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At both Jig and Copper’s raised eyebrows, Izzy laughed. “What? I stay current on trends. You wouldn’t believe how many requests we get in the shop asking for prison tats. Little posers wanting to look tough for the big boys. Rip’s policy is that we send ’em packing. Anyway, his other ink was shitty. Definitely not from Rip or myself. Probably not from a shop anywhere. More like my-brother’s-best-friend-inked-me-in-his-garage kinda thing. Pure garbage.”
Jig couldn’t help but laugh. Here she was all beat-up, telling an outlaw MC president about the gang leader who sent men to give her a message, and she was more worried about the shitty artistry than her own welfare.
“What?” she asked, scrunching her forehead.
“Nothing, sweetheart, go on.”
Sweetheart? Where the hell had that come from?
Izzy’s eyes widened, and she cleared her throat as best she could, though it sounded weak. “Uh, where was I? Oh right, they wanted me to tell you the clubhouse wasn’t safe despite the extra security, their business is booming, and they can get to anyone easily.” She pointed to her neck. “Exhibit A.”
“Fuck.” Copper looked at Jig with an unspoken question in his eye and Jig nodded. They were on the same wavelength. Business was booming. Somehow, flying under the Handlers’ radar, Lefty was still trafficking women. And now they’d put their hands on Izzy. Wrapped them around her neck and squeezed hard enough to bruise. Rage bubbled in him like a pot about to boil over. Slaughtering them would be a pleasure.
“What’s that look?” Izzy asked. “You just talked to each other with your eyes.”
“Nothing, killer,” Copper said, and Jig stifled a laugh. He’d spent enough time with Izzy over the past two weeks to know she wasn’t gonna let that fly.
Her eyes narrowed in what he was coming to call her oh-hell-no look. The one that said she wasn’t buying what Copper was selling.
“What’s their business? Drugs? Guns?”
Copper studied her for a moment, looked to Jig, then back to Izzy. “Women.”
Her forehead scrunched. “Women? They’re pimps?”
The prez shook his head, that red beard moving back and forth. “Maybe I should have said girls. Young, unwilling girls.”
“Holy shit,” she breathed. “Sex trafficking?” At Jig’s nod, she said, “Well what are we going to do about it?”
“We aren’t going to do shit about it,” Jig said. She was out of her ever-loving mind and probably needed an MRI of her head if she thought her involvement with this wasn’t over. “The club will handle it.”
Those eyes narrowed again, dangerously this time.
Copper cleared his throat. “We’re gonna put a man on you, Izzy.” As her mouth opened, he held up his hand. “It’s as much for our benefit as your protection. I know you can handle yourself, but Lefty apparently does too, which is why he sent three guys to take you out. I want those men.” His voice dropped to a deadly timber. “If I can catch them by tailing you, that’s what I’m going to do.”
With a heavy sigh, Izzy stared up at the IV pole next to her bed. They’d given her some pain medication through an IV. “Fine,” she said.
Copper nodded and patted her foot. “Thanks, Izzy. You didn’t have to tell me shit. Appreciate it. I’ll see you around.”
He disappeared behind the curtain, leaving Jig alone with Izzy. They stared at each other in silence for a few moments before he finally shifted his gaze away. He hadn’t been in a hospital since his face had been carved up and associated them with pain, grief, and deep depression. Yet, here he was, sitting by Izzy’s side. He hadn’t had a chance to sit by his wife’s side because she never had the chance to heal from her injuries.
Shit. He had to get his mind out of the past if he was going to survive the night. “Anything I can get for you?” he asked.
When he saw that squinty look, he knew what she was going to say before she even opened her mouth. “Yes. Hell, yes. You can get me the fuck out of here.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
BY THE TIME Izzy let herself into the small house she’d closed on exactly six weeks and two days prior, it was almost two in the morning. The place wasn’t anything to boast about, but it was hers. With Townsend’s lower cost of living and the generous salary Rip was paying her, she’d have no problem making the mortgage payments. With tips and the occasional prize money, she’d have a surplus for the first time in her life.
No more roommates, no more relying on others to make ends meet. No more let downs. Just herself and her own hard work.
“If you want a drink or something, help yourself,” she said to Jig, who’d insisted on following her into the house. Some poor kid in a truck was gifted the very mind-numbing task of sitting outside her house all night in the cold while she slept. For about ten minutes, she’d put up a good fight, but was exhausted and the pain medication took away her ability to come up with logical arguments, so she’d agreed to the MC’s offer of protection. It was either that or she feared Jig would have bribed the doctor to keep her in the hospital overnight.
