Screw Read online

  “Fuck this night,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Jazz replied as she pushed the door open, allowing a rush of cold air to smack them in the face.

  The car ride home was mostly made in silence with Jazz staring out the window while Gumby navigated her SUV through the winding mountain roads. Though he’d committed no offense she was aware of, he couldn’t shake the feeling he’d somehow done something to upset her.

  He steered into her narrow driveway, and Jazz was out of the car in a shot, neither waiting for him to kill the engine nor come around and open her door. She practically marched to the front door, then preceded him into the house without bothering to close the door behind her. Guess the move meant he was still a welcome guest.

  The girl moved fast, he’d give her that. By the time he made it inside and shed his leather jacket, she was sitting on a bar stool at the small kitchen island with red wine filled near to the brim of a generous-sized glass.

  “Want some?” she asked without turning.

  “Nah, wine’s not really my thing. I’ll grab a beer.” He circled the island, heading for the fridge where she kept a stock of Hatch Chile Gatos. Gumby couldn’t help but grin. She must have the brew imported from Arizona as it came from a craft brewery outside of Phoenix. All the ol’ ladies in his club had been nuts about the stuff. It was brewed with chilies, leaving a subtle heat on your tongue. Lila, his VP’s ol’ lady, said they liked their beer like they liked their men. Smooth, with a little kick at the end.

  “Haven’t been able to shake my love of that beer,” Jazz said from behind him.

  With a small smile, he shut the fridge and popped the top with the magnet bottle opener on the front of her refrigerator. “I’m glad. It’s good shit.” As he turned to face her, his eyes widened. “Wasn’t that glass full about two seconds ago?”

  With a shrug, Jazz lifted the wine glass and poured the final drops into her mouth. Gumby watched, transfixed as her delicate throat worked the liquid down.

  Delicate throat? What the fuck was wrong with him? First he let Screw give him the blow job of his life in a place anyone could have walked in on and now he was waxing fucking poetic. Maybe sticking around Townsend for any period of time was a shitty idea.

  “I was thirsty,” she said, reaching for the bottle. “Still am.”

  “Whoa, hold on, babe. Maybe you shouldn’t have anymore.” Gumby placed his hand over hers where it wrapped around the dark bottle. Such an innocent touch, but still, a ripple of electricity shot up his arm. With a small gasp, Jazz met his gaze. Had she felt it too?

  “You got a problem with me drinking a second glass of wine in my own house?”

  Well, when she put it that way. He released her. “No, ma’am. Knock yourself out.”

  She filled the glass again, not quite as high as the first one, but more than halfway. “Don’t mind if I do.” After setting the bottle down, she took a healthy gulp, though didn’t down the entire contents like she had the first go around.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  She snorted. “Fuck no.”

  He set his bottle down directly across from her on the island, then braced himself on his palms. “You want him.” It wasn’t a question.

  Once again, she snorted, but this time, couldn’t meet his eyes. “No,” she said with a surprising amount of vehemence. “I don’t want him. I want him to stick to his whores and leave me the fuck alone.”

  Why he pushed this, he couldn’t have said, but he also couldn’t stop himself from saying. “No. You want him to forget the whores and just be with you.”

  I get it. The man’s potent as fuck.

  Her eyes widened as her head moved right and left. “You’re wrong,” she whispered.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Suddenly Jazz straightened. “No!” she said with force, slamming her glass on the granite. Dark purple liquid sloshed over the rim of the glass and down her hand, splashing on the counter. “You’re fucking wrong,” she said. “What the fuck is this, Gumby? I thought you came here for me. I thought you wanted me, and now you’re trying to push me toward him. Toward a man who thinks it’s his mission to fuck as many people as possible. Would you want to be with someone like that?” Her tone seemed almost accusatory.

  Ridiculous. She couldn’t possibly know what happened between him and Screw. How the other man proved beyond a shadow of a doubt why men and women shed their pride to be with him for just a few moments time.

  “Shit,” she said looking down at her wet hand as though only now realizing she’d spilled the wine. With a huff, Jazz moved to her sink, grabbing a wad of paper towels from the countertop holder. Her shoulders stiffened then slumped.

  Fuck. He’d jacked that up, making her crappy night even shittier.

  “Babe,” he said, moving in behind her. “I did want you.” Fitting his front to her back where she stood at the single sink, he continued, “I do want you.” It shouldn’t have been possible for him to be as hard as he was, not after the epic orgasm less than an hour ago, but there he was, hard, throbbing, and nesting his erection in the small of Jazz’s back. “But you said just friends.”

  “This is so fucked up,” Jazz whispered, breathy.

  She didn’t know the half of it. What was his plan here? To fuck her? Here in her kitchen while his cock was coated in dried saliva from Screw’s mouth?

  Fucked up didn’t begin to cover it. Yet still, as though of their own accord, Gumby’s lips moved to Jazz’s neck at the same time his arms closed around her. When he kissed the side of her throat, a shuddered sigh left her. He took that as consent to move forward and nipped at her jaw before kissing a path up behind her ear. With her short hair, he had perfect access to what was clearly an erogenous zone. Jazz trembled in his arms.

  Paper towels forgotten, she shifted her hands to cover his where they rested against her flat stomach. “Gumby,” she said when he licked the shell of her ear. Fuck, his name said in that low, near moan shot a spike of lust straight to his dick.

  Jazz craned her neck, turning her chin until their lips were just millimeters apart. Despite the voice of reason whispering just how fucked up he was for kissing a woman while the memory of Screw’s mouth devouring his cock still played on a loop in his mind, Gumby captured her lips in a searing kiss.

  Nothing gentle came from the meeting of their mouths. Without breaking the connection, Jazz turned in his arms, wrapping hers around his neck. She stood on her toes and with a little growl, tried to get even closer to him.

  Gumby chuckled as he lifted her ass then settled her on the edge of the sink. Her legs went around his waist as though they’d done this a thousand times before. Jazz tasted of wine and frustration; the aggravation of the night having caught up with her. Gumby had no problem being the man she took that stress out on, especially if it turned into sexual aggression as it seemed to be.

  They ate at each other’s mouths, fighting for control of the kiss. When he nipped her lower lip, Jazz whimpered and for some un-fucking-known reason, Gumby got a flash of Screw on his knees sucking him like his life depended on it. The combination of that image with Jazz’s mouth on his and her body beneath his hands sent him to a level of desire he’d never experienced before.

  The need to fuck nearly consumed him. As his tongue battled Jazz’s and she moaned into his mouth, he slipped his hands under the hem of her long-sleeved T-shirt. Fuck, all that soft, warm skin felt like heaven beneath his fingertips. His thumb ran over a tiny ridged line, peeking up from the waistband of her jeans, a scar perhaps. The little bump barely registered because at the same moment Jazz rocked her hips, causing her denim covered pussy to grind directly into his dick.

  Fuck, this was happening. He was going to fuck her until they were a hot, sweaty mess of satisfaction and all thoughts of a cocky, muscle-bound biker had been pounded out of his head.

  As Gumby began to work Jazz’s top up, he coasted over another ridged line and she t
ensed beneath his hands.

  “Stop!?” Jazz screamed with such force, he immediately released her and stepped back.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She scrambled off the counter, yanking her shirt down with such force the fabric stretched and gave him a peek of her lacy black bra. Panting, and blinking as though fighting tears, she backed up and wrapped her arms around her midsection.

  What the hell was going on? “Jazz—”

  “Sorry.” She held up a hand. “I can’t do this. It’s just too…” She shrugged. “Too fucked up.”

  Because even though she wouldn’t admit it, she had…something, whether feelings or just a physical attraction to Screw. And Gumby had let the man suck him off.

  Then he’d almost fucked her an hour later.

  Fuck.

  Thank Christ, she didn’t know, she’d toss him out on his ass.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be.” He exhaled, running a hand down his face while thinking of the steps to replace a car’s oil. Anything to help kill the boner.

  What a fucking disaster. The man he couldn’t admit he wanted was more than willing to fuck or be fucked at any time and the woman he’d shout from the mountains for refused anything more than a friendly kiss. “This was my fault.” As he took a step toward her, she held up a hand.

  “Not now, okay? I’m just gonna go to sleep.” With that, she turned and started down the hall toward her bedroom. A place he wouldn’t be welcome tonight, if ever.

  “Fuck,” Gumby muttered as he walked toward the front door. Jazz didn’t even think to check the locks. They’d be chatting about that tomorrow. With the potential for danger from a rival club, she needed to be vigilant no matter how distracted or upset.

  He locked the deadbolt, frowning at the inefficient protection it would afford her home should someone really want in. Tomorrow he’d get on that.

  A flicker of light from the street caught his eye. His hand went to his back where his pistol often lived, before remembering he’d left it at home. Bringing a gun into another clubhouse wasn’t exactly the best way to make friends.

  Narrowing his eyes, he stared out Jazz’s window at the pick-up truck parked across the street. The light he’d seen turned out to be the glow of a cell phone.

  Screw may hate them both right now, but he’d still ordered protection for them. Gumby didn’t know whether to be insulted the other man didn’t think he could protect Jazz on his own or thrilled he could sleep without worry, knowing the Handler’s had his back.

  Either way, the fact the man wanted them covered sent and odd surge of warmth through his chest.

  Just one more log on the raging fire of fucked-up feelings.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SCREW LET OUT a low whistle as he scanned the shiny bike in the bed of a brand spankin’ new black pick-up.

  Being out and about in town without his cut felt…unnatural. So disturbing, in fact, his stomach churned with guilt. Combine it with the suit and tie, something he hadn’t donned in a good few years, and it was no wonder his skin felt too tight for his bulky body. Maybe it was just the damned jacket he’d borrowed from Zach. The restrictive material stretched across his traps, pulling with every movement. So sue him, he didn’t own a fucking suit of his own. This would hopefully be the last time he’d ever put one on.

  “Hey, don’t even think about touching my fucking bike, man.” An average sized guy with a blonde fauxhawk strode over, chest puffed and eyes narrowed. But what was most telling, and the reason Screw had spent most of the morning staking out the gas station, was the Chrome Disciples cut the guy wore.

  He lifted his hands and took a step back. “Wouldn’t dream of it, man,” he said biting back his natural urge to be snarky. “Just admiring. She’s a beaut.”

  The prospect sized him up and dismissed him as a threat in about two seconds flat. Foolish asshole. He’d learn not to judge a book by its cover or an enforcer by his benign suit and tie.

  “Thanks man. Worked my ass off to afford her. Just picked her up last week. Finished driving her up from Alabama this morning.” He opened the driver’s side door and tossed a bag of potato chips on the front seat before rounding to the back to stand by Screw. “Just pissed it’s too fucking cold to give her the ride she deserves right now. You ride?”

  It’d been a risk, sure, encountering a member of the Chrome Disciples face to face, but he’d gone with it. So what if he hadn’t mentioned it to his club. It was called taking the initiative. This fucker was just a lowly prospect. If he knew any of the Handlers by sight, it’d be the big players. Exec board members. And sure, Screw was one now—fuck if that didn’t still feel surreal—but he’d bet the CDMC didn’t know about the shifting of positions in the club.

  “Nah, got a cousin down south who does. I don’t really know much about bikes, but I was walking by and the sun caught the chrome. So shiny it nearly blinded me. I don’t need to ride to know a nice piece of machinery when I see it.”

  The guy, who had to be about five years younger than Screw preened like a proud fucking peacock.

  “So, you uh, part of a motorcycle club?” Screw said, pointing toward the guy’s cut.

  “Yeah.” He opened the tailgate then hopped into the bed to make sure the bike was still strapped down securely.

  “Huh. Hell’s Handlers, right? I live in Knoxville but have a house I come out to here so I can escape the city. I’ve heard you guys mentioned a few times.”

  The prospect snorted. “Don’t fucking think so. I ain’t one of those pussies.”

  It wasn’t in Screw’s nature to let being called a pussy slide. Normally, he’d pop this douche bag’s head off with one good punch, but the asshole was more useful to him conscious and talking than out cold on the ground. He lifted his hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just curious since I know nothing about that world. Isn’t it weird to have two clubs in one town?”

  The guy grunted then sat with his legs dangling off the edge of his truck. After pulling a circular tin out of his pocket then shoving a wad of dip in his lower lip, he spoke. “Depends,” he said. “Some clubs coexist well, but not us.” With a shrug, he spit a stream of brown liquid on the ground. “Guy in charge of the Handlers is Copper. Arrogant fucking asshole. Thinks he owns this town and everyone in it. They ain’t straight, but they ain’t exactly badass either.”

  “Huh.” Screw leaned his hip against the guy’s truck and when he didn’t get his head blown off he said, “Some of the stories I’ve heard about them are downright crazy. Seem pretty badass to me. You guys have some kinda turf war or something going on?”

  With a shake of his head he jumped down. “Not really. Well, maybe. We wouldn’t give a shit about them, but my prez said there’s no way they’ll let us stick around even though our clubhouse is a town over.”

  The Handlers sure as fuck didn’t want these gun runners operating on their turf. His MC may not run drugs, guns, or women, but they sure as fuck could still end up in prison for many of their business ventures. Loan sharking, muscle for hire, the occasional gambling ring. A few of their members fought in an underground MMA ring as well. Then there was murder plain and simple. Fuck with the club, come after an ol’ lady and you’d find yourself six feet under. They may view it as justice, but the cops sure wouldn’t. So, no, a gun trafficking club that would undoubtedly bring the feds sniffing around at some point wouldn’t work. Not to mention Copper just didn’t want all those weapons running through the club’s territory. That business inevitably turned messy and by messy, he meant fucking bloody.

  “That sounds fucked up.”

  “Yep,” he said as he slammed the tailgate closed. “Told you, they’re a buncha pussy bitches.”

  “You guys gonna do something about it?”

  The prospect eyed him for the longest few seconds of Screw’s life. Shit, stupid question for him to ask. There wasn’t any way to make a question like that sound innocent. Had he just outed him
self? Was he too eager? Crank confronting Jazz had lit a fire under his ass. Screw wanted the CDMC gone. And fast.

  Screw held his breath, working to ignore the sweat soaking into the collared shirt beneath his wool jacket. How the hell men wore this shit everyday he’d never know. Forty-two degrees and he was sweating like a fucking married dude caught eating out a club whore. Or so he imagined one would feel. He sure as fuck would never find that shit out.

  “Let’s just say my prez doesn’t let anything fuck with his profits.”

  “I hear that.”

  “Hey.” The prospect approached him, and Screw froze, poised and ready to defend an attack. “You in town through the weekend?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, got off work early and drove out here. Spending the rest of the week in my cabin.” It’d be foolish to throw away whatever opportunity this prospect was gonna present.

  The prospect spit on the ground, his brown teeth bared. “You should come party with us this weekend. Gonna be fucking epic. Guarantee you’ve never seen shit like this is your buttoned-up suit-wearing world. Whatdya say?”

  Screw’s heart started to pound. No fucking way Copper would okay this shit. Too much risk of it being a trap. “Sounds like just what I need to shake things up.”

  The guy’s head fell back on his shoulder and he laughed. “Oh, it’ll do that. Here, gimmie your phone.” He motioned toward Screw’s hand.

  Well fuck, he had Handler’s shit all over his phone. A bead of sweat trickled down his spine as he began to lift the device.

  “Actually, scratch that. Just gimmie your number and I’ll text you the address. Tell ’em Squirt sent you.”

  “Squirt?”

  The guy rolled his eyes. “Youngest prospect. Hoping to change that shitty name once I patch in. Come on, I got shit to do. Your number?”

  Screw rattled off the number and seconds later a text from Squirt buzzed through.

  “Sweet, man. See you Saturday. Sure as fuck hope you ain’t a prude,” he said with a laugh as he strode toward the driver’s door once again. “I can promise you a pick of women who’ll do shit you’ve only dreamed of.”