Butcher's Honor (Iron & Blood MC #2)

Chapter 1 - Butcher

The familiar rumble of my Harley dies as I kill the engine in front of Mom's small yellow house.

The tupperware container of homemade soup sits securely in my saddlebag, still warm despite the October chill trying its best to cool it down.

At forty-five, I'm too old to be playing delivery boy, but she's all I've got left. Dad's been gone for thirty years now, and the club keeps me busy enough not to need much else in life. The leather of my cut creaks as I dismount, my boots crunching on the fallen leaves that blanket her front yard.

"Useless bitch! You can't do anything right!"

The angry male voice cuts through the peaceful suburban afternoon like a chainsaw. I freeze, my hand still on the saddlebag. The shout came from the house next door, a shabby rental that's seen better days.

"I'm sorry! Please, Tommy's sleeping—"

"I don't give a fuck about your kid!"

My jaw clenches. Mom's neighborhood used to be quiet and peaceful. The kind of place where old ladies could tend their gardens without worry. Now this.

I grab the soup container and head for Mom's front door, which opens before I can reach it. She stands there in her floral housecoat, her silver hair in a messy bun, and her right arm in a cast.

"Joey," she says, trying to smile, but I can see the worry in her eyes. "Come in."

The shouting continues next door as I follow her inside. The living room smells like her lavender air freshener and arthritis cream. Some game show plays on the TV at low volume.

"How long has this been going on?" I ask, setting the soup container on her coffee table.

Mom sinks into her favorite armchair with a sigh.

"She moved in two weeks ago. The woman seems nice enough—always apologizing for the noise. She has a little boy, maybe four or five. But that man..." She shakes her head. "He showed up days later and this has been going on almost every day now."

Something crashes next door, followed by more yelling. My hands curl into fists.

"And nobody's called the cops?"

"Mrs. Henderson did, once," Mom says, referring to the nosy widow who lives across the street. "But by the time they came, everything was quiet. The woman said she'd just dropped some pots while cooking."

Classic. I've seen it enough times—women protecting their abusers, trapped in a cycle they can't break. Usually, I mind my own business. The club has enough problems without looking for more. But this is different. This is happening next to my mother's house.

"I'm worried about the little boy," Mom continues, her good hand fidgeting with her housecoat. "Sometimes I see them in the yard. He's such a quiet thing, always clinging to his mother's leg. And she... she always wears long sleeves. I know what that means."

Another crash, another scream. This time, I hear a child crying.

"Stay here," I tell Mom, already heading for the door. "Heat up your soup. I'll handle this."

"Joey, please don't—"

But I'm already out the door, crossing the patch of dead grass between the houses. The shouting gets louder as I approach. Through a dirty window, I can see shadows moving inside.

I don't bother knocking. The door's cheap wood gives way easily under my boot, swinging open with a satisfying crack. The noise inside stops abruptly.

The living room is a mess of cheap furniture and scattered toys. A man stands in the middle, red-faced and wearing a wife-beater that shows off arms that have never seen the inside of a gym. Behind him, pressed against the wall, is a woman holding a crying kid.

She's young, maybe in her late twenties, with curves that her oversized sweater can't hide. Her dark hair falls in waves around a face that would be way prettier if it wasn't twisted in fear. The kid in her arms can't be older than five, his face buried in her neck as he sobs.

"Who the fuck are you?" the man demands, puffing up like a rooster.

I take two steps forward, enjoying how he shrinks with each one. At six-two and built like a brick wall, I tend to have that effect on people. The skull patch on my cut and the scars on my knuckles usually drive the point home.

"New neighbor welcoming committee," I say, my voice low and steady. "Couldn't help but notice you're being a bit loud."

He glances at my cut, at the patches that mark me as VP of the Iron & Blood MC. I see the moment reality sinks in, the way his face goes from red to pale.

"This is none of your business," he says, but his voice wavers. "This is between me and my girlfriend."

"Ex-girlfriend," the woman speaks up, her voice shaky but determined. "I told you it's over, Derek. You need to leave."

Derek's face twists ugly again. "Shut up, you—"

My hand closes around his throat before he can finish that sentence. I lift him easily, watching his feet dangle an inch off the floor as he chokes.

"Here's what's going to happen," I tell him, keeping my voice low. "You're going to walk out that door and never come back. If I see you around here again, if I hear you've tried to contact her, if I even catch a whisper of your name in this neighborhood..." I squeeze harder, watching his face turn purple. "Well, let's just say they won't find enough of you to bury."

I drop him. He falls to his knees, gasping and coughing.

"You have thirty seconds to get out of my sight."

He scrambles to his feet and runs, not even stopping to close the front door behind him. His car starts with a screech of tires on the pavement, and then he's gone.

The woman is still pressed against the wall, but her son has stopped crying, now watching me with wide eyes over his mother's shoulder.

"Thank you," she whispers, her voice breaking. "I've been trying to get him to leave for days, but he wouldn't... he kept coming back..."

"He won't now." I look around the messy room, noting the broken lamp on the floor and the upturned coffee table. "You got somewhere else you can stay?"

She shakes her head. "No, I... we just moved here from Oregon. I don't know anyone yet."

Of course not. That's probably why the bastard feels so confident to hunt her and hurt her—isolated, vulnerable.

"I'm Ruby," she offers, finally stepping away from the wall. "This is Tommy."

The kid gives me a shy wave, and something in my chest tightens. He's got his mother's dark hair and big eyes, currently red from crying.

"Joey," I grunt in response. "I live next door with my mother."

"The lady with the roses?" Tommy pipes up. "She gave me a cookie yesterday."

That sounds like Mom. Always feeding strays, always trying to help. It must be where I get it from.

I eye the broken door.

"I'll fix that for you tomorrow. For now..." I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts. "I know someone who can install better locks tonight. You okay with that?"

Ruby nods, relief washing over her face. "Yes, please. I can pay—"

I wave her off. "Don't worry about it. Just keep the noise down from now on. My mother needs her rest."

"Of course." She sets Tommy down and starts picking up the scattered toys. "I'm so sorry about all this. I never meant to cause trouble for anyone."

"You didn't. He did." I watch her for a moment, noting the slight tremor in her hands, the way she winces when she bends down. "You hurt?"

"Just bruises," she says quickly. Too quickly.

I grunt, unconvinced, but don't push it. Instead, I send a quick text to our club's handyman about the locks, then another to some of our prospects about keeping an eye on the neighborhood.

"Someone will come by in an hour with the locks," I tell her. "If Derek ever comes back, call this number." I write my burner phone number on a piece of paper from my pocket and hand it to her.

She takes it with a small smile, and for the first time, I notice how beautiful she is when she's not terrified.

"Thank you. Really."

I nod, suddenly uncomfortable with the gratitude in her eyes. "Just doing what needs doing."

I turn to leave, but Tommy's voice stops me. "Are you a superhero?"

The question startles a laugh out of me. "No, kid. Just a guy who doesn't like bullies."

As I walk back to Mom's house, I can feel Ruby's eyes on me. Part of me wants to look back, to see that smile again, but I know better. Beautiful single mothers with baggage aren't meant for old bikers with blood on their hands.

But as I step back into Mom's house and smell the soup warming on the stove, I can't help but think about dark waves of hair and curves hidden under baggy sweaters. About a kid's brave smile and a woman's quiet strength.

Trouble. That's what this is. Pure trouble.

But when has that ever stopped me before?