Chapter Two
Breaker
Rain beats against the roof, steady as the pulse of a soldier in the thick of combat.
The Noble Fir smells like smoke, oil, and bad decisions — exactly how I like it.
Every inhale feels like home. Home in the present, and just like my homes in the past, where patches on my chest determined my place.
Back then, my patch marked me as a Marine — a specialist in Explosive Ordnance Disposal.
Now it marks me as a prospect, fighting through hazing to earn my place.
I'm more worried about what Havoc and Mayhem might hide in my bunk than any insurgent trap.
To be honest, I’d prefer the insurgents.
I sit in my usual corner, half in shadow, nursing a beer.
It’s quieter here. I can watch the doors, the windows, and the crowd.
It keeps my head calm. I’m not the only club member who does it; there are more than a couple veterans in the MC, and, veteran or not, you don’t live this life without picking up a few scars that leave you with the urge to always be scanning the entrances and exits.
It's a regular night after a day of prospect work — running food orders, mopping the shop, avoiding Havoc and Mayhem.
Last time they cornered me, they sent me to Portland to pick up a package from a guy behind a Panda Express who looked like a Dick Tracy villain on meth.
Only afterwards did they mention it contained volatile explosives, a taxidermied piranha, and a custom Labubu done up like Cthulhu. They were birthday gifts, they said.
Never again, I said.
Just as I’m about to yawn and consider a night ride before calling it a night, things get interesting.
Because she walks in.
She doesn’t just open the door; she transforms the whole place.
For a moment, every head at the bar cranes like it’s all part of some synchronized show and she’s the star.
She’s soaked — blue denim slicked to her legs, pale skin flushed at the cheeks, hair streaming from under a hood in the color of bruised violets.
She doesn’t hesitate, not even a beat, but there’s a flicker in her eyes I recognize — a quick count of exits and bodies, the assessment you only see from two kinds of people: trained professionals or wary prey.
She drops her gaze and moves with intent toward the bar, keeping her back to the wall as much as possible.
I know the choreography well. I’ve done it myself, in cities and war zones, in places where the wrong glance meant waking up in a hospital or never waking up at all.
She makes it to Molly in five long strides, ignoring the muttered comments from the peanut gallery and the dozen eyes that track her like she’s a deer weaving through a pack of starving wolves.
A growl surfaces in my throat before I realize what the fuck I’m doing and then I drown it with a long drink of beer.
With a shuffle, a cleared throat, and a wave, she gets Molly’s attention.
Well, her overt attention.
I know Molly’s been watching her the whole time; Molly’s a pro, seasoned enough to read a situation before it even walks through the door, but even she looks momentarily thrown by this ragged newcomer.
The woman says something low and urgent, chewing her lip.
Molly narrows her eyes, nods once, and then — with only a few words — tosses her an apron.
She points to the storeroom, then the bathrooms, the kitchen, and then the old office-turned-hangout in the back, laying out the geography of the clubhouse with nothing but a flick of her wrist. The girl nods, sharp and fast, like a soldier catching field instructions.
The whole transaction takes place in less than a minute. It’s reckless, even for Molly. We don't hire strangers. Not without cause. Last time someone new showed up unannounced, Rabid had to break three fingers and dislocate a shoulder to keep the till from walking out the door.
After a moment where the girl looks ready to run, Molly opens her mouth again. They talk. Molly laughs, gestures, and just like that, the girl’s part of the place.
I try to look away. I really do. But something about her holds my attention.
Something fragile, but not weak. There’s a kind of resilience in the way she tugs the apron tight around her curvy waist, sets her jaw, and squares her shoulders.
I’ve seen that look before: in the faces of bomb techs in my old unit, right before they had to cut the red wire or die.
It’s the white-knuckle look of someone who’s fighting like hell to keep fear from taking the wheel.
Then she turns, scanning the room, and our eyes meet.
Everything inside me stills.
Her gaze hits me like a blade through the ribs — sharp, curious, terrified, alive. The noise fades, the air shifts, and all I can think is how goddamn beautiful she is.
Too beautiful.
Heat coils in my chest, spreading low and dangerous. I grip my beer tighter. I don’t want this. I don’t want her. I can’t.
I can’t get close to her.
Can’t get close to anyone.
I learned that lesson years ago, and still carry the scars to prove it. Bits of shrapnel, too, left in places the surgeons can’t get to. But when she walks toward me, hips swaying just enough to betray nerves, I can’t look away.
I’m trapped.
And the woman walking toward me is more dangerous than any IED I ever faced.
She stops in front of my table. I force my voice steady.
“You're new.”
“Uh… hi,” she says softly, pen trembling in her hand.
Her voice slides right under my skin. It is sweet, scared, disarming, absolute poison to every bit of good sense in my head.
She shifts on her feet, looks from her notepad to me, then back again.
“Um… would you like something?”
There's something in her voice, something shy but warm, that makes me think thoughts I have no business thinking. Dangerous thoughts involving that voice saying my name in very different circumstances — breathless in the dark, tangled in bedsheets.
Goddamn, I need a beer. Or something stronger.
She cocks her head, her voice still a demure, quaking thing. “So, do you want that to be a beer or something stronger?”
Oh, fuck, did I say that out loud?
“Yes, I can hear you. You’re speaking out loud.”
“Shit,” I say. “Fuck.”
She blinks and takes a step back. “Am I doing something wrong?”
Again with that voice. That innocent, scared, wanting-desperately-to-please tone that I’d love to hear from her as she looks up at me from her knees.
I pause, looking at her expectantly, waiting for the inevitable. She heard that too, right?
“Are you going to order something or, uh, just stare at me silently?”
“Oh, thank fuck. A whiskey, please. Neat.”
She scribbles it down, and I watch her fingers — slim, pale, trembling just enough that the pen wavers. There's a faded bruise on her wrist, half-hidden by her sleeve. My jaw tightens. I know marks like that. I've seen them on women who've had the misfortune of loving the wrong man.
"Anything else?" she says, and there's something in her voice now — a thread of warmth beneath the nerves. Like she's grateful I'm not leering at her the way half the bar was when she walked in.
"That's it," I say, keeping my voice flat. The last thing she needs is another man making her feel hunted.
She nods, turns to go, and I should let her. I should let her walk away and forget the way her eyes looked when they met mine — like she was drowning and I was the only thing she could grab onto. But my mouth opens before my brain catches up.
"You got a name?"
She freezes mid-step, then turns around slowly.
"Riley," she says finally. "Riley Monroe."
"Riley." I let the name roll off my tongue, tasting it. It fits her — soft at the edges, but with something solid underneath. "I'm Breaker."
"Breaker," she repeats, and there's a flicker of something in her expression. Curiosity, maybe. Or recognition of the kind of man who earns a name like that. "Is that because you break things?"
"Sometimes." I hold her gaze. "Only when they need breaking."
She swallows. Her throat moves, pale and delicate, and I track the motion and notice faint finger marks, a sight that makes anger surge inside my chest. Everything inside me tells me I should keep my distance, but I want to protect her, shield her from whatever put that haunted look in her eyes and those fading bruises on her skin.
"I'll, um, get your whiskey," she says, backing away. She bumps into a chair, catches herself, and flushes crimson. "Sorry. I'm not usually this — " She gestures vaguely at herself.
"You're fine," I say, and mean it in more ways than one.
She disappears toward the bar, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. My fingers ache from gripping the beer bottle so tightly. I force myself to relax, to scan the room like I should have been doing this whole time instead of losing myself in dark hair, pale skin, and trembling hands.
The minutes crawl by like hours. I watch her move through the bar, taking orders, dodging wandering hands with practiced ease, smiling at customers even when her eyes stay wary.
She's good at this. Too good. The good that comes from years of learning how to make yourself small, how to please people before they have a reason to get angry.
I hate that she knows how to do that.
I hate even more that I'm still watching her.
When she finally returns with my whiskey, the glass catches the dim light like amber fire. She sets it down carefully, and our fingers brush.
The contact lasts maybe half a second. Maybe less.
But it's enough.
Electricity shoots up my arm, sparks through my chest, settles low in my gut like a live wire looking for ground.
Riley's lips part. There's no sound — nothing I can hear over the bar noise — but I see her chest hitch, see the way her pupils dilate, see the flush that creeps up her neck and stains her cheeks pink.
She takes a step back. Then another. Her free hand comes up to press against her sternum, like she's trying to hold something in.
I know the feeling.
I want things I have no right to want.
And that's exactly the problem, because bad things happen to people who get close to me.
It's not superstition, and it’s not paranoia; it's a fucking fact, written in blood and carved into headstones.
Sergeant Marcus Webb. Corporal Danny Chen.
Private First Class Angela Reyes. They got close to me. They trusted me.
And now they're dead.
Riley smiles — a real one this time, small and tentative, like a flower trying to bloom in a minefield.
"Can I get you anything else?" she says, and there's warmth in her voice now, a thread of something that might be interest, might be attraction, might be the beginning of something that could destroy us both.
"You can get back to work."
Her smile falters. "I — what?"
"You heard me."
“Did I… did I do something wrong?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you have a problem with me? I’m just trying to do my best.” Her smile dies. Her voice drops to barely a whisper.
Fuck me for doing this to her, but it’s for her own good.
I feel like the biggest fucking asshole, but it’s a burden I’ll carry any day to keep her from paying the price of getting close to me. To keep from seeing her name alongside those other tombstones that haunt my nightmares.
“I don’t have a problem with you yet. But if you don’t stop bothering me and keep your focus on your damn job, I’ll make sure you don’t have a damn job to worry about.”