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Because there was no way in hell he’d be sharing it with her. Time to divert the conversation from himself. “What about you?” He filled their glasses for the third time.
Her nose scrunched. “What about me?”
“You got a family?”
The light drained from her eyes, so thoroughly he almost took the question back. But now he had to know because there was a story there.
“Nah, it’s just me.”
“It’s never just you. There’s gotta be someone somewhere.”
And there was the look. Narrowed eyes, compressed lips. Her feathers were ruffled. His cock twitched. He needed to cut the poor thing a break. With all the hand-to-dick action he’d been giving himself over the past week, he was about five strokes away from rubbing the skin off.
“Well, bubba”—she seemed to call him that when she was in her prickly mode—"I’ve never met my dad. My mom married and divorced five different men before offing herself when I was seventeen. She had no siblings, her parents are dead, and thankfully she never procreated beyond me, so I guess, sure, I’ve got someone. I’ve got a sperm donor floating out there in the wind, no doubt dying to learn of the long-lost daughter he fathered thirty years ago. That what you were looking for?” She sucked back what was left in her glass.
Well, fuck. That explained the fuck off scrawled across her forehead and her fierce independence. Jig might mimic a stone half the time, but he wasn’t completely devoid of emotion. He slid his hand over hers and smiled at the widening of her eyes. “Hey, sorry I asked. Your shit is your shit, and I shouldn’t have pushed.”
Izzy heaved a sigh. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. Kinda a touchy subject, if you hadn’t noticed.” She flipped her hand over and curled it around his.
“What happened with your mom?”
With a huff, she tapped the top of her glass, but he didn’t bother reaching for the bottle. Three drinks in ten minutes were plenty. “Mental illness. She had severe bipolar disorder and was with a long line of loser men who never cared to get her help. She had these erratic moods and intense swings from high to low. Her boyfriends and husbands just called her crazy. By the time I was old enough to understand she had an illness that could be treated, she was too far gone and refused any help. Couldn’t get her hospitalized involuntarily if she wasn’t a danger to herself or others. The one time she proved to be that danger, she got the job done.” She shrugged. “Sucks, but that’s life.”
Such a hard exterior. Such a lonely life. Jig tried that, going it completely alone, and it nearly ended in disaster. Copper saved his ass, and his brothers brought him back from the dead. No way Izzy’s insides were as matter of fact and unaffected as she portrayed on the outside. He was starting to understand what made her tick. She burned hot, felt too much, but had years of practice suppressing it. Unable to deal with the tumultuous emotions, she handled them differently, fighting them out in the ring. Something Jig fully comprehended.
For the first time since his wife had died, he felt an urge, a need, to soothe a woman. If he didn’t think she’d kick him in the nuts, he’d draw her into his arms and remind her she wasn’t alone anymore. She had him. She had his club brothers and the women that loved them.
Jig cleared his throat and shoved down those primal urges. His own head was a mess; he was in no position to meet anyone else’s emotional needs. Nor did he want to. “You said you were seventeen when she died. What happened to you?”
Izzy watched him, her gaze assessing, as if trying to decide if she trusted him enough to share a vulnerable piece of herself. He had no idea why it mattered to him, but it did. He wanted her to trust him, to open up and share a little fragment of her inner workings. Because it was obvious she didn’t do this often. Didn’t form relationships, platonic or otherwise, didn’t let others have any piece of herself deeper than surface knowledge.
And that meant anyone she handed the information to was important, trusted, and significant. It wasn’t smart. In fact, it was downright stupid and a mistake, but he felt something for her. Something more than just his cock’s response to her body. And while he’d never act on it, never take it to a deeper level, he was selfish enough to want her to feel the same.
He waited her out, not speaking nor pressuring while she glanced away, breathed, then came back to him. Something unspoken passed between them at that moment. An understanding and acceptance. Whether it was the peace and quiet of the clubhouse, loneliness, or, hell, maybe the alcohol, they saw each other. Two people too damaged by life to have successful relationships or tap into their emotions in a healthy way. Maybe something could be formed from that. A friendship of sorts. No promises, no guarantees, no potential for more agony. Just a…bond of pain.
