Jigsaw (Hell's Handlers MC 3)

What the hell was with everyone pairing off? “Rip?” she asked in a sing-song voice. “Are you in love?”

He snorted and flipped her off. “Shut up, kid. Let me get to my point here.”

She wasn’t sure she could take much more. One more person leaving her life. Someone she’d thought would be in her life for years to come. Add it to the tally. Swallowing, Izzy steeled her face and tried not to show the ache of disappointment. “Moving wasn’t your point?”

“No. God, have you always been this sassy?” He stared at the ceiling and threw up his hands.

“Yes.” Izzy laughed. “Sorry, old man. Get to it.”

“I want to sell you the business. Can’t think of anyone I’d rather leave the place to.”

For the second time that day, Izzy’s eyes welled. “Shit, Rip, you know I’d love nothing more than to carry on your legacy, but I’m in no position to buy a shop.”

He held up his hand and scowled, but it was all for show. Deep down the man was as soft as a melted marshmallow. “Can you stop running your mouth and let me finish?”

“Yeah.” She was truly going to miss her gruff mentor.

“I’d like to sell you the place for one dollar.”

“Rip—” Was he out of his mind?

“I say it was your turn to speak yet?” His brusque voice was full of affection. People didn’t do things like this. Didn’t just hand over a store to someone not even a blood relative. What was it with this town? First, the bikers had jumped in to help her on more than on occasion, now Rip practically was handing her his shop on a silver platter. Of course, he was still leaving her, but somehow his wanting to make sure she was well set up eased some of that sting.

Izzy rolled her lips inward to keep from giggling. “Nope.”

Was the other shoe about to drop? Because people didn’t just help and give; they took and neglected.

He grunted. “I told you I got money. Don’t need to sell this place for more of it. Thought of it closing is the only thing that makes me sad about leaving. So, you take it. Keep ’er open for me. Give good ink.”

Arguing was pointless. Rip’s mind was made up. The determination to get his way was evident in his narrowed eyes and the set of his jaw.

“Am I allowed to talk now?” she asked after enduring a few seconds of the stare-down.

“Long as you don’t say some stupid shit about not deservin’ it or not feelin’ right takin’ it from me.”

“I won’t.”

“’Kay.” He rested his elbow on the tattoo chair to his side.

“Thank you,” she said with a crack in her voice. “I-I’m honored, and I’ll take excellent care of your baby.”

He stood and patted her shoulder. “Know you will, kid. Wouldn’t have given ’er to you otherwise.” With that, he disappeared into his office. That was about as touchy-feely as Rip got. For anyone else, it was the equivalent of a bear hug and vomiting feelings all over the room.

Her shop. She glanced around the very simple and understated room.

Her shop.

Already, ideas for growth, expansion, and remodeling were pinging around in her head. Izzy smiled just as the bells jangled once again. “Hey, welcome to Inked. What can I do for you?”

The potential client looked about five minutes out of puberty with a scraggly smattering of light brown peach fuzz on his chin, a few zits, and about a gallon of goop in his sand-colored hair.

Izzy’s bullshit meter started to rise.

“Want some ink,” he said, puffing out his chest like that would somehow make her believe he was of age.

Folding her arms across her chest, Izzy leaned her hip against the reception counter. “Hmm,” she said. “You got any ID on you proving you’re eighteen?”

“What?” He froze for a second then said, “Oh, yeah. I, uh, got it right here.” After a few moments of hunting in his baggy pockets, he dug out a card and handed it to her. She took one look at the Tennessee license and burst out laughing. The guy in the photo had ten years and fifty pounds on this kid. Only thing they had in common was the inability to grow a full beard.

With as gentle a smile as she could muster when she wanted to boot him out the door for wasting her time, she said, “Sorry, kid, but there is no way this is you.” She held out the ID. “Come on back when you turn eighteen. Unless you want to bring your parents. I can ink you if I have their consent.”

He snatched the license back and got right up in her face. Too bad he was two inches shorter than she was in her heels. And she could probably snap his twiggy neck with ease. “Listen, bitch—”