Screw (Hell's Handlers MC 8)

Jeremy’s weak struggles were no match for Screw’s strength—thank you, Zach for owning a gym—and he easily muscled the gasping man away from the crowd and down a darkened hallway.

Closed doors lined the hall, at least three on each side.

One of those fuckers needed to be unlocked for this makeshift plan to work. Screw tried the first door cursing under his breath as the knob jiggled but didn’t turn.

“Fuck you,” Jeremy managed to rasp out when Screw’s hold loosened for a fraction of a second. The man grew heavier in his arms as he no doubt tired from thrashing around. Adrenalin surged through Screw’s blood, pumping in time with the rapid beat of the music.

He needed to get this show on the road, find Gumby, and get the fuck outta there.

No luck with the next door, either. Shit, time was running out.

Fuck it.

Screw towed a thrashing Jeremy to the end of the hallway. He’d hoped to find something to tie the man up with, but didn’t have time to check all the doors. Tightening his chokehold on Jeremy’s throat, he said, “You’re the only one who knows I’m here. That means if the CDMC finds out, we’ll know you ran your fat fucking mouth. And we’ll come for you. Good thing I know where you live.”

Jeremy thrashed and clawed at Screw’s arm, scraping the top layer of skin in a move he didn’t even feel. Adrenalin had taken over, driving him forward with the single need to get the fuck out of the clubhouse. All of a sudden, the grip on his forearm slackened and Jeremy went completely limp in his arms. Screw lowered him to the floor then booked it back into the bar.

This solution would buy a few minutes at best. If Jeremy were smart, he’d listen and keep his yapper shut, but they couldn’t count on it. He and Gumby needed to act as though the entire club would be on their asses in a matter of seconds.

He spotted Gumby the second he entered the bar, back at the pool table with the skanks, but his gaze scanned the room, probably seeking out Screw.

Moving as fast as he dared without drawing unwanted attention, Screw zigzagged through the mess of gyrating bodies while AC/DC crooned about being shook all night long.

When he reached Gumby after what felt like hours, the perceptive guy immediately straightened.

“Hey,” Screw said to one of the women.

“Well, hey there, sexy.” She sauntered to him, hips and tits swaying to entice his focus, but his attention remained on Gumby. “Nice dress,” he said of the fire-engine-red scrap of material she wore. “Think my friend, Jazz, has the same one.”

“Thank you, bab—Hey! Where’re ya goin’?”

Gumby hadn’t missed a beat. Without a word of goodbye, he turned and started for the exit at a rapid clip with Screw hot on his heels. “How much time we got?” he muttered.

“Sixty seconds, max.” Screw glanced over his shoulder. So far so good. No horde of angry Disciples barreling down on them.

“Fuck.”

“Yep.”

They reached the exit in no time, rushing through the door despite Squirt spotting them and calling out. As predicted, Moose no longer served as bouncer.

“The fuck happened?” Gumby asked as they kicked up into a sprint.

“Jazz’s fucking neighbor was there, sucking up to the club.”

“Jeremy? The one who wants in her pants?”

“That’s the one.”

When they were a stone’s throw from Screw’s truck, the door to the clubhouse flew open so hard it slammed against the exterior wall making both men jump.

“There they are!” Crank shouted right before a bullet whizzed past Gumby’s head.

“Shit! Go, go, go!” Screw shouted, as he jerked the truck door open. Gumby did the same, diving into the driver’s seat. He had the engine fired and was peeling out of the spot before either door had been closed.

“They chasing?” Gumby asked as he jammed his foot on the gas and shot toward the gate.

Screw looked through his side mirror in time to see at least five Disciples running for vehicles. “Fuck. They are.” Jeremy stood in the open door leading to the clubhouse, hands on his hips. He was a dead fucking man.

Just as Gumby began to turn onto the road, Squirt shoved past Jeremy, bursting outside. Crank, who still stood in the parking lot, drew his pistol and shot the prospect dead center between the eyes.

Just that fast, Squirt’s life came to a violent end and the Handlers problems grew tenfold. If Crank was willing to murder his own prospect in such a way, what would he do to an enemy MC?

“Fuck!” Screw shouted as he slammed his fist on the dashboard.

“We’re not gonna be able to outrun all of them, Screw. This truck is no match for their fucking sports cars.”

Goddammit, this was exactly why Copper had told him to leave it the fuck alone. He was royally fucked. They’d tear the patch from his cut and skin his club tattoos with a rusty knife while dancing to his screams.