Jigsaw (Hell's Handlers MC 3)

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 down 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.