Screw (Hell's Handlers MC 8)

“Huh, I can do that,” Chloe said with a grin just as the front door flew open.

As though all controlled by one button, all the women—save for Izzy—jumped to their feet.

One by one, the men strode into the house, much more subdued than she’d been hoping for. In her mind, they’d burst into Shell’s house whooping and hollering over their success with…whatever.

Instead, each man walked to his woman, gathered her up in his arms and held her. When Screw walked into the house, the air crackled with agitation. Though frowning with tense muscles and clenched fists, he was in one piece with no visible blood, so she counted that a major win.

As much as she wanted to leap into his arms, they didn’t do that outside the privacy of their homes. Instead, she gave him a pleased smile before glancing over his shoulder in time to see Rocket close the door behind him.

Wait…

“Gumby in the car?” she asked Screw. When the only answer she received was shared looks between the men, her stomach bottomed out. “Screw? Where’s Gumby? Oh, my God, is this why none of you are smiling? Did something happen to him? Where is he?”

She grabbed Screw’s jacket, shaking as hard as she could which barely moved the muscle-bound man.

“He’s still in Knoxville,” Screw said as though telling her, “It’s raining today.”

“What?” She dropped the fabric and pressed a hand to her stomach. “Oh, shit, I’m gonna be sick. What happened?”

“Jesus, Screw,” Maverick said. He whispered something to Stephanie, who nodded, then he came over to Jazz.

“Tell me,” she said, transferring her attention to Mav. “Is he hurt? Was he arrested?” She grabbed onto the edges of his cut now.

“He’s fine.” Mav said, wrapping his arms around her. He held her tight. “We had a little trouble and he stayed behind to get the job done despite Screw telling him to get the fuck outta there.”

Jazz moaned and her knees weakened. All of a sudden, she was bombarded with the million possibilities of what could happen to Gumby. Her skin felt too tight for her body and she wanted to scream as she clawed it off.

“Shhh, honey, he’s okay. It was a close call, but he is fine. He’s with LJ about an hour behind us. Okay?”

She planted her forehead against Maverick’s chest. “Thank you.”

“Hey,” he whispered in her ear. “Screw’s taking this hard. Personally. Feels like he should have planned better. We had a few hiccups, but it was an overall success. Mission accomplished. He’s not seeing it that way. He’s gonna drive you home. Go easy on him, okay?”

Jazz nodded against his chest. “Thanks, Mav.”

“No problem, baby cakes.”

She huffed out a small laugh before stepping out of Mav’s embrace.

“Let me just grab my bag,” she said turning toward Screw and—whoa the man was glaring freakin’ flaming daggers at Mav.

What the hell?

A glance over her shoulder showed Mav staring right back at Screw with a shit-eating grin while Steph rolled her eyes and tried to tug her man away.

“I’ll be in the car,” Screw said.

“Sure. What the hell was that, Mav?” she asked once Screw walked outside.

“Don’t worry about it, hon, just giving the man a wakeup call.”

Whatever. She didn’t have the mental capacity to deal with male politics right now. After hugging her girls goodbye and finding her purse, she made her way to Screw’s idling truck.

A few failed attempts at small talk had her enduring the ten-minute ride in silence. At his house, Screw hopped out, came around and opened her door for her. She followed him up the short walk to his home.

Without a word, she walked directly into Screw’s kitchen. Over the past week, she’d spent enough time there to have learned her way around. As she poured them both a healthy few swallows of whiskey, the energy in the room shifted. A glance over her shoulder revealed the agitated man had followed her, though his attention was fixated elsewhere.

He’d shed the dark jacket, leaving him in some kind of black cargo pants with a short sleeved black T-shirt. Clothing worn for stealth. As he paced the length of his kitchen, his fists curled at his sides and his back bunched with tension. In that moment he reminded her of a jet-black panther, captured, caged, and dying to be let loose. At some point in the near future, the pressure in his body would expand enough to cause an explosion. Call her a masochist, but she wanted to be the one to throw herself on that grenade.

“Here,” she said, holding the glass out to him. He took it without looking at her and tossed the liquid back with two long swallows.

It wasn’t the time, but damn if she didn’t want to lick his throat as he gulped the whiskey down.

She stood there, sipping her own drink and bouncing her leg as he continued the restless prowling. After a few moments, she couldn’t take it any longer. “Luke,” she said stepping into his path.