Screw (Hell's Handlers MC 8)

Jazz could relate.

Spreading throughout the market were six men, mostly large, mostly bearded, mostly grim faced. They grabbed some forties of shit beer, bags of chips, and a few sodas, remaining largely quiet. Nothing out of the ordinary for a late-night gas station run, except for one very significant factor.

Each man sported a worn leather cut, boasting Chrome Disciples rockers. None wore jackets, just cuts and dirty T-shirts or wife beaters as though it wasn’t currently thirty-eight degrees. If it hadn’t been for the quiet when their cars pulled up, she’d have guessed they’d rode in on their bikes too.

Such tough guys.

Not that it mattered, the problem was their presence. They’d popped up a few weeks ago, riding into town with their one-percenter cuts in a territory already claimed by an outlaw MC.

A blatant show of disrespect and a giant fuck-you to the Hell’s Handlers. Worse, they’d bragged about settling in the area and made it clear the Handlers were to either join them in their arms dealing endeavor or they’d be fast enemies. In the week or so they’d been in town, they’d caused an immense amount of drama for the Handlers. Crank, their enforcer, had shown up at the diner, stalked Chloe one afternoon, and even went so far as to lure Toni and Shell into a trap. One that nearly ended in death for her friends, and had got Zach shot in the process.

After it all went down, the club up and disappeared. No one thought the reprieve was permanent, but it at least gave the Handlers some time to figure out what their next move was.

What the hell was she supposed to do now? Leave the coffee and slink out the front door? Waltz up to the counter and pay the terrified attendant?

Instead of either of those options, Jazz held her breath as though that would somehow make her invisible to the bikers.

“Well, well, well, who do we have here?”

So much for that.

Jazz stood, rooted to the floor, a sixteen-ounce coffee to go in each hand as a man with a crooked nose and cauliflower ears sauntered up to her. His hair, wavy and dark, nearly reached his shoulders. Across the left side of his chest a patch read Crank, with another stating Enforcer right below it.

Shit.

“Excuse me,” she said, finally finding her voice and ungluing her feet. She took one step only to have her path cut off by Crank.

“Now, where ya running off to?”

Did he know her? How she was connected to the Handlers?

She swallowed as she lifted the coffees. “Excuse me, I need to pay for these.”

He cocked his head and studied her with surprisingly shrewd eyes. She could practically see the wheels turning in his mind as he figured out how to work this situation to his advantage.

But the main question remained. Did he know she spent her free time hanging with the Handlers? Did he know she considered the ol’ ladies her honorary sisters?

“You’re a pretty little thing, ain’t ya?” Crank asked as though she hadn’t spoken.

Jazz shifted under his perusal but didn’t respond.

“Ain’t she pretty?” Crank called to a much larger man with a beer gut and straggly blonde beard.

“Ehh, she’s a’ight. Little scrawny. Ain’t got a lot of hair. What the fuck you gonna hold on to while she’s sucking you off?”

And that was her cue to get the fuck out of there.

His words served as fuel, firing her blood and kicking her ass in gear.

“Get out of my way,” she said, shoulders straight, head high.

“You don’t want to suck his cock?” Crank asked, laughter in his voice. “Hey, Ollie, don’t think she wants your meat, man?”

He snorted. “Fuck if I care what she wants.”

Jazz’s gaze caught that of the wide-eyed attendant. The poor kid now stood holding his phone as though trying to decide whether he needed to call in some help.

She probably had about two seconds before Gumby came in to see what the hell was taking her so long. That would only fan the smoldering flames.

“Get the fuck out of my way,” she said through gritted teeth this time.

Crank’s head fell back on his shoulders and he let out a loud laugh, but he stepped to the side.

Jazz didn’t waste any time getting the hell out of there, but as she passed him by, he stopped her with a hand on her chest.

Could he feel the erratic drumming of her heart? Fucker probably fed on her fear. Staring straight ahead at the attendant, she tried to control her breathing. His hand was way too close to her breasts and she swore it felt like a sticky slug, even through her many layers.

He leaned in, so close his hot breath wafted across her ear. It took everything in her to resist the urge to shudder.

Her gaze locked with the attendant’s. The kid lifted the phone as if to ask whether he needed to call the police.