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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 tensed 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.
