Chapter 7 Cash
CASH
Ifire up the bike when Mercy asks me to leave, revving it loud enough for her to hear. The sound bounces off Devil’s Bar’s walls as I roll out of the lot.
But I only go around the corner.
I park behind the old hardware store that’s been closed for two years, killed by Summit’s big box development on the east side. The bike will be safe here, hidden in the shadows where Mercy won’t spot it when she walks past.
Living on the streets taught me how to be invisible. How to move without sound. How to watch without being seen. Skills I picked up to avoid dealers and pimps are keeping her safe tonight.
I circle back on foot, keeping to the shadows. By the time I reach Devil’s again, Mercy’s just locking the front door. She’s got her phone in one hand, keys in the other, that oversized denim jacket pulled tight around her even though December in Stoneheart isn’t that cold yet.
She starts walking, and I follow.
Half a block back. Sometimes on the opposite side of the street. Old habits kick in—use parked cars for cover, avoid the pools of streetlight, match her pace but never her rhythm.
Three blocks from the bar, her phone buzzes. She stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at the screen like it might bite her. Even from here, I can see her shoulders tense.
Another buzz. Another.
She shoves the phone in her pocket without answering and walks faster.
I speed up to keep pace. My hands itch to close the distance. To take that phone and throw it in the nearest dumpster. To wrap my arms around her until whatever’s scaring her can’t reach her anymore.
But she asked for space. So I give her the illusion of it while keeping watch.
Two more blocks and she’s checking over her shoulder every few steps. Looking for someone. But not me—I’m too good at this for her to even sense me. She’s looking for someone else.
Whoever’s been calling.
The laundromat comes into view, and Mercy practically runs up the metal stairs to her apartment. Her keys jangle as she fumbles with the lock. Her phone buzzes again.
This time she answers.
“Stop calling me.”
Her voice carries in the still night air, sharp with exhaustion and fear. Then she’s inside, the door slamming hard enough to rattle the whole staircase.
I move closer, positioning myself across the street where I can see her apartment windows. The lights flick on one by one, like she’s checking every room. Making sure she’s alone.
My chest tightens. I know that ritual. I did it for years. Every squat, every doorway, every abandoned building I slept in—check the exits, check the corners, make sure no one followed you, that you’re alone before you let your guard down.
The light in her bedroom stays on for a long time before it finally clicks off, plunging the window into darkness.
I stay put. My own past is a ghost I know how to outrun.
But hers... hers has a phone number. It has a voice.
And it’s hunting her. The pieces click into place—the jumpiness, the refusal to talk about where she came from, the way she practically vibrated with fear just now.
That’s not just a woman pushing a guy away.
That’s a woman running for her life. And I know exactly what that feels like.
I lean against the brick wall, settling in for the long haul. Just to make sure she’s safe.
This isn’t the first time I’ve done this—kept watch well into the night. I’ve watched over her ever since that night three months ago, when I asked her why she was here and saw the same haunted look that I used to see in my own reflection.
She thinks I’m just trying to get in her pants. And yeah, I want that. Bad. But this is bigger. This is the kind of deep-in-your-bones terror you can’t outrun alone.
It sounds conceited, but I’ve spent most of my life being wanted for how I look, not who I am.
People see this face and make assumptions.
Make moves. The first time I met Mercy, I could tell she was interested—I always can, learned to read that look in people’s eyes young.
But she didn’t lead with it. Didn’t hover or find excuses to touch me.
She just treated me like any other customer.
Then she respected me like any other club member.
When I was at the bar going through the books, she asked about tax deductions.
Every female bartender before her would have tried to shove their tits in my face.
She treated me like I had a brain. Gave me time to be a person first.
And that’s not something I’ve had much of in my life.
So no, this isn’t about getting laid. Bones was wrong there.
This isn’t about a good fuck. This is about keeping the wolves from her door.
Because she’s the first person in a long time who looked at me and didn’t see something to use.
And I’ll be damned if I let whoever’s hunting her take that away from both of us.
If she won’t let me stand beside her, I’ll stand in the goddamn shadows and do it, anyway.
Because nobody gets to make her look that scared. Not on my watch.
“Young man, if you’re planning to rob the place, you’re doing it wrong.”
I nearly jump out of my skin. A tiny Asian woman in a floral housecoat stands three feet away, wielding what appears to be a baseball bat. How the hell did she sneak up on me?
“Also, you’re not as invisible as you think,” she adds. “I saw you following her from my window. Very suspicious.”
“I’m not—I wasn’t—” Real smooth, Cash. “I’m a friend of Mercy’s.”
“The one with the motorcycle.” She lowers the bat slightly. “I’m aware.”
I hold my hands up, a gesture of surrender. “I’m not here to cause trouble. Just watching out for her.”
“I know. You’re worried about her,” she says, her voice softening just a fraction. She rests the bat against her shoulder. “She’s a good girl. But she carries a heavy weight.”
My eyes quit drifting back to Mercy’s windows and snap to hers. “What do you know about it?”
“Nothing I can share.” It’s not a challenge, just a statement of fact, and it pisses me off. Not at her, but at the situation. At the secrets Mercy is keeping that are so heavy another woman has to help carry them.
“Does she know you’re down here playing grandma with a baseball bat?”
“She knows I watch out for my tenants.” She taps the bat on the pavement. “You should know that whatever you think you’re protecting her from, it’s worse than that. So you either need to step up or step off. This half-in, half-out hovering won’t do either of you any good.”
The old bat’s got steel in her spine. I’ve been respecting the boundaries Mercy set, but those boundaries are just the bars of a cage she’s trapped inside. I look up at the dark window where Mercy is trying to find sleep, thinking she’s alone. She’s not. Not anymore.
I spent years letting other people control my life—where I slept, how I survived, what I had to do to eat.
And when Bones pulled me off the streets, I swore I’d never be that powerless again.
I’d never sit back and watch while someone I cared about got hurt because I was too scared or too weak to act.
I’m done playing by her rules because her rules are going to get her hurt—or worse.
“This half-in shit could end tonight,” I start, jerking my chin toward Mercy’s dark window. “But she won’t let me in.”
Mrs. Yu snorts. “And you think skulking in shadows like some romance novel vampire helps?” She thumps the bat against her palm. “Go home, boy. I’ll watch her tonight.”
I eye the weapon. “You plan on beating off intruders with that?”
Her laughter cracks through the night like gunfire. “This old girl put three men in the ER during the ‘92 riots.” She steps closer, eyes sharp as broken glass. “You think Summit’s the first corporate cockroach I’ve smashed?”
Touché. I dig a business card from my cut’s inner pocket—club number on front, my cell scribbled on back. “Anything strange—”
“—I’ll call your mother.” She plucks the card with bony fingers. “Now scram before I show you how seniors handle peeping toms.”
I glance up at Mercy’s window one last time. “She breathes wrong, you dial.”
“Go.” Mrs. Yu makes shooing motions with the bat. “Before I add pretty-boy biker to my hit list.”
The walk back to my bike feels like retreating from a battlefield.
Stoneheart’s streets are too quiet tonight—no drunk college kids spilling out of The Rusty Nail, no truckers idling at the all-night diner.
Summit’s ‘urban renewal’ bullshit is sucking the life out of this town one boarded-up storefront at a time.
I kick-start the Harley, the engine’s roar splitting the silence like an axe, then I take off toward home, thinking about Mercy the whole time.
The Clubhouse lights burn bright when I roll in. Tank’s on gate duty, face lit by his phone’s glow. “Prez wants you in Church first thing,” he calls as I pass.
Fuck. Stone’s probably got another Summit countermove planned. I nod, parking beside Bones’ chopped Sportster. When I head inside, the place is mostly quiet. Just Bones at the bar with his laptop, because the man never sleeps.
“You look ready to kill someone,” he observes without looking up.
“Might be onto something there.” I grab a beer. “Need you to run a search.”
“On?”
“Mercy. Maybe Mercedes. Last name is Rogers, but she could be using something different. See if she was reported missing in the last year or two. I know she left a husband. So she’s probably still married. Likely filed for divorce. I wanna know who he is.”
Bones looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You sure you wanna pull that thread?”
“She’s scared, brother. Someone’s terrorizing her, and she won’t say who.”
“Maybe because she knows what you’ll do when you find out.”
He’s not wrong. The rage building in my chest feels volcanic. But Mercy needs more than my anger. She needs answers. Solutions. Freedom.
“Just run it,” I say.