by Lilly Atlas
Stephanie waved her hand and rolled her eyes. “Please, I’m well aware of how that man operates, and he’s well aware that he’ll never be able to operate again if he crosses any lines. He’s just a pathologic flirt. He’s harmless.”
Phew. A jealous woman was not something Izzy was equipped to deal with. “You’ll have to come with him if he makes an appointment.”
“I definitely will. I’d love to see you at work. It’s such a badass job. And as you can see, my man is a fan of ink.”
Shell returned then with Izzy’s food. “Here you go. Need anything else? Ketchup, hot sauce?”
“Hot sauce please.”
A bottle of Tabasco appeared. When Shell smiled at Stephanie, some of the light in her eyes was missing. Though both women seemed to know each other and seemed pleasant enough, Izzy sensed some tension. “The usual, Steph?” Shell asked, her voice flatter than it had been speaking with Izzy.
“Please. Thanks, Shell.” Stephanie gave her a smile that looked a little sad, almost apologetic.
“Kay, be back in a few.” Shell bustled off, busy with the morning rush.
Beside her, Steph sighed and picked at her napkin.
Stay out of it. Not your business.
But hadn’t she been sick of talking to herself in her empty house? Maybe it was time to be friendlier and speak to others. Just because she wasn’t about to form close attachments didn’t mean she needed to become the town bitch.
“You good?” she asked Steph.
The other woman seemed to snap out of her funk. “Yeah, sorry. Just working through some stuff with some of the MC members. I, uh, did something that broke their trust. I’m getting back in, but it’s not always easy.”
Huh. It was admirable. Everyone fucked up on occasion, but in Izzy’s experience, no one stuck around long enough to work it out, apologize, or fix what they’d broken. She wasn’t much better. New Orleans had become more complicated than she’d bargained for, so she left. As she’d done with the previous two places she’d lived. Maybe she could learn a thing or two from Stephanie.
“You obviously care enough to try and fix it.” Didn’t matter what Stephanie did. She wasn’t hiding the fact that she screwed up and wasn’t making excuses for her behavior. She seemed genuinely willing to fix it. That was more than enough for Izzy to like her.
“Well, I love Maverick. And his club is his family. His world. Hell, they were well on their way to becoming my family before I mucked it all up. So, yeah, I’ll do damn near anything to fix it.”
Just then Maverick wrapped his arms around Stephanie from behind. “They’re all coming around, baby,” he whispered, but not low enough for Izzy to miss it. “You forget that you saved the ass of each and every man in the club. They all recognize that.” He pressed his lips to the curve of Stephanie’s neck, and she sighed in pleasure, melting against his chest.
There was a story there, too. This MC seemed to be full of them. A quick peek at the table of bikers showed Jigsaw still wasn’t among the breakfast crew. Interesting. Was he still having a rough time due to whatever memories the tattoo evoked? Part of her wanted another look at him. He couldn’t possibly be as sexy as her mind remembered, could he?
Nope. Not going there.
A strange pang hit dead center in Izzy’s chest when she turned back to Maverick and Stephanie. She had to glance away. Love was written all over those two, and Izzy had no idea how to react to those feelings. She could honestly say she’d never spent any significant amount of time with people who loved each other, romantic or otherwise. Her mother loved only herself, and Izzy hadn’t let herself get close enough to anyone to love them. By now, her ability to love had to be stunted for sure.
She chatted off and on with Stephanie and Shell as she finished her meal then made her way back outside. She’d walk the distance back home since jogging on a full stomach was never a good idea.
Instead of curing the feeling of restlessness, her experience at the diner had intensified them. She wasn’t used to putting herself out there, and it was starting to grate on her. Drawing the phone number out of her pocket, she opened a new text and entered the information she was instructed to relay.
Izzy Monroe.
5’8”.
150 lbs.
10 wins 2 losses.
When she was just about home, her phone buzzed.
Friday night. 10pm. Will send directions Friday afternoon.
Immediately, some of the tension left her spine. She had five days to get ready for her next match, which should keep her mind and body occupied.
And away from thoughts of hot, brooding bikers with sad stories.
CHAPTER FIVE
JIG SPIT HIS mouthguard into his hand and sucked tremendous gulps of icy water straight from the gallon jug.
Damn, he was thirsty. The exertion, plastic mouthguard, and heavy breathing left him parched every time.
A hefty hand slapped him on the back, making the jug slip from his lips. Freezing water sloshed over his bare chest and ran in arctic-cold streams down his abs. If he hadn’t been so overheated, the blast of frigid water would have made his balls shrivel, but since he’d just beat the ass of some punk from out of state, he needed the cooldown.
“Good fucking fight, brother,” Zach said. “Somehow you managed to wipe the floor with him even though I haven’t seen you in my gym in two weeks.” He raised an eyebrow and tossed Jig a towel.
“Been working out at home,” Jig said as he wiped perspiration off his face and neck.
Zach grunted. “Fuck that. You need to spar, not just lift and hit the bag. Don’t want to say you got lucky tonight, but this guy wasn’t the toughest fucker you’ve faced.”
Was Zach for real? Jig just knocked some shitbag out in two rounds, and Zach was ragging on him? He opened his mouth to fire back at his brother when Zach’s face broke out in a shit-eating grin.
“Messing with ya,” Zach said.
Fucker.
Still cocky like he was the one who kicked ass, Zach said, “But seriously, you need to get back in the gym before the next fight. The next guy ain’t a slouch. When is it? Six weeks from now?”
Jig nodded. “Yeah, and I will. Just been a rough few weeks.” His heart gradually returned to a resting rate as the thrill of the fight seeped from his body. Already, just a few minutes out, the heavy weight of sorrow he’d been carrying around for the past few weeks had lightened. Always did when he pushed his body to extremes.
Nothing compared to the intense physical exertion of battling another human being when it came to ridding the body and mind of whatever toxicity had invaded them. Jig had tried to replicate the feeling in the gym, pushing himself to the limit for hours with weights, running, even flipping tires, but he could never shake the grip of despair unless he was fighting a down and dirty match.
Sometimes, as he dodged punches and used his intelligence to outwit his opponents, he was struck with the difference between the man who occupied the ring and the man he’d once been and always had planned to be.
If the Lincoln of just seven years ago had been told he would one day become an MMA-fighting, outlaw biker with more sins on his back than the devil himself, he’d have fallen to the ground with belly-heaving laughter. The man he’d been in those days felt guilty for killing a spider. Never would he have imagined laying his hands on another human being and enjoying the fuck out of it. Craving it, really. But life had changed him in the harshest of ways. Not just changed what he believed or how he acted, but fundamentally changed who he was at the core. At a cellular level, he wasn’t the man he’d been.
Some days he felt at peace with the hardened, tough biker and fighter he’d developed into. No one fucked with him anymore. If they tried, they ended up bleeding and broken. Being on top of the food chain had its perks, and security was one of them. Of course, Lefty was stupid enough to threaten that security, but Jig had no doubt his MC would take care of the Gray Dragons gang in time.
Once in a while, thou
gh, something would trip a memory, and he’d be ravaged by thoughts of Callie and how she’d hate the man he’d transformed into. Maybe hate was a strong word, but she’d sure as hell fear him. She’d loathed motorcycles, shaking her pretty blond head every time one zipped by them on the highway. Would she have changed her mind if she’d had the chance to experience the wind in her hair and the freedom the open road provided? Would she have gone off the deep end and morphed into a completely different version of herself had she been the one to come home to a scene straight out of a slasher film?
He’d never know.
Life sure was one confounding bitch.
“Hey, Jig, you with us, brother?”
Jig blinked the world back into focus. Shit, he’d really wandered. Zach was looking at him like he was two seconds away from dragging his ass to the looney bin, as were Maverick and Stephanie who must have joined them during his quick vacation from reality.
“You take a hard hit to the cranium or something?” Zach asked.
Jig shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. Just thinking about some shit for a minute. How’d you like your first walk on the dark side, Steph?” Up until she’d met Mav, she’d been quite the line-toeing FBI agent who would’ve only been at an underground fight if she was the one busting it up. But she had some martial arts experience, so she’d been interested in checking it out.
Surprise registered on her face before it lit up with happiness, making him feel like an ass. He didn’t associate much with the ol’ ladies unless he was forced to or they sought him out. Steph was constantly trying to engage him, so she looked thrilled that he’d initiated the conversation. Anything to keep his brothers from prying into his dark and twisted mind.
He bet Izzy wouldn’t shy away from something like this. She seemed like the type of woman who could handle just about anything.
Not that he was thinking about her…again.
“This place is out of control,” Steph said, a flush of excitement deepening her blue eyes. Her face was glowing as well; from excitement, adrenaline, or the heat of the fucking warehouse, he had no idea.
“Yeah, it takes a minute to get used to it.” The locations of the fights varied constantly. It was rare to use a spot twice in a row. Less risk of the cops sniffing it out. Old warehouses were most common, sometimes up to ninety minutes away from Townsend. During the summer months, they’d occasionally be held on an abandoned farm or large clearing in the woods, but it was getting too fucking cold for outdoor games.
“I didn’t expect it to be so…” She let her gaze wander around to where men drank, smoked, and generally acted like animals. There was a fair number of women present, all much less dressed than Stephanie, assets on display. “Grrr.”
“Gets pretty intense,” Zach responded. “Toni refuses to come to ‘barbarian night.’” He crooked his fingers in air quotes. Zach’s woman had never been a fan of the fights. Most of the women associated with the club tended to skip it. They typically had a wine-soaked girls’ night instead or some shit. Jig avoided that scene like he avoided overused snatch.
“I like it,” she said matter-of-fact, like she was deciding whether or not she liked a new blender. Looks-wise, Steph was his typical type to a T. Small, blond, blue-eyed, delicate looking. But she was tough as shit, sassy, and a ball-buster. That’s where the appeal ended for him. Who the hell wanted a back-talking woman full of snark?
Not him.
Dressed in black pants that hugged her legs and a skin-tight Hell’s Handlers T-shirt under a leather jacket, Steph nuzzled her nose into the crook of Maverick’s neck. She was always wearing Handlers’ shit. Mav seemed to have some fetish for the club’s name scrawled across her tits.
Speaking of, the man in question leaned in and whispered something in Stephanie’s ear that had her turning bright pink. Those two had been known to get it on in public a time or two so Jig wouldn’t be surprised if they found a dark corner to go at it in a few minutes. Maybe another round of watching two near naked sweaty men wailing on each other would get her motor revving enough to throw caution to the wind.
“Can you two keep your pants on long enough to make it through the next match? I got some serious money riding on this one.” Zach grinned and rubbed his palms together.
“Oh, fuck, is this the one?” Mav looked like a kid about to dive into a giant bowl of ice cream. “Been waiting for it.” All three of them peeked at Jig then seemed to purposely avoid his gaze.
Jig frowned and shrugged into his own Handlers’ tee. “Who’s fighting?”
“Oh, just you wait, my brother,” Mav said. Even Stephanie had a mischievous gleam in her eye. What the fuck was going on?
“All right, all right. We have a very special matchup for you next,” the announcer boomed through the microphone. Jig followed the sound to the elevated ring and waited for the reveal. “Not too often do we get two bitches fighting, but what man doesn’t love a little girl on girl action? Huh?”
This was the first time in five years Jig had seen a match between two females at one of these events. Underground fighting wasn’t for the faint of heart. No biting, no eye-gouging, and no weapons were pretty much the only rules. Otherwise, it was anything goes. There were nights when bloodied men were carried out to cars limp and barely breathing. Jig had sent one or two of them that route himself.
He’d always had a thing for girly girls. Soft, gentle woman who needed protection. A hardened fighter wouldn’t trip his trigger. Maybe he’d just bail on the rest of the evening.
“First up, we’ve got Kristen, The Razor, Hudson.” The crowd of drunk and horny men screamed and shouted as a beast of a woman jogged into view. She wore a hooded jacket, as was custom, and bent forward to slip through the ropes. When she arrived next to the emcee, she tugged the hoodie off. A buzz cut, a scorpion neck tattoo, and a six-pack that rivaled his own greeted the crowd. Her face was a mask of jaded concentration. The woman looked like she ate nails for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Jig would rather get stung by the scorpion on her neck than let her within ten feet of his dick. She’d probably rip the thing off and toss it across the room.
“Yikes,” Steph whispered. “That is one scary lady.”
“Don’t worry, our girl’ll be fine,” Mav whispered back.
Our girl? Who the fuck were they talking about? Did they know the opponent? Jig wracked his brain but couldn’t think of a single female he knew crazy enough to step into an underground fighting ring.
“And coming in on my left we have, Isabella, The Empress, Monroe.”
“Here she comes, here she comes.” Stephanie bounced up and down, dislodging Maverick’s arm from her shoulders. “I’m so excited. I’m so nervous.”
Who the fuck…?
Jig stared at the ring as the second woman, also in a hooded jacket, jogged out. As with the first woman, she removed her jacket when she reached the MC. Jig sucked in a breath—
Holy. Mother. Of. Fucks.
Izzy. The badass tattoo artist whose ink he swore he could feel deep in the meat of his thigh stood in the ring looking like a warrior ready for battle. Insane of course, but true.
Izzy was about to let someone attack her?
Every protective instinct he’d buried deep flared to life. Every lesson he’d learned from his Southern gentleman father as a young man about chivalry, shielding women, taking on a traditionally male role, came rushing back to him. Even though he’d met some tough as hell women who could more than take care of themselves since he’d joined the MC, he forgot all about them.
With tunnel vision, he took a step forward only to meet the surprisingly powerful slap of Mav’s hand on his chest.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Mav asked, his smirk so big it almost reached his ears. The asshole was loving every second of this.
“Nothing. I’m just getting a better view.”
Both Zach and Mav laughed like his face and his ass had switched positions. “Told you he had a hard-on for her,
” Mav said to Zach, who was also enjoying this too fucking much.
“Guys,” Stephanie said, slapping Mav’s arm. “Leave Jig alone.” She beamed at him, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If Stephanie planned on playing matchmaker, she’d be sorely disappointed when her plan fell on its face. His reaction had been a combination of shock at seeing Izzy and a momentary lapse of judgment.
“Betting is closed,” the announcer said. “Ladies, to your corners.” Izzy strode to the front left corner of the ring with all the confidence of a queen. Hips swinging, flat stomach rippling as she walked, she looked fucking hot. Her hair was pulled back into a tight braid as it had been the last time he’d seen her, but tonight she’d coiled the long tail into a bun at the base of her scalp. Smart. Hair pulling was allowed, and that long braid would have been the perfect handle for her opponent.
She wore a mask of intense concentration, seemingly oblivious to the crowd. Did she know he was there? Had she seen his fight? He almost laughed out loud. Like she was supposed to give some kind of fuck that he was there. Like he was supposed to give a fuck whether she gave a fuck.
He was losing his mind. Maybe he had taken a hard hit to the head.
Izzy’s opponent had a coach of some kind with her, but Izzy was alone. She shouldn’t be alone. Even Jig had Zach in his corner. She’d need someone to hand her water, wipe away any blood—Jesus, she might bleed—and give her pointers. Someone to catch something she might miss about her opponent. Occasionally being so close to the action, fighters missed little details about their opponents a third party would notice.
Jig sure as hell wasn’t volunteering for the job, but…
“How the fuck did you know she was gonna be here, Z? How do you even know her?” Jig asked.
“She’s been training at the gym for hours every night over the past week. She’s damn good, brother. Overheard her muttering to herself about a match and put two and two together.”
“She by herself?”