screw’s arm. Screw jumped, then seemed to get the message. He scooted back, settling against the cushions of the couch though his leg still twitched.

“Start where you feel comfortable,” Gumby said.

She snorted and it was good to hear a little spunk from her. Glancing their way, she said, “Well, I’ll start a little way back since Screw doesn’t know much about my history.”

“Start anywhere, I’ll keep up,” Screw said.

“Okay, well, Gumby knows all this, but my dad passed when I was really young. A little over three. My mom didn’t remarry until I was seven.”

She was right, he already knew all this, but the refresher helped and Screw nodded along, riveted to every word.

“My stepfather was all right. A bit of an ass, but fine, I guess.” She shrugged.

The guy was an ass. A sanitation worker for the town of Crystal Rock, he’d grown bitter with his station in life, becoming a general douche.

“He had a son, Paul…” Her gaze drifted before focusing back on them. “He’s ten years older than I am. P-Paul never lived with us in the house, at least not officially. He’d pop up every now and again, stay for a while, then disappear. As a kid, I always thought he was odd, but hadn’t spent enough time with him to really get a handle on it. My mom complained to my dad that Paul did drugs and would steal from the medicine cabinet or her purse when he was around, but my stepdad always denied it. Paul could do no wrong in his eyes. Though looking back on it now, I think he may have been partly afraid of his son.” She bit her lower lip as she shook her head, probably lost in memories.