by Lilly Atlas
“Guys, this here is Isabella. I taught her everything she knew about ten years ago. She finally agreed to move here and work with me.” Rip beamed with pride as he introduced his protégé.
“Please,” she said, “call me Izzy. One of you boys looking for some ink?”
Fuck no.
Wasn’t happening.
Rocket cleared his throat like he had a whole steak lodged in there. If the asshole wasn’t careful, he’d have Jig’s fist lodged down there instead.
A hand slapped down on his shoulder. “My man Jig here needs some ink.”
Fuckin’ Maverick.
“Don’t want to mess up your schedule,” Jig said. “I’ll come back when Rip can fit me in.”
Rip’s face fell, making Jig feel like scum. Wasn’t the shop owner’s fault that Jig wanted nothing to do with most women. Unless he was fucking them. That was pretty much the only time he associated with them. Of course, his brothers’ ol’ ladies couldn’t seem to leave his ass alone. Always trying to bring him food, fix him up, and acting like freaking mother hens around him.
Especially Mav’s woman, Stephanie. He’d helped rescue her from a fucking psycho not long ago, so now he’d become her special project.
“Oh, I’ll, uh, check my book.” Rip waddled behind his desk and flipped through his old-school appointment book.
Izzy’s dark, almost black eyes just stared at him, hands on her hips, earning her Jig’s scowl. Who the hell did this bitch think she was?
Instead of caving under his murderous glare, one of her perfect black eyebrows arched high into her forehead. “You afraid your dick will invert if a woman puts some ink on you?”
She had a set of balls, he’d give her that much. “Nah, I—”
“I’ve inked hundreds, actually thousands of dudes.” She gasped and covered her mouth with her unpolished fingertips. “Shit, I’ve even tatted some bikers.”
Behind him, Mav and Rocket chuckled. Fuckers were enjoying this way too much.
Izzy leaned closer and dropped her volume. “Promise you, bubba, not one of those guys grew a pussy because I was the one holding the needle.”
A strangled sound came from Rocket, and Maverick flat-out laughed. Rip joined in, and soon the three of them were cackling like a bunch of fucking hyenas.
Goddamnit. Not only had she interrupted him, sassed him, and tossed attitude at him, she’d thrown down a challenge. His damned male pride left him no choice.
“Show me to your chair,” he grumbled.
A massive grin of victory broke out across her gorgeous face. “Follow me, bubba,” she said as she spun on one of those pencil-thin heels then sashayed to her station.
And fuck if he didn’t feel a twitch of his dick and a twitch of his lips. Where his cock’s interest came from, he had no idea. Miss Izzy couldn’t be further from his usual type.
He liked ’em blonde, blue-eyed, small, sweet, and docile. Not tall, dark-haired, and mouthy. She’d even shaved the sides of her head, adding to her badass-bitch look.
But as he watched the very long tail of a tight braid swinging back and forth across the top of what was, without a doubt, a stellar ass, he couldn’t deny his animal attraction to her.
Fuck. This was gonna be a shitty few hours.
CHAPTER TWO
WAS THIS DUDE even capable of any facial expressions beyond scowls?
Didn’t seem like it.
Izzy was a damn good tattoo artist, and fuck any man who didn’t want to work with her because of what was—or wasn’t—dangling between her legs. She’d show him. Happened every single time she worked with one of these macho sexist types. They sat their asses in her chair with low expectations, and she blew them away with her skill.
Every. Damn. Time.
This would be no different, of that she was sure. And she’d revel in his eventual praise while a small part of her would remain pissed she’d had to prove herself yet again. Someday it’d be nice to be taken at her word.
“All right, bubba, what are we doing today?” she asked, going for overly friendly to combat his stony expression. It might be a cold face, but it wasn’t hard to look at and came attached to a scorching hot body. Dark hair, not as dark as her own, but pretty dark, navy blue eyes, and fairly scruffy beard that needed a date with some clippers. His whole appearance with dark wash jeans, ear gauges, a leather jacket, and sporty black sunglasses perched on his head was rough, a little scruffy, and a whole lotta sexy.
Just as she was about to turn toward her supplies, she noticed a pattern of white lines rising from the fur on his right cheek.
Scars.
She couldn’t help but wonder the extent of it hidden beneath the hair growth.
This man had a past. A past that had been carved into his face in a shape that resembled a puzzle piece.
“Got a tat on my thigh I want to add to.” No surprise that his flat eyes, and even duller expression, didn’t change as he spoke.
Huh, interesting. Not a new project. She was always intrigued when clients added to previous ink. Usually meant something deeply personal. Remembering an event despite the passage of time. Keeping a memory alive. Often painful memories. What did this guy have churning around in his head that he’d expressed on his body? Whatever it was, she had a feeling those memories were responsible for the solemn personality he wore like a shield.
With a nod, Izzy said, “Okay. Gonna need you to drop your drawers. Want me to pull the curtain and give you a sheet to drape over yourself?”
The buzz of a tattoo machine kicked up over at Rip’s station. She’d have taken the nipple job herself, but the woman’s surgeon was actually the one to recommend Rip, and she’d been hellbent on working with him. Izzy had worked on a few breast cancer survivors in the past and loved seeing the elation on the women’s—and one man’s—faces when she made them feel whole again.
Without answering her question, the biker stood, loosened his belt, then lowered his zipper.
Guess he wasn’t shy.
As he worked the denim over his trim hips, Izzy couldn’t help but allow her gaze to shadow his movements. She was a female after all. Just because she had no desire to give a man any kind of significant role in her life, then or ever, didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate the merchandise. Or sample a few of the products. Once in a while, a non-silicone-induced orgasm was a necessity. But that was as far as she ever allowed it. An orgasm or two then sayonara. Izzy survived damn well on her own and planned to keep it that way.
Thick, muscled thighs were revealed to her as the denim fell to the floor. Damn, this man was no stranger to a squat. Would it be weird if she asked him to turn around so she could see how his ass looked in the form-fitting royal blue boxer briefs?
Yeah, that would be weird. She’d have to content herself with pretending she wasn’t sneaking glances at the monster he’d tucked into those boxers.
After an unreasonable amount of time spent watching him get off his jeans, she remembered she was at work and shifted her focus to his tattoo. She gasped at the gorgeous yet tragic image inked into his skin.
“Wow,” she whispered on an exhale. “Rip did this?”
“Yes.” If possible, he became even more guarded, as though he detested the fact she was getting a glimpse into his personal space. Dick ogling aside, she was a professional and would act like one. She had no interest in getting a reputation for prying into her client’s private lives. So, while the urge to learn the story of the tat might eat a hole in her stomach, she resisted the impulse to ask.
“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing toward the reclining chair. “What are you looking to add?”
“Flower petals. But I want them to look exactly like the rest of them, so if you can’t make it look just like Rip’s, then we’re done here.”
Under normal circumstances, she’d be offended by his antagonistic tone and words, but she was already lost in her craft, admiring Rip’s incredible work. A dying tree took up the entire expanse of this man’s
broad and brawny thigh. The tree itself was massive and done with the darkest of browns, almost black. Each branch was leafless, twisted, and snarled as they decayed. The roots resembled those that had been carelessly ripped from the ground, red and dripping as though bleeding.
Twelve blood-red flower petals fell from the tree in pairs of two, a large and small petal grouped together. They were so well done she could easily imagine them moving, floating to the ground to escape the expiring tree. She didn’t have a clue what it symbolized, but the pairs of petals had an almost parent-child feel to them. One large, one small, falling from the tree together as though unable to be separated.
Whatever happened in his life to inspire this memorial, it was dark and full of pain.
Emotion clogged Izzy’s throat, and for one terrifying second, she worried she might tear up. Used to squashing any sentiment that didn’t serve an express purpose at the moment, Izzy cleared her throat and pushed away her pity. He wouldn’t want it anyway. These macho types of men never did.
“I assume you want another group of two?” she asked, still looking at his leg and giving herself an extra second to gather her composure.
A grunt was all she received in response.
“I can handle this, no problem. It will look just like Rip’s petals. You have my word.” As she spoke the last sentence, she gave him the respect of full eye-contact. It was important to her that he realize how seriously she took her craft and his memories.
Face neutral, he nodded.
“Anywhere specific you want them?”
“No. You pick where you think they should go. I trust you.”
She froze, and her gaze flew back to his face, but he’d already blocked her out. Eyes closed, elbow bent and forearm thrown across his eyes, he appeared totally at ease with the fact that she was about to jab a needle into his skin.
“You got it, bubba.”
“Jig,” he said.
“Huh?”
“My name’s Jigsaw, not fuckin’ Bubba.”
Her gaze flew to his scar again for a fraction of a second.
Jigsaw. Like a puzzle. Interesting.
“Right. Nice to meet you, Jig.” When he didn’t return the pleasantry, she got to it, preparing the ink then creating art on his body. After about three minutes, she slid into the zone and operated in complete silence. Some people liked to chatter away while she worked on them. Something to distract them from the pain. Jig seemed to appreciate the silence, which was fine by her. Quiet was her preference, actually. Small talk and bullshitting had never been her favorite part of the job. She was a loner. Preferred few people in her life and in her business. That was the main reason she left city life in favor of small-town living.
Jig’s MC buddies hung around the entire time but kept off to the side. They seemed to recognize that he might not be thrilled to have them present and were trying to respect his space while supporting him at the same time.
Brothers, family, friends. Whatever it was called, it was kinda nice.
Izzy had been on her own for so long she couldn’t remember what it felt like to have that unspoken backup of other people in her life. Last person who’d had her back, who’d cared about her above themselves, was Len. Or so it had seemed until her mother kicked him to the curb. Izzy hadn’t seen or heard from him since that dreadful day. After Len vanished from their lives, her mom went on to marry twice more before committing suicide when Izzy was seventeen.
Fuck them. Fuck them all. There was only one person she could count on in life. One person who had her best interest at heart and would make sure she got exactly what she needed every time, and that was herself. Others might have played a part for a while in her past, but inevitably, they left. Because they didn’t give enough of a shit to stay.
In the end, the only one anybody really had to count on was themself.
Shit, she was getting maudlin. Had to be Jig’s depressing tree of mortality getting to her. Shaking off the heavy blanket of despair, Izzy lost herself in her task. Two hours later, she flicked off the tattoo machine, wiped off the final few drops of blood, and sat back to admire her work. Damn fine if she did say so herself.
“Damn, girl. You give good ink.”
Izzy looked up into the flirty biker’s smiling and open face, so opposite his brother’s.
“Thanks,” she said.
He clapped her on the shoulder. “Name’s Maverick, and that’s Rocket,” he said pointing to the third in their group. “I ain’t got much space left, but I just might have to find a spot for you to work on.”
A grin spread across her face. Being appreciated for her talent was something that filled her with endless pride. “Anytime.”
Jig lowered his arm and blinked a few times as if waking from a deep slumber. Raising his arms, he arched his back into a deep stretch that had his shirt lifting. A rack of impressive abs peeked out. Izzy curled her tongue inside her mouth. It was either that or let it come out to play and lick his stomach.
Might be bad for business.
Jig grunted and lowered his arms.
Had he seriously fallen asleep through that?
Mav laughed. “You taking a nap, brother?”
“Just in the zone,” Jig said without inflection as he turned his attention to his thigh.
Izzy’s lower lip tucked between her teeth. The moment of truth. For some reason, her heart picked up speed and a flutter of nerves jiggled through her stomach.
After about thirty seconds of inspecting her work, Jig lifted his gaze and gave her a single nod. “Wrap it up,” he said, and her heart crashed to the floor. Asshole. Couldn’t even toss her a quick “looks good” or “thanks.”
A fucking nod.
Well, she sure as hell wasn’t going to let him know his lack of appreciation affected her. “You bet,” she said in what had to be an obviously false chipper tone.
Mav shot her a sympathetic smile as she dressed the tattoo and gave a quick recap of the aftercare. Without so much as a grunt, Jig left her chair, paid at the desk, and was out the door.
“Coming, Mav?” Rocket asked as he followed Jig.
“Yeah, be a minute. Just gonna make an appointment.”
Rocket chuckled. “Jesus. You’re a fuckin’ addict.”
Mav flipped him the bird then turned to Izzy.
“Rip can pencil you in at the desk,” she said as she turned away to clean her station. It was time for the bikers to beat feet so she could take a few moments to compose herself in peace.
“Don’t need an appointment, babe.”
Izzy spun back, her brow scrunched. “Oh, but you said…”
“Yeah, know what I said.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Listen, Jig’s a hard motherfucker. The shittiest of deals made him that way. I’m talking worst case scenario. You did right by him. Fuckin’ beautiful work. He was more than happy with it, trust me. He’s surly at best, but when he adds to the tat this time every year, it sets him off for a few days.”
What happened to him? The words were right there, dangling off the edge of her tongue, but she sucked them back into her mouth. It wasn’t any of her business. “Thanks for telling me. I guess I can get a little sensitive about my work.” She shrugged.
“Well, that wasn’t work. It was art, girl.” Mav had a killer smile that must make panties disintegrate all over Tennessee.
Lucky woman, whoever she was, to be on the receiving end of all that sexy charm. Though, please, a man like him? Izzy gave him six months tops before he took off for greener pastures or bigger tits, rounder ass, thicker wallet, whatever tripped his trigger.
“Gotta run. Got me an insatiable woman to tend to.” He winked. “I’ll be back soon. Can’t resist the needle, especially if there’s a gorgeous woman on the other end. Have a good one, Izzy.”
She gave him a genuine smile accompanied by an eye roll. He was easy to like, and the flirting was obviously harmless and meaningless. When he spoke of his girlfriend, his eyes li
t with a spark that was impossible to fake. Nice to see…while it lasted. “You, too, Mav. It was nice meeting you.”
He nodded once then went the way of his friends. Soon, the roar of motorcycles drowned out the steady beat of music Rip pumped through the shop all day long.
“Looks like Jig was one satisfied customer,” Rip said, walking his round frame toward her.
Izzy raised an eyebrow. “How the hell’d you get that impression? He took one look at it and ran for the door so fast he left skid marks on my chair.”
Rip held up a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “Man left you a Benjamin as a tip.”
Her jaw nearly dropped. Jesus, that was a fifty percent tip. She plucked the money from Rip’s fingers. “Thanks,” she said as her mind reeled.
What the hell did it mean?
Was it a compliment?
An apology?
An insult? He couldn’t be bothered to speak to her like a human being, but he’d toss some cash at her to keep her from bitching?
With a chuckle, she tucked the money into her bra and finished clearing her station. What the hell did it matter? The man had played a two-hour role in her life. They’d probably have little or nothing to do with each other ever again. She’d give him about as much thought and consideration as he gave her tattoo.
Guess that meant she was done thinking about him.
Good riddance.
CHAPTER THREE
THREE DAYS AFTER meeting Isabella, the sexy tattoo artist, Jig was officially sick of himself. He’d been wallowing around the clubhouse, living in the past, and chasing bad memories with bottle after bottle of whatever the hell he could snag from the bar.
Copper had let him slack off, but his time was running out. The club had too much shit going on, and the prez wasn’t going to allow him to shirk his responsibilities for much longer. Especially since Jig was in charge of the whole operation. For the past three weeks, ever since the club discovered Lefty, a sex-trafficking local gang leader, was gunning for them, the Handlers had been beefing up security at the clubhouse.