Screw (Hell's Handlers MC 8)

With a heavy sigh, Gumby sat on the edge of the bed while Striker took the lone chair in the dimly lit room. He filled his vice president in on everything that had gone down between the Handlers and the CDMC.

As was his custom, Striker listened with full attention, but once Gumby finished, he sat back and propped one ankle on this thigh. After fishing another cigarette out of his pocket, he stuck the thing between his lips but didn’t light it.

“Look, Gumby, this is all shit I need to know and should have been told already, but it’s not what I was asking and I’m pretty sure you know it. Jester is pretty damn sure he saw you kiss that guy, what was his name, Screw?”

Gumby stared at his VP waiting for the rush of panic he’d experienced earlier when Jester busted in on them. It never came. His insides were too heavy to allow the jitters of anxiety. He’d fucked up in a way he’d never done before and as he’d packed his bags and left Jazz’s house and as he’d stared at the peeling paint on the motel ceiling, he’d come to the stark realization that he didn’t want to hide any more.

If the price for remaining in the closet was this gaping hole in his heart, he wanted no part of it. He wanted to be comfortable in his own skin. He wanted to be good with who he was. And who he was, was a man in love with a woman and another man. The way he’d hurt those two people…Christ that could never happen again. It nearly killed him as much as it must have hurt them. Jazz especially, since they’d both lobbed their shit her way.

So it was time for him to grow some balls, get the fuck over his shitty childhood, and deal with the fear that came with coming out.

He took a deep breath. “I’m bisexual,” he said. “I’ve been seeing Jazz and Screw together and I’m pretty sure I’m in love with both of them.”

He waited for the nausea. For the heart-pounding, sweat-inducing anxiety. He waited for mockery, revulsion, and castigation from Striker. Hell, he waited for his VP’s fist to fly across the room and crash into his jaw.

He got none of that.

Instead his insides…lightened. An airy feeling of being free engulfed him.

Striker frowned and raised an eyebrow. The cigarette drooped to his chin. “That it?”

It was Gumby’s turn to frown. “What do you mean?

“What do you mean what do I mean? I said what I meant. That it? That’s the fucking crisis that has you moping like an emo teenager? I’m assuming you didn’t just come to this conclusion yesterday.” He spoke around the dangling cigarette.

“Striker, we’ve known each other for over thirty years. I just told you I like cock.”

“Yeah, brother. Heard that part.” Striker shrugged then plucked the cigarette from his lips. “I like pussy, which it seems you do as well.” He lifted the white stick. “I like cigarettes too. So the fuck what?”

“You’re not…I mean, you don’t care? You’re not freaked out? Or disgusted?”

Striker’s face scrunched in confusion before his eyes widened. “Oh, fuck you, G.” He stood and paced the length of the room. “If you tell me you’ve kept this shit to yourself for all these years because you were worried about my reaction, I’ll kick your ass back to fucking Arizona.” He whirled, charging forward.

Gumby jumped up, meeting him head on.

Striker’s eyes had darkened to near black and his jaw ticked like he was biting back some seriously caustic shit. His VP was not pleased.

“Fuck you for that shit,” Striker said with a snarl, face contorted in fury. “You say we’ve known each other since we were kids. Then I think you fucking know I don’t give two fucks if you like pussy, cock, some combination of the two or alien fucking probing.” He was screaming now, red-faced and practically vibrating as he let loose.

Shit, his VP was pissed like Gumby hadn’t seen in years.

Shame washed over him as the words sank in. Striker was right. He knew his friend, his brother, better than that. Hell, he knew every man in his club better. All of a sudden, it hit him. Striker wasn’t pissed. He was hurt, maybe even feeling betrayed one of his closest friends kept such a monumental secret. He’d worried so much about what would happen if his club found out his secret, he’d never considered the fallout from keeping such a large part of himself locked away from the people he loved.

A knock on the door followed by Jester’s tentative, “Uh, Striker? You guys good in there?”

Striker stomped over the door, yanked it open so hard it practically ripped from the hinges, then admitted Jester with a swoop of his arm.