Rocket (Hell's Handlers MC 5)

Izzy snorted. “Called you princess for a reason, didn’t I?”

“Iz,” Jig said, frowning at her. She just winked back at her man.

Chloe stared down at the fire-engine red gloves. Maybe they should scrap this whole idea. Just because the notion of being able to fight sent a surge of exhilaration through her didn’t mean she was cut out for it. Wouldn’t she have been able to fend off Lefty a bit better had a battle-drive been engrained in her?

Izzy’s voice cut through her musing. “Sometimes it helps to picture someone’s face on the pads. Someone you hate. Someone you want to hurt. Someone who hurt you.” Gone was any teasing. All that remained was a serious recommendation that also reeked of personal understanding. But then she smirked. “Or someone who straight up pissed you off,” she said with a sparkle in her eye. “I don’t know. Maybe someone tall, growly, who doesn’t say much. Rides a motorcycle.”

Jig grunted and rolled his eyes.

Pressing her lips together, Chloe managed to keep from smiling. Mad as she was at him, Rocket’s face wouldn’t conjure the type of rage she needed to fuel this exercise. She shifted her focus to the pads. Lefty had a face she wouldn’t forget any time soon. Or ever. It haunted her nightmares and lurked in every dark corner she walked past. Here was her chance to demolish him, if only metaphorically.

A tingling started in the base of her spine and crawled its way up to her shoulders. She rolled them, loosening the tension in her neck and straightening her posture. Crackles of energy flowed through her limbs making her feel strong, invincible.

There it was. The illusive high she chased on Friday and Saturday nights. The same buzz she experienced handcuffing a man to her bed and taking control. She smiled. Good thing there wasn’t a mirror in this room. She had a feeling her grin was a bit evil.

Power. Dominance. Command. The upper hand.

Her drug of choice.

Lefty’s face appeared on Jigsaw’s pads.

Game on.

With a warrior’s cry, Chloe hurled everything she had into beating on those pads. For long minutes, she threw punch after punch, as hard as her not very toned arms possibly could. Jig staggered on his feet, absorbing every single blow. Not once did he or Izzy speak. No encouragement, no critique. They just let her get it all out. With a final cry, Chloe connected with the pad one last time as her knees gave out. Breath heaving, she dropped to the mat. She rested her forehead on the cool vinyl, hands on either side of her head, enjoying the gallop of her heart.

Both Jig and Izzy remained quiet, giving her body and mind time to quiet. She had no idea how long she stayed curled up like a child, but when she got herself together, and rose to her knees, both her new friends were smiling at her with proud grins. Jig was right. That was some damn good tension relief.

“More,” she said, rising on trembling legs. “I want to do more.”

“Maybe tomorrow. You’re going to be sore enough as it is.” Jig started to remove one of the punch mitts.

“No!” Chloe bounced on the balls of her feet, pounding her gloves together. “I feel so good, so full of energy. Like I’ve had three Red Bulls in the last half hour. Teach me how to do this right.”

Izzy threw back her head and laughed. “She caught the fever, babe. Looks like our girl won’t be a princess for long.”

Chloe locked eyes with Izzy, giving her a nod. A silent thank you, to her new friend for yanking her out of her funk and giving her an emotional and physical outlet for the fucked-up thoughts in her head.

“Let’s do it,” Jig said, but his attention was on something behind her.

Chloe glanced over her shoulder at the open door, and could have sworn she caught a glimpse of Logan passing by. But it couldn’t be. He had made himself completely scarce in the time since she asked him to scram.

She missed his presence. Missed the intense way he looked at her and the feeling of safety when he was around. She also missed his body and the pleasure she’d found in him.

And that was terrifying. Because he wasn’t Logan anymore, not really. Now he was Rocket. And she didn’t know Rocket. She knew Logan, the sexy, brooding contractor who let her use his body to work out her issues. Rocket, the biker who told her he had fantasies of murdering Lefty was a mystery to her. And he hadn’t been kidding. He was capable of killing, and she had a feeling Lefty’s wouldn’t be the first life he’d taken. Rocket lived in a world she was ignorant of, where women were kidnapped, and clubhouses put on lockdown.