Page 28 of Repairing the Wreckage

I turn and find someone else from the party on the other side of the bar. “Can we get another pitcher?”

“Sure. I’ll bring it right over.” I tilt sideways to check if the table needs anything else. Maybe some nuts to soak up all the beer.

I pull a pitcher and shake some mixed nuts into a bowl, then carry them over. Avoiding the guy who’d been so concerned about my wardrobe, I set the pitcher in the middle of the table.

The front door swishes open again but I don’t bother looking over to see who it is.

“Took long enough,” fashion-police guy grumbles at me.

“Cut it out, Bob,” one of his friends scolds. “Thanks.” He lifts the nuts. “For this too.”

I let out a relieved breath. “Do you want to order anything from the kitchen?”

“Nah, we’re good.”

Something grazes my leg, behind my knee, then travels higher. Hard enough to feel it through my jeans.

I turn. “What?—”

The touch disappears.

But not because of anything I did.

No, there’s a tall, muscled, scarred, and pissed-off biker standing behind me with one hand tightly coiled around my customer’s wrist as he drags it away from my leg.

“Jigsaw!” I squeak but he doesn’t take his eyes off the man.

“Touch her again and you won’t be getting these fingers back.” Jigsaw slowly pulls a hunting knife out of the sheath clipped to his belt and brandishes it in front of the shocked customer. “Understood?”

“I…I…I…” he stutters.

“He won’t, he won’t,” one of the man’s friends says.

“Nah, I need to hear him say it.” Jigsaw lowers the knife but doesn’t put it away.

“Yes,” the man finally says.

“Good. Glad we straightened that out.” Jigsaw releases the man, tucks the knife into its holder, and focuses his attention on me. His intensity dials down a notch. “You all right?”

I bob my head up and down.

“Your brother got any of those chocolate chip cookies tonight?” he asks.

I blink. Did he just threaten to cut off someone’s fingers and then casually ask me for cookies? “Uh, yeah. I think so.”

“Great.” Expectation glitters in his eyes.

Oh, he wants me to get the cookies right now.

I glance at the customers again, but they’re fixated on the table, not daring to look anywhere else.

Certain they won’t be leaving a tip or a positive Yelp review, I return to the bar. Jigsaw shadows me like my own personal guard dog.

“Where the fuck’s your brother?” Jigsaw slides onto a stool and rests his elbows on the bar.

“In the back with Torch.” I duck down and search for the box of cookies Lynette left for me earlier.

Jigsaw leans over the counter. “Are they like your personal cookies or something?”

---