Screw (Hell's Handlers MC 8)

The scars…Christ, the scars. So fucking many of them. He hadn’t been lying, and didn’t think Gumby had either; the scars didn’t detract from how much he wanted her. Wanted to touch her, taste her, fuck her silly. But they fired a rage in his gut like never before. Those marks were a constant physical reminder that she’d suffered unimaginable pain at the hand of someone who should have loved her and wanted to protect her.

Paul would pay for what he did to Jazz. Screw vowed that down to the very core of his being. Perhaps he should be more sensitive to the man’s unstable mental state, and maybe empathy would come later, but right then with Jazz’s dried tears on his skin, he wanted nothing more than to fuck the guy up in the worst way.

Running a hand down his face, he glanced to his left where Jazz lay, curled up on her side, facing him. Her features had relaxed in sleep, giving her a peaceful appearance.

In a matter of weeks his life had gone away from carefree hookups—and a fuckton of them—easy living in the MC, and little responsibility over heavy shit he wasn’t prepared to handle. Keeping his head in the game and not falling back on flippant habits sucked, but now he had serious shit in his life he couldn’t avoid. Jazz, Gumby, his position as enforcer, the Chrome Disciples. From one extreme to the other.

Would he drown under the weight of responsibility? Would he fail in a spectacular way, letting down everyone important in his life?

Would someone suffer because of his inadequacies?

Fuck, one issue at a time.

The usual urge to run from the bed hadn’t hit him yet. In fact, all he wanted was to wrap his arms around Jazz and continue sleeping until morning. A glance at the clock on a nightstand adjacent to the bed let him know it was only eight in the evening. They’d slept for quite a few hours, but there were still many more until the sun came up again.

Enough to wake his bedmates for a real threesome.

With a sigh, he forced himself to roll to his back. He should leave. It’s what they’d both expect of him, so there shouldn’t be any hard feelings. He peeled himself off the bed. After taking a few seconds to convince himself this was the right decision, he rose.

Jazz shifted and murmured in her sleep, which had him smiling. As he turned to get one final look at her soft and sated form, he frowned.

They were the only two in the bed.

Where had Gumby gone?

And when had he left?

Screw padded out of the room and down the hallway. A quick peek in the empty guest room had his frown deepening. Had Gumby left the house?

Would he do that? Seemed like quite the dick move for a guy so interested in Jazz.

Hello pot, may I introduce you to my pal, kettle?

Fuck.

Just as he was about to search for his boots, movement from the front porch caught his eyes. Was someone sitting on the loveseat? What the fuck? It couldn’t be more than forty degrees outside.

Boots abandoned, he shoved the front door open and stepped outside onto the lit porch. Immediately, bitter cold assaulted his uncovered arms and the freezing concrete beneath his bare toes had him wanting to hop around on alternating feet.

Gumby sat on Jazz’s whicker loveseat with a Sherpa blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His hair stuck up all over the place from sleep and, like Screw, he wore what he’d fallen asleep in, jeans and a Henley. The glasses that gave him such a Clark Kent look were absent. He didn’t even flinch as Screw came outside, instead sat staring into distance, lost in his head.

“Hey, man,” Screw said, rubbing his chilled arms. “Jesus, it’s colder than Elsa’s twat out here.”

“Who?” Gumby asked not taking his attention away from whatever his gaze had latched onto.

“Elsa.” Damn, thirty seconds was too long to be out dressed as he was. With the state Gumby appeared to be in, sharing the blanket was probably out of the question.

“Yeah, I heard you. Who the fuck is Elsa?” He shifted, pulling the fabric tighter around his shapely shoulders.

Really? Was there a person alive who didn’t know Elsa? “You know, the queen from Frozen. Has that ice power and shit.”

“Frozen?” Gumby finally turned toward him, a ghost of a smile tilting his lips.

Mission accomplished.

“As in the animated movie?”

Screw shuffled closer, resting his back on a column opposite Gumby’s chair. “That’s the one. Can’t believe it took you this long to catch on.”

Gumby snorted. “Sorry I’m not up on my Disney princesses.”

With a laugh, Screw said, “You will be. Give Beth another week and you’ll know all their names, ages, birthdays, cup sizes—”

“Cup sizes?” Gumby said with a raised eyebrow.