Screw (Hell's Handlers MC 8)

“Uh, yeah, brother, let me know what Shiv says and kiss your fam for me.”

He didn’t bother to wait for Jester to respond before hanging up. It would have been something about not kissing his woman for anyone but himself.

“Hey,” Screw said, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Club checking in?”

God, he looked so…fuckable. That scruffy beard, the ponytail, the freaking T-shirt that barely contained his biceps. Biceps which were prominently on display due to the position of his arms.

“Give me your phone. I’ll snap a selfie. This way you’ll have it whenever you need to unload your balls and I’m not around.” Screw smirked in that self-satisfied way that made Gumby want to punch him and fuck him at the same time.

“Christ!” he said, glancing around. “Keep your fucking mouth down, huh?”

“Oh, please.” Screw waved a hand. “No one’s listening. And even if they were, I’d say that to any of my brothers.” Then he leaned forward and dropped his tone. “Any of my brothers looking at me like they wanted to know what my cock tastes like.”

Oh, fuck, he wanted that. He’d never. Never crossed the line from receiving to giving, but with Screw he found himself wanting everything he’d be fighting an internal battle against for the past twenty years.

“Hey, Screw.” Jazzy appeared at the side of her table.

When Gumby straightened and cleared his throat, she frowned, her head bouncing between the two of them. “Everything okay?”

“Yep,” Screw said, popping the p as he lifted his mug. “Please, may I have some coffee, pretty lady?” His pout had Gumby rolling his eyes. For someone so sexual, he could play the adorable little boy damn well.

With a snort, Jazz filled his cup. “I saw you come in and added your usual to the table’s order. Gumby, if you don’t mind waiting an extra minute, I’ll have it brought out at the same time.”

Screw waggled his eyebrows. “What do you say man? Will you wait for me to eat? I’ll let you have a taste of my sausage?”

“Oh, my God, are you thirteen?” Jazz asked with a laugh.

He winked. “Pretty sure you’re both well aware nothing about me resembles a thirteen-year-old. If you need a refresher…” His hands dropped beneath the table.

Jazz flushed before rolling her eyes and turning her back on them. Her face remained the cutest damn shade of pink as she checked in on a few other tables.

“You gotta knock that shit off,” Gumby said.

Screw’s hands went back behind his head as though he was lounging on a poolside chaise instead of waiting for an early lunch in a diner. “What shit?”

“You know what shit. The implying things.” Gumby leaned in. “Between me and you, me and Jazz, you and Jazz. Someone’s gonna overhear and I don’t want anyone calling Jazz a slut.”

Screw let out a loud snort that turned into genuine laughter. “What the fuck kinda prude club do you belong to? Pretty sure most of us know what a slut is. Jazz could fuck five of my brothers at once and not a single person I know would think that of her.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to broadcast it where she works.”

With a scoff, Screw dropped his hands to the table, leaning in. “First of all, I didn’t broadcast shit. No one knows a fucking thing beyond this booth. I wouldn’t disrespect Jazz that way. Or you for fuck’s sake, but I’m glad to know you think I’m that much of an asshole.” He shoved to his feet then dug in his back pocket before tossing some bills on the table. “Jazzy,” he called to her. “I’m gonna need mine to go.” Then he turned back to Gumby. “Pretty sure you need to get shit right in your head. Because there’s only one person here who’s ashamed of what’s going on. And it ain’t me or Jazz, or anyone in my club.”

“Screw—”

He held up a hand. “Copper’s gonna be calling you to ask for your help with something. I was gonna fill you in, but I’m not in the mood.” He covered his hand with his mouth. “Ooops, I said ‘in the mood.’ Bet everyone in here heard that and now thinks we’re fucking.”

With that, he stormed over to the counter where Lindsey was boxing up his order. When she handed it to him, he flashed her his most charming grin, leaving the thirteen-year-old with pink cheeks and a smile. But his walk from the counter to the exit was more of a stomp and the smile had morphed into an angry scowl.

That did not go well.

Gumby’s left hand throbbed, a stark reminder of why he hid.

“What was that?” Jazz asked as she appeared with his food. After placing the plate in front of him, she took the seat Screw had vacated.

“Thanks, hon.” He sighed. “That was me pissing him off.”