Jigsaw (Hell's Handlers MC 3)

“I’m good, Iz,” he said. “Just want to make sure you get settled, then I’ll bug out and let you sleep.”

Sleep. Oh man, that sounded too good to be true. “You sure I can’t invite that poor kid in and let him crash on my couch?” she asked for the third time.

Jig’s expression hardened. “I’m very sure. I find out that little shit’s been in here, and he’ll never get a patch. You hear me?”

As she walked through her den toward her couch, she raised her hands to shoulder level. “All right, all right. Don’t shoot. I just feel bad for the guy.” She grabbed the armrest and lowered herself to the couch, biting her lip to keep the cry of pain at bay. Jig did not need to know she’d lied when she told the male nurse her pain was four out of ten. Really, it probably floated at the seven, eight level, but the man would have insisted she stay the night if she hadn’t fudged the numbers a bit.

Following behind her, Jig frowned as he watched her sit and thankfully didn’t comment on the awkward way she lowered herself to the couch. Bending wasn’t exactly comfortable. “Where do you want your meds?” He held up a brown paper bag full of all sorts of goodies.

Her head flopped back on the cushion. “Kitchen table,” she said, pointing to the kitchen entrance off the den.

Thirty seconds later, Jig returned with a glass full of more ice than water. “Here,” he said, holding it out to her. “Figure the ice will feel good on your throat.”

She eyed him before taking the glass and a greedy gulp. Okay, he was right. The icy water felt terrific sliding through her abused throat. After lowering the glass, she met his assessing gaze. “What? I’m good now. You don’t have to stick around.” She wasn’t used to men in her personal space, and his presence was making her twitchy. There had to be some ulterior motive. People didn’t just hang around waiting to be needed by someone they barely knew.

He dropped into a chair across the coffee table and smirked. “Nice view.”

“Thanks.” The view through a row of six long rectangular windows were what had sold her on the house. Neighbors were spread out, and she had a fantastic shot of the mountains straight out her front yard. “So, you going?”

With a shake of his head and a huff, he said, “Just want to make sure you’re good. See if there’s anything you need.”

If her throat wasn’t so sore, she’d have growled. “Look, Jig. I thought you were over the guilt thing. I’m good. I’m a fighter. This sure as hell isn’t the first time I’ve been bruised to shit. Right now? There are only three things I need, a drink”—she held up the water—“much harder than this, an orgasm, and about a year of sleep. So, yes, you can help by grabbing the bourbon off my counter and then leaving so my vibrator and I can get down to business.”

Fuck the pills, a stiff drink and a good orgasm were better pain relievers any day of the week. For about ten seconds, Izzy thought Jig was going to feed her some line about mixing pain pills and alcohol, but he eventually rose and disappeared into her kitchen. She should have known better. Outlaw bikers weren’t exactly big on sticking to the rules. They were supposed to be good at the orgasm thing though she’d never ask him for one. She’d make due on her own.

He returned with two glasses, doubles of bourbon.

Stepping up to her, he handed one over. Without hesitation, she swallowed the entire thing in two gulps. Felt like fire on her throat, but within a few minutes, she wouldn’t care. Jig chuckled as she plunked the glass down on her end table. He still stood between her coffee table and her knees, watching her with that brooding gaze she couldn’t quite decipher. A constant mix of pain, rage, sadness, and sometimes heat. With his rock-hard abs, bad boy scar, chiseled jaw, and biker cut, it was a dangerous combination. The kind of mix that made a woman want to figure him out and heal him with both her heart and what was between her legs.

Good thing Izzy had already learned to steer clear of entanglements.

“Want another?” he asked, holding the open bottle over her empty glass.

She raised an eyebrow. “A bird can’t fly with one wing.”

His little chuckle was music to her ears. It didn’t happen often, which was what made it so special. The day the man let it all go and belly laughed, she’d be able to die a happy woman.

And, well, fuck if that didn’t sound like she was getting sucked into his web.

“Have at it.” Jig refilled her glass, but this time she took a sip and didn’t slam the entire thing.