by Lilly Atlas
Surrounded mostly by dense woods, they’d never had much need for security beyond an alarm system and a few well-placed cameras. But a few weeks ago, Maverick’s woman was nearly kidnapped by some of Lefty’s thugs. Before she escaped, she’d heard them talking about plans to set a bomb in the Handlers’ clubhouse. Copper wasted no time getting Jig involved in a plan to protect the club and its extended family.
A metal security fence with wicked spikes at the top, additional cameras, lookout towers, and floodlights, were some of the new additions to the clubhouse and surrounding land. There were also a few surprises for any unsuspecting asshole who might somehow make it past all the keep-out measures. Booby traps so to speak.
Today the guys were working on the lookout towers. Jig had determined placement for two but wanted at least another three around what would soon be more of a compound than a clubhouse. As he strolled the back edge of the property along the line of the woods, he almost missed Copper sneaking up on him. For a giant man, Copper could move like a stalking panther.
“Done being a dick?” the prez asked as he sidled up to where Jig had been marking the ground with white paint.
“I’m done,” he said, rising to his feet and accepting the hand Copper offered.
“Good. Quicker than last year. Last year it took a full week before someone was brave enough to talk to you.”
Okay, so he became a bit of a fucktard twice a year, every year. First, on the anniversary of his family’s death, then on their birthdays. “How the fuck do you expect me to act, Cop?” He dropped the can of spray paint and got up in his president’s face. “Wanna put yourself in my shoes? Want to imagine it? Imagine if Shell—”
Copper had Jig shoved against a tree with a giant hand around his throat in under two seconds. Jig was no slouch when it came to fighting. He battled it out in a down and dirty underground fighting ring a few times a year, but he wasn’t stupid enough to brawl against his president. Not because of Copper’s size, Jig had a fair shot of taking him down, but because of respect. And even though his actions of the past few moments didn’t express that respect, he had it in spades for his president.
“Don’t you fucking say it, Jigsaw,” Copper ground out, squeezing Jig’s windpipe enough to make breathing difficult but not enough to choke him out.
Shit, it had been a dick move even for him. The big red-headed president was nuts about Shell, the daughter of the club’s previous president. It was painfully obvious she felt the same about him, but Copper was stubborn in his belief that the sixteen years separating them made her off-limits. She’d left town a few years ago, probably sick of seeing Copper day in, day out. When she returned, close to a year ago, it was with an adorable red-haired kiddo in tow.
Jig had stayed away from the clubhouse for two whole weeks after Shell returned, unable to stand the sight of the child. Then, Mav showed up at his door and let him know what a shitheel he was being. So he sucked it up and pretended it didn’t gut him every time he saw that sweet, smiling face. He still avoided her at all costs but tried to keep Shell from noticing.
It had to be a damn dropkick to the heart for Copper the first time he saw the little girl with hair just a few shades lighter than his own. In her heartbreak, or loneliness, or whatever she’d call it, Shell must have fucked the first man who came along and reminded her of Copper. And then she got knocked up for her troubles. As far as he knew, the topic was never discussed between Shell and Copper, but it bred some resentment on Copper’s part. Not that Jig had any right to judge who and how people fucked. His own sexual preferences were the topic of discussion among his MC and their ol’ ladies despite how discrete he tried to be.
“Fuck, Cop, I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have thrown that at you.” The grip around his throat lessened until it disappeared and Copper stepped back.
“My fault,” Copper said. “Shouldn’t have implied you need to handle your grief in any specific way. Shit, brother, not sure I’d ever be functional again if I were you. You’re doing damn well, and if you need a few days each year to be a fucker, you go right ahead.”
Jig chuckled. It didn’t happen often, but once in a while, his brothers brought it out of him. “Nice job, Cop. Apologize and throw in an insult all in one shot.”
Copper laughed, his white teeth gleaming between the red of his beard. “Don’t want you to think I’m going soft on you, brother.” He waved a hand around, growing serious. “How’s this all going? We on schedule?”
With a nod, Jig pointed to the X he’d sprayed on the ground. “I’ve marked off three additional lookout spots. Add them to the two being constructed today, and I think I’m satisfied. Fence will be finished day after tomorrow, Mav installs the cameras this weekend, and we’ve got a few more irons in the fire we’ll get moving on next week.”
Scratching his beard, Copper sighed. “Good. I’ll feel better when that fucking fence is up. We’re stretching the guys real thin with watch schedules. At least when we’re secure on all sides, we can let up a bit.”
Jig grunted his agreement. “Any action from Lefty?”
“Been quiet over the last week or so,” Cop said as he shook his head. “Has me on fuckin pins and needles. I’d almost rather he make a fuckin move. At least I’d know where the bastard is and what he’s planning.”
Jig got that. The calm before the storm was stressful as fuck. Had most of the club on edge. Between the long hours patrolling the grounds, the grueling work during the day, and not knowing what the hell Lefty was planning, the brothers were like a rubber band being stretched farther each day. Sooner or later, it was going to snap.
“Maybe we need to stop playing defense and make our own move.” About two weeks ago, they’d caught one of Lefty’s men. He was one of the guys who’d almost taken Stephanie. After giving Maverick a chance to play with him, Copper and Zach took over and got the information confirming Stephanie’s story. Lefty had been planning an attack on the clubhouse. The only thing that had prevented it was Stephanie telling Copper what she’d heard. Since that day, the clubhouse had been guarded better than an army base. They weren’t on lockdown, but security had increased tenfold, and the ol’ ladies were accompanied everywhere they went, much to their chagrin.
Jig was getting tired of reacting to Lefty’s moves. It was time to act.
“I hear ya, Jig. I agree with you, too. I just want this place safer before we move forward.”
Well, he couldn’t fault him for that. Copper would give his life without thought for any of the men. The brotherhood was the most important thing in their president’s life. He was an excellent fucking leader. “I’m here, one hundred percent focused and present now. I won’t let anything else distract me. Give us another week, Cop.”
Copper stuck out his hand. “I can do that, brother.”
Jig shook his president’s hand and then got back to work, determined to finish ahead of schedule. Anything he could do to help lift the enormous weight of responsibility off Copper’s shoulders.
And now that he knew the only thing standing between him and a little Gray Dragon’s blood was completing the perimeter, he had even more motivation to hustle.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I OFFICIALLY SUCK,” Izzy muttered to herself as she poured the horrible coffee down the drain. Up until she’d moved from New Orleans to Townsend, a grand total of twenty-six days ago, she’d had a handy-dandy Keurig in her apartment. When she’d purchased the small two-bedroom home she now resided in, she’d decided if she was big enough to own a home, she was big enough to brew her own espresso and lattes. So, she’d tossed the Keurig and purchased one of those fancy schmancy espresso machines, only to waste a half pound of expensive beans.
“How come I can’t do this?” And now she was talking to herself. Or the devil-machine. She wasn’t quite sure which was worse. Time to get the hell out of the house and interact with real people who weren’t paying her to inject ink into their skin.
She stood, rolling her shoulders, and glanced do
wn at her outfit. Camo print joggers and a fitted long-sleeved olive T-shirt. Not exactly a fashion plate, but passable. As she stuffed her feet into her favorite electric-purple Nikes, she stretched her arms over her head. Restless energy had been buzzing through her for the past few days. She had grown edgy, uncomfortable with the fact she’d settled into Townsend without a hitch.
The main reason she’d moved was to separate herself from people. That didn’t mean she wanted to be a hermit, but she wanted to avoid emotional entanglements and keep people from getting too close. Letting people in only led to disappointment and heartache. Her life had been full of far too much of that, and she wanted it over. Problem was, she craved that human closeness even if she knew it wasn’t good for her. Probably stemmed from her inner neglected child yearning for love and affection, or some nonsense like that. Time and time again, Izzy let people in, only to be hurt. The goal in moving to a small town with a slower pace of life was to inject some solitude in her life and avoid any more dings to her heart.
Clearly, she had mental problems if achieving her goal was making her twitchy. But it was. She needed action, tension, something to expend her energy on. Usually, there was only one thing that worked to relieve the tension. Okay, two things, but she didn’t think she’d be getting laid any time soon. Yesterday she’d signed up at the local gym. It was time to start training again. The need to pound something would soon become unbearable. A heavy bag, speed bag, and a good sparring partner would take the edge off for a while, but soon she’d need more.
Today, a jog would have to suffice. She snatched her keys and phone off the kitchen island and started toward the door. At the very last second, she turned back and swiped the Post-it a client had left with her. All types of characters came in for tattoos, from impulsive college kids to grannies wanting to commemorate the birth of a grandchild to everything in between. But she definitely met her fair share of exciting players. Like the man who’d scribbled the phone number on the paper she now held.
Halfway through the brisk three-mile jog into town, the post-it was burning a hole through Izzy’s pocket. It was time. She needed to fight more than she needed anything. She’d started with boxing and Brazilian Jujitsu shortly after Len left. It came naturally to her, and the discipline it taught kept the angry teenager she’d become out of some serious trouble. As she’d aged, she’d competed in MMA tournaments and did well. But there was always something missing. Then, at twenty-three, she tagged along with a friend to her first underground fighting ring.
It was rough, raw, no-holds-barred, dirty street fighting. She was fucking hooked from night one and anxious to get a chance in the ring. Not too many female fighters were willing to go unsanctioned, but there were some. Izzy didn’t get the urge to fight all that often, just a handful of times a year, but her contact always came through for her when she needed it and found her a willing partner. On occasion, she’d even fought men, but it wasn’t her preference. Kicking a dude’s ass was a nerve-wracking experience. She never knew how a man was going to react to getting his ass handed to him by a woman. Last thing she needed was some sore-losing psycho showing up in her bedroom in the middle of the night bent on revenge.
A few days prior, she’d had an MMA fighter as a client. They’d been talking shop when he alluded to an underground ring. Her eyes must have betrayed her interest because next thing she knew, she had a number to text if she ever wanted a fight.
And she did. She wanted it bad.
Needed it.
She reached the center of town in about twenty minutes, jogging right up to the diner she had yet to check out. As long as they had coffee that was better than the swill she’d brewed, she was damn happy to fork over some cash.
A cheerful bell jangled as she pushed through the door.
“Table for one?” asked a tiny waitress as she paused in front of Izzy holding a tray with six heaping plates of food. The woman was small, but clearly had arms of steel.
“I can sit at the counter so I don’t hog an entire booth,” Izzy said, nodding her head toward one of the four empty stools at the long diner counter.
“Perfect, pick any seat, and I’ll bring you a menu in two shakes,” she said as she moved toward a table of burly guys who wore leather cuts much as Jig had in Rip’s shop four days ago. Izzy was embarrassed to admit she’d had a few fantasies about the man since then. Good thing she didn’t know any mind readers.
She chose a seat that had an empty stool on each side. Hopefully, they’d remain that way, and she could eat her meal in silence. So much for interacting with real people.
The cheerful blond waitress appeared in front of Izzy. “Okay, here’s your menu.” She had curly hair that just reached her shoulders, sparkly blue eyes, and a sunny personality. Usually, Izzy would hate her on sight, but it wouldn’t kill Izzy to try to be a little more personable.
“Thanks,” she said, taking the thick laminated menu.
“I’m Shell by the way. You want coffee?”
“Yes!” Izzy said, almost like she’d die if she didn’t get some caffeination.
Shell laughed. “Got it, big mug.”
Izzy smiled. “The bigger, the better.”
Tapping her knuckles on the counter, Shell grinned. “Be right back with that. It’ll give you a chance to check out the menu.”
Two minutes later, a mug the size of a cereal bowl landed in front of her. “You’re a goddess,” Izzy said. “A coffee-bearing goddess.”
Shell threw her head back and let out a loud laugh. “Oh man, today I’ve been called ‘mommy,’ ‘hey you,’ and ‘damned woman.’ I think goddess trumps them all. Could you say it again?”
Izzy laughed. Shell was hilarious. It wasn’t often she made a connection with another female. Most found her intimidating. After all, she was tall, athletic, inked, and had been told she rocked a resting bitch face like no other. But Shell seemed unaffected by any of that. Maybe she was just a good actress, working it for tips, but Izzy had the impression she was just an all-around sweet person. “Damned woman?”
“Yep, twice.” Shell pointed to the table of bikers. “Big red-headed one. I’m kinda the bane of his existence.” She winked and set a bowl of sugar packets and a tiny pitcher of cream in front of Izzy.
“You say that like you enjoy it,” Izzy said as she dumped half the small pitcher into her mug then tore open five packets of sugar in one move. Well, look at that. Back and forth conversation. Huh, maybe the move to Tennessee had been good for her. Perhaps she could loosen up and socialize while keeping herself and her emotions at a healthy distance.
“Gotta get my fun where I can.” Shell snorted out a laugh. She pointed to Izzy’s mug. “Oh, my God, you drink your coffee like I do! And you called me a goddess. I think I’m falling in love with you. Any chance you swing that way?”
It was Izzy’s turn to snort, almost spilling the cream. Shit, had she read the situation completely wrong? Was Shell flirting with her? She’d hate to give the woman the false impression of interest. With a shrug, she said, “Sorry, Shell, I love dick too much to give it up.”
Shell sighed. “Yeah, me, too.”
Ahh, just being snarky. “And I don’t think it’s possible to get coffee light enough or sweet enough.”
“Right?” Shell’s smile was huge. “I’m surrounded by black coffee drinkers in my life. Nice to meet another who doctors the hell out of it. Decided on what you want to eat yet?”
“What do you recommend?”
“Cinnamon roll waffles. They’re our best seller, hands down.”
Izzy groaned. That sounded beyond amazing. “What do you recommend for someone who ate half a sleeve of Oreos last night and is doing penance today?”
“Well, if you were me, you’d still eat the waffles,” Shell said with a grin.
Yeah, like the itty-bitty woman gorged out on fat and sugar-laden cinnamon waffles often.
“But you seem to be looking for something lighter so I’d go with the Mediterranean egg white o
melet. Spinach, tomatoes, feta and a side of fresh fruit.”
“Perfect.” Izzy handed her menu back to Shell.
“It’ll be up in a few. Enjoy your coffee.” Shell moved on to a customer a few stools down as Izzy sipped her coffee.
Ahhh, sugar and caffeine, the perfect cavity-inducing, heart-pounding elixir. The next few minutes passed in peaceful silence. Well, not silence since there was a hum of chatter in the crowded diner, but Izzy didn’t have to take part in it, and that was good enough for her.
But then, a body settled on the stool next to her. “You must be Izzy.”
And there went the peaceful meal. Plastering on what she hoped looked like a genuine smile, Izzy faced the woman sitting on the stool. Geez, did the women around here come in anything but small and blond. “I am, and you are?”
She smiled, warm and welcoming. “Stephanie. Heard you’re new here. Welcome to town. How are you settling in?”
Izzy pursed her lips and racked her brain. Was she supposed to know who this Stephanie was? “Sorry, I’m trying to place you but…”
“Oh, sorry.” Steph rolled her eyes. “I belong to…” She turned and stared at the front door. “Just a second…” It opened, and Maverick strode in looking like he owned the place. His gaze caught Stephanie’s, and he winked while moving his hand to his crotch.
Stephanie’s face pinked, and she turned back around. “You know, I guess he’s not here right now.”
Izzy burst out laughing. She laughed so hard she could barely take a breath. “Oh, my God, that was funny,” she said, slapping her palm on the countertop. “So you belong to Maverick?” she asked once she had control of herself.
Still bright pink, Stephanie nodded. “Guilty as charged. Anyway, he told me he met a new-to-here-but-not-new tattoo artist with long legs and an even longer braid.” Stephanie pointed to Izzy’s hair. “Had to be you.”
Now it was Izzy’s turn to feel heat in her face. “Sorry about the hot tattoo artist comment. I don’t think he meant anything by it.”