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“Don’t push me away because you’re upset.” He stepped toward her again, but this time she held a hand up to ward him off. “Sweetheart…” he started.
“No,” she whispered because that beach ball in her throat wouldn’t allow anything louder. Shit, she was going to cry. Ugly cry. “Please,” she said as the first tear fell. She pressed one hand against her stomach, checking to make sure her insides weren’t truly pouring out. “Please just let me get in that van and go.”
Jig didn’t respond for a long moment, then he lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay, sweetheart. But this isn’t over. Get through today, and we’ll talk.”
She nodded. It was the fastest way to get him to walk away and leave her with some of her dignity still intact.
As she watched him go, tears streaming down her face, Izzy knew it was already too late. She’d broken her most strict, firmest rule.
She’d fallen in love with him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SIX HOURS LATER, Jig sat alone at the bar in the clubhouse, well into a bottle of Scotch. Hadn’t done a damn thing to numb the gnawing pain in his gut.
Rocket strode through the door alone, and Jig’s shoulders sagged. Izzy hadn’t even come to talk to him. That pretty much put the last nail in his coffin, didn’t it? “She okay?” he asked as Rocket wandered up and swiped the bottle.
After a long drink, Rocket wiped his mouth with the back of his fist and said. “No. She’s pretty damn fucked up right now. Not sure what went down between you two behind the van, but she’s been puffy-eyed and silent all afternoon. This business with the girls has her spiraling, too.”
“Can you blame her?”
“No.” He took another drink. “Didn’t say I did. Just giving you the facts. You gonna go see her?”
Jig considered that. Would he go see her? “Not today. She wouldn’t want anyone to see her freak out. Especially not me. I asked Shell to swing by later. Check on her.”
Rocket nodded and stared into the empty clubhouse. He wasn’t one to offer unsolicited advice. Jig appreciated that. He didn’t need one of his brothers telling him how to handle the woman he loved.
That’s right.
Fucking loved.
As he’d brooded and drank for the past few hours, he realized the sick feeling he’d had since walking away from Izzy was love. The feisty, independent, fierce, gorgeous woman had blown past all his defenses, and he was in love with her.
He’d bucked against the notion for so many years, convinced he couldn’t take the risk of losing someone in such a vicious and unexpected manner again. Convinced no woman deserved a man with a violent history, who freely admitted that violence was still a living, breathing thing inside him. And he found loving Izzy was just as terrifying as he’d anticipated, but for entirely different reasons. Izzy wasn’t the type of woman to stand behind him. She’d march that firm ass right around and stand by his side no matter what battles came their way. And as an MMA fighter, on some level, she even understood his need for violence.
And she accepted his past, his dangerous present, and even his uncertain future.
Taking the bottle from a pensive Rocket, he said, “You know, we’re at the bar. Get your own fucking liquor.”
Rocket grunted, but did just that, coming back with an unopened bottle of tequila.
“What happened with the girls?”
With a sigh, Rocket sat back down and opened the bottle. “Well, they’ll probably all be screwed up for life thanks to Lefty, but they got off okay. Seems they all took to the woman who runs the shelter. She’ll do right by them.”
“Guess that’s the best we can ask for right now.” Jig let the burn of the Scotch chase away some of the shit swirling around in his head. Or at least tried to. Didn’t work too well.
“You guys torch the place?” Rocket asked. They sat side by side, drinking and watching the empty clubhouse.
“Mm-hmm,” Jig responded, mouth full of Scotch. After swallowing, he said, “Used the C4 to blow it the fuck up. Word is Lefty caught wind of it and went into hiding.”
“Fucking pussy.”
“Pretty much. You expect anything else?”
Rocket grunted.
“Hey, Jig,” Zach said as he walked into the clubhouse. “Oh, hey, Rock. When’d you get back?”
“About five minutes ago.”
Zach held his hand out for the tequila, which Rocket readily handed over. The skin around Zach’s knuckles was purple, cracked, and bloodied. Evidence of what he’d been up to for the past few hours.
“Jig, Cop wants you in The Box for a minute. Feel free to tag along, Rocket.” He took a drink then turned and strode back out.
With a raised eyebrow, Rocket looked to Jig. “What’s that about?”
Jig shrugged. “Don’t know. They have the guys from the barn in there. Let’s go.”
