Jigsaw (Hell's Handlers MC 3)

Jig frowned and shrugged into his own Handlers’ tee. “Who’s fighting?”

“Oh, just you wait, my brother,” Mav said. Even Stephanie had a mischievous gleam in her eye. What the fuck was going on?

“All right, all right. We have a very special matchup for you next,” the announcer boomed through the microphone. Jig followed the sound to the elevated ring and waited for the reveal. “Not too often do we get two bitches fighting, but what man doesn’t love a little girl on girl action? Huh?”

This was the first time in five years Jig had seen a match between two females at one of these events. Underground fighting wasn’t for the faint of heart. No biting, no eye-gouging, and no weapons were pretty much the only rules. Otherwise, it was anything goes. There were nights when bloodied men were carried out to cars limp and barely breathing. Jig had sent one or two of them that route himself.

He’d always had a thing for girly girls. Soft, gentle woman who needed protection. A hardened fighter wouldn’t trip his trigger. Maybe he’d just bail on the rest of the evening.

“First up, we’ve got Kristen, The Razor, Hudson.” The crowd of drunk and horny men screamed and shouted as a beast of a woman jogged into view. She wore a hooded jacket, as was custom, and bent forward to slip through the ropes. When she arrived next to the emcee, she tugged the hoodie off. A buzz cut, a scorpion neck tattoo, and a six-pack that rivaled his own greeted the crowd. Her face was a mask of jaded concentration. The woman looked like she ate nails for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Jig would rather get stung by the scorpion on her neck than let her within ten feet of his dick. She’d probably rip the thing off and toss it across the room.

“Yikes,” Steph whispered. “That is one scary lady.”

“Don’t worry, our girl’ll be fine,” Mav whispered back.

Our girl? Who the fuck were they talking about? Did they know the opponent? Jig wracked his brain but couldn’t think of a single female he knew crazy enough to step into an underground fighting ring.

“And coming in on my left we have, Isabella, The Empress, Monroe.”

“Here she comes, here she comes.” Stephanie bounced up and down, dislodging Maverick’s arm from her shoulders. “I’m so excited. I’m so nervous.”

Who the fuck…?

Jig stared at the ring as the second woman, also in a hooded jacket, jogged out. As with the first woman, she removed her jacket when she reached the MC. Jig sucked in a breath—

Holy. Mother. Of. Fucks.

Izzy. The badass tattoo artist whose ink he swore he could feel deep in the meat of his thigh stood in the ring looking like a warrior ready for battle. Insane of course, but true.

Izzy was about to let someone attack her?

Every protective instinct he’d buried deep flared to life. Every lesson he’d learned from his Southern gentleman father as a young man about chivalry, shielding women, taking on a traditionally male role, came rushing back to him. Even though he’d met some tough as hell women who could more than take care of themselves since he’d joined the MC, he forgot all about them.

With tunnel vision, he took a step forward only to meet the surprisingly powerful slap of Mav’s hand on his chest.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Mav asked, his smirk so big it almost reached his ears. The asshole was loving every second of this.

“Nothing. I’m just getting a better view.”

Both Zach and Mav laughed like his face and his ass had switched positions. “Told you he had a hard-on for her,” Mav said to Zach, who was also enjoying this too fucking much.

“Guys,” Stephanie said, slapping Mav’s arm. “Leave Jig alone.” She beamed at him, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If Stephanie planned on playing matchmaker, she’d be sorely disappointed when her plan fell on its face. His reaction had been a combination of shock at seeing Izzy and a momentary lapse of judgment.

“Betting is closed,” the announcer said. “Ladies, to your corners.” Izzy strode to the front left corner of the ring with all the confidence of a queen. Hips swinging, flat stomach rippling as she walked, she looked fucking hot. Her hair was pulled back into a tight braid as it had been the last time he’d seen her, but tonight she’d coiled the long tail into a bun at the base of her scalp. Smart. Hair pulling was allowed, and that long braid would have been the perfect handle for her opponent.

She wore a mask of intense concentration, seemingly oblivious to the crowd. Did she know he was there? Had she seen his fight? He almost laughed out loud. Like she was supposed to give some kind of fuck that he was there. Like he was supposed to give a fuck whether she gave a fuck.