Devoured By Havoc (Steel Sinners MC #2)

Chapter 1 - Ruby

The overhead lights in the casino floor manager's office buzz like angry wasps, and I'm trying not to take it as an omen.

"Sign here, here, and initial here." The woman, Donna, according to her name tag, slides a stack of papers across the desk without looking up from her computer screen. Her nails are long, airbrushed with tiny skulls, and they click against the keyboard.

I sign where she indicates, my hand cramping slightly. Ruby Lane. Ruby Lane. Ruby Lane. Each signature feels like I'm promising something I'm not sure I can deliver.

"Uniform's a black tank top, black pants or shorts, comfortable shoes," Donna continues in a monotone that suggests she's given this speech a thousand times.

"You provide your own. We provide the apron, that's got the logo.

Tips are yours, but you pool them with the other waitresses at the end of the night and split even.

Shifts are eight hours. You get one fifteen-minute break and one thirty-minute meal break.

Don't take them at the same time as another girl. Work it out amongst yourselves."

"Okay." My voice comes out smaller than I want it to.

Donna finally looks up, her eyes, lined in thick black wings that could cut glass, assessing me with the kind of judgment only other women can deliver. "You ever worked a casino floor before?"

"No, but I've waitressed. I'm a fast learner."

"You'll need to be." She stands, and I follow suit. She's shorter than me but carries herself like she's six feet tall. "Players get handsy sometimes. You shut it down polite but firm. If they don't listen, you get Stone or one of the other brothers. Don't try to handle it yourself. We clear?"

Brothers. That's what they call the MC members. I've seen exactly three of them since I walked in twenty minutes ago, and each one looked like he could bench-press my car.

"We're clear."

"Good." Donna comes around the desk, gesturing for me to follow her. "Thursday night's steady but not slammed. Good night for you to learn the floor. Weekend nights are chaos. You'll want to pace yourself. Stay hydrated, eat on your breaks, wear comfortable shoes."

We walk through a narrow hallway that smells like cigarette smoke and industrial cleaner. The bass from the casino floor thrums through the walls, punctuated by the distant ringing of slot machines. My stomach twists itself into knots.

I need this job.

Marcus's face flashes through my mind: gap-toothed smile, wild curls that mirror my own, those big brown eyes that trust me to keep him safe.

He's at the motel right now with Mrs. Amber from the room next door, a grandmother type who accepted twenty of my last thirty dollars to watch him for the evening.

Twenty dollars I can't really spare but have no choice but to spend.

Everything's a catch-22 lately. Need money to pay for childcare so I can work to make money to pay for childcare.

"You'll start on the main floor," Donna says, pushing through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. "Stay away from the high roller tables in the back unless specifically assigned. Those are handled by senior girls only."

The casino floor opens up before us, and it's overwhelming in the way only Vegas can be.

Flashing lights, dinging machines, the thick haze of cigarette smoke despite the supposed ventilation system.

People crowd around tables and slot machines, their faces painted with hope or desperation or the blank expression of addiction.

I've never been comfortable in places like this. Too loud. Too bright. Too much of everything.

"That's the main bar." Donna points to a massive circular bar at the center of the floor, bottles of liquor glittering like jewels behind it. "Miguel's your main bartender. He's quick. Call your orders clear and tip him out at the end of the night. At least ten percent of what you make."

I nod, trying to memorize everything, knowing I'll probably forget half of it the moment she walks away.

"Waitress station's here." She shows me a small alcove tucked beside the bar, stocked with trays, napkins, and order pads. "You write down table numbers with orders. Miguel fills them. You deliver. Simple."

Simple. Right.

"Your section tonight is tables twelve through twenty-four. That's this whole side." She gestures to roughly a third of the casino floor. "Jamie and Liz have the other sections. They've both been here a while. They'll help you out if you ask nice."

We weave through the tables, and I try to count them, to memorize the layout. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. The numbers are small, printed on discreet gold plates attached to each table's edge.

"House rules," Donna says, stopping near a craps table where a group of men are cheering over a roll.

"Don't drink on shift. Don't gamble. Ever, even on your days off.

Don't date the players. Don't steal. Don't start drama.

" She looks at me pointedly. "And don't fuck with the brothers.

They own this place. You see a cut"—she means the leather vests with the Steel Sinners patches—"you show respect. Got it?"

"Got it."

Something in my tone must satisfy her because she nods. "You start in ten. Get changed. Lockers are in the back. Use number forty-seven. Combination's written inside your employee folder."

She hands me a thin folder I hadn't realized she was carrying, along with a black apron embroidered with the Steel Sinners logo. It's surprisingly heavy, the material thick and well-made.

"Thanks," I manage.

Donna's expression softens, just slightly. "You'll do fine. First night's always rough. Just smile, walk fast, and don't spill anything on anybody important."

Then she's gone, disappearing back through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, and I'm standing alone on a casino floor in a city where I know exactly no one, wearing jeans and a t-shirt that's seen better days, holding an apron with a skull on it.

*What the hell am I doing?*

But I know what I'm doing. I'm surviving. Same thing I've been doing since I was old enough to understand my mother loved her drugs more than she loved me. Same thing I've been doing since I realized Marcus's father was never going to be the man he promised he'd be.

I'm surviving, and I'm keeping my son safe, and if that means serving drinks to gamblers in a biker-owned casino, then that's what I'll do.

The employee area is cramped and dated, lockers lining one wall and a small bench bolted to the floor. Two other women are here: one changing into shorts, the other touching up her makeup in a mirror that's cracked in the corner.

I find locker forty-seven and dial in the combination—17-32-09.

It opens with a rusty squeak. I shove my purse inside, then strip off my t-shirt and jeans, always aware of the other women in the space.

My body's not like Liz's or Jamie's. I'm soft where they're toned, curvy in places that magazines have spent decades telling me are wrong.

But I don't have time for that spiral tonight. I tug on the black tank top I bought yesterday at a thrift store. Three dollars, slightly faded but clean, and pull on the black pants that are just a little too tight in the thighs.

"First night?" Liz asks, sitting on the bench to lace up sneakers.

"That obvious?"

She grins. "You've got that deer-in-headlights thing happening. It's cute. Don't worry, you'll be fine. Thursdays are easy. Just keep drinks moving and don't piss off the brothers."

There's that word again. Brothers.

"What happens if you piss them off?" I ask, only half-joking.

Jamie finally looks over, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised. "Nothing good. But they're mostly harmless if you're not stupid. Keep your head down, do your job, don't flirt with the wrong guy. Basic stuff."

"Mostly harmless?" I repeat.

"They're bikers, babe," Jamie says, capping her eyeliner. "But they're not gonna hurt you for spilling a drink or screwing up an order. Just don't steal from them or lie to them. They're big on loyalty and respect."

I nod, tying the apron around my waist. The weight of it settles against my hips, grounding me slightly.

"You'll probably meet Havoc tonight," Liz says, standing and adjusting her tank top. "He's usually on the floor Thursdays."

"Havoc?"

"Club enforcer. Tall, scary, looks like he could murder you with his pinky finger." Liz says it lightly, like she's describing a slightly intimidating teddy bear. "Don't let him freak you out. He's actually pretty chill unless you're causing problems."

Jamie snorts. "Chill? The man looks like he's one bad day away from snapping someone in half."

"Yeah, but when's the last time he actually snapped?"

"Fair."

I don't find any of this comforting.

"Come on," Liz says, heading toward the door. "I'll show you the ropes. Stick close the first hour. You'll get the hang of it."

The casino floor is even more overwhelming the second time. Music pulses from speakers I can't see. Voices blend into a constant hum. Somewhere, someone shouts in victory. A woman laughs, high and sharp.

I follow Liz to the waitress station, watching as she loads a tray with four beers, two whiskeys neat, one vodka cranberry. She moves like she's done this a million times, which she probably has.

"Table nineteen," she says, balancing the tray on one hand. "Watch."

I trail her through the maze of tables and slot machines, trying to memorize the path. She delivers the drinks with a smile, exchanges a few words with the players, collects empty glasses, and we're moving again.

"Your turn," she says, handing me an empty tray. "Table fifteen wants two Jack and Cokes and a Bud Light. Table twenty wants another round of three Coronas. Go."

My heart hammers, but I nod, writing down the orders on the pad even though she just told me. I can't afford to forget.

Miguel, the bartender, is a blur of motion behind the bar. I call out my orders, and he fills them without a word, sliding glasses onto my tray with precision.

I lift the tray. It's heavier than I expected.

*You can do this. You've carried a sleeping five-year-old up three flights of stairs. You can carry some drinks.*

Table fifteen first. I spot the number, weave through a cluster of slot machines, and approach.

"Two Jack and Cokes and a Bud Light?" I say, trying for the confident smile I've seen Liz use.

"That's us, sweetheart," one of the men says. He's older, gray hair, kind eyes.

I set the drinks down without spilling. Small victory.

Table twenty is harder to reach. It's tucked near the back wall, past a craps table where a crowd has gathered. I edge around them, tray held high, focused on not tripping over my own feet.

I'm almost there when someone moves backward suddenly, bumping into me.

The tray tilts.

I overcorrect.

It tilts further.

And then, as if in slow motion, all three Coronas slide off the tray and into the chest of the largest man I've ever seen in my life.

Time stops.

He's standing right there, directly in front of me, and he's soaked.

Beer drips down the front of his black t-shirt, plastering it to a chest that looks carved from granite.

Tattoos snake up both arms, disappearing under his sleeves.

A scar runs down his left cheek, vicious and pale against his tan skin.

Steel-gray eyes lock onto mine, and I forget how to breathe.

"I—oh my God, I'm so sorry—" The words tumble out as I scramble for napkins, my hands shaking. "I didn't see, someone bumped me, I'm so sorry—"

He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just stands there, dripping, watching me.

I'm going to get fired. Or worse. This is one of them. Has to be. No one else in this building looks like they could break a man in half without blinking.

"Here—" I shove napkins at him, my face burning hot enough to combust. "I'll get you more. I'll pay for your shirt. I'm so sorry—"

Finally, he moves. Takes the napkins from my trembling hand.

"It's fine," he says.

His voice is low, rough, like gravel under tires. It does something strange to my pulse.

"It's not fine, I just—"

"It's. Fine." He wipes at his shirt, then hands the soggy napkins back to me. His eyes haven't left mine. "You new?"

I nod, words gone.

"Figured." He steps back, glancing down at his ruined shirt. "Watch your spacing on the floor. People don't pay attention."

And then he walks away, cutting through the crowd like it doesn't exist, and I'm left standing there with an empty tray and a racing heart and the certainty that I just made the worst first impression of my entire life.

"Holy shit," Liz hisses, appearing at my elbow. "You just dumped three beers on Havoc."

My stomach drops. "That was Havoc?"

"That was Havoc."

"Am I fired?"

"I don't think so? You're still breathing, so that's a good sign."

Jamie joins us, eyes wide. "Did he say anything?"

"He said... it's fine."

Both women stare at me.

"He said it's *fine*?" Jamie repeats slowly, like I've just told her the sky is green.

"Is that... bad?"

"No," Liz says. "It's just... unexpected. Havoc doesn't really do 'fine.' He does 'deal with it' or 'stay out of my way' or just nothing at all. 'Fine' is almost friendly. For him."

I look toward where he disappeared into the crowd, but he's gone.

My hands are still shaking.

"Come on," Liz says gently. "Let's get you some new drinks for table twenty. And maybe avoid Havoc for the rest of the night."

That sounds like the best advice I've heard all day.

But as I follow her back to the bar, I can still feel those gray eyes on me, and I can't shake the image of that scar, that intensity, the way he looked at me like he could see straight through to every secret I've ever kept.

I came to Vegas to disappear, but something tells me I just got noticed by exactly the wrong person.