Jigsaw (Hell's Handlers MC 3)

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.

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.