Chapter 2 - Ruby
I watch Joey's broad back disappear into his mother's house, still trembling from everything that just happened. Tommy tugs at my sweater, his small face turned up to mine with that too-serious expression he's worn ever since Derek entered our lives.
"Is the bad man really gone, Mommy?"
Kneeling down, I pull him into my arms, breathing in his familiar scent of strawberry shampoo and graham crackers.
"Yes, baby. He's gone for good this time."
I pray I'm telling the truth. Derek has made promises before—to change, to leave, to be better. But this time feels different. The look of genuine fear on his face when Joey lifted him off the ground... No, Derek won't risk coming back. Not with a motorcycle gang’s VP next door.
A motorcycle gang’s VP. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. When I moved here two weeks ago, seeking a fresh start away from Derek and my controlling parents in Oregon, I never imagined I'd end up being rescued by a leather-clad guardian angel.
"Come on, sweetie," I say, standing up. "Let's clean up this mess before the lock man comes."
Together, we right the coffee table and pick up the scattered toys. I sweep up the broken lamp, wincing at the pain in my ribs where Derek shoved me into the counter this morning. The bruises will fade, I tell myself. They always do.
Tommy helps me straighten the cushions on our threadbare couch, rescued from a thrift store when we first arrived.
"Mommy?" Tommy's voice is small. "Can we make cookies for the nice man?"
I pause in my cleaning. "You want to make cookies for Mr. Joey?"
He nods enthusiastically. "And for the flower lady. She gave me cookies, so we should give her cookies back."
My heart swells with love for my thoughtful little boy. Even after everything he's witnessed today, he's thinking about others.
"That's a wonderful idea, baby. We'll make them tomorrow, okay? Right now, we need to finish cleaning up."
An hour later, as promised, a man arrives to change our locks. He's younger than Joey, wearing a similar leather vest but with fewer patches. He works quickly and efficiently, barely speaking except to show me how the new deadbolts work.
"These are good ones," he says, testing the front door one last time. "Military grade. Nobody's getting through these without making enough noise to wake the whole neighborhood."
I clutch Tommy's hand, overwhelmed by this unexpected kindness. "How much do I owe you?"
He shakes his head. "Already taken care of. Boss's orders." He hands me three sets of keys. "You need anything else, you let Joey know."
After he leaves, I stand in my newly secured doorway, watching the street. The October wind rustles through the trees, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and fallen leaves. For the first time since Derek tracked us down a week ago, I feel safe.
"Can we have dinner now?" Tommy asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
"Of course, baby." I close and lock the door—all three locks—and head to our small kitchen. "How about mac and cheese?"
While the pasta boils, I can't help glancing through the window toward Joey's mother's house. The lights are on, creating warm squares of yellow in the growing dusk.
I imagine them in there, talking and eating… Does he cook? The thought of those massive, scarred hands carefully preparing food makes me smile.
Stop it, I scold myself. You just got rid of one man. The last thing you need is to start daydreaming about another.
But I can't help but remember how he looked, filling my doorway like an avenging angel. The gray at his temples and the lines around his eyes only made him more imposing, more solid. His voice, low and gravelly, had sent shivers down my spine—not from fear, but from something else entirely.
"Mommy, the water's boiling over!"
I jump, rushing to turn down the heat. "Sorry, baby. Mommy was distracted."
"Were you thinking about the superhero man?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "He's not a superhero, remember? He said so himself."
Tommy shrugs, climbing onto a kitchen chair. "He looks like one. And he made the bad man go away."
I drain the pasta, trying to focus on the simple task rather than the memory of Joey's hands around Derek's throat. Violence shouldn't be attractive. I know this. I've seen enough of it in my life to know better. But there was something different about Joey's controlled fury, about the way he used his strength to protect rather than harm.
After dinner, I tuck Tommy into bed in our tiny second bedroom. His stuffed dinosaur collection, the only toys I made sure to pack when we fled Oregon, stands guard around his pillow.
"Will you check under the bed?" he whispers.
My heart breaks a little. He hadn't asked for that in months, not until Derek showed up. "Of course, baby."
I make a show of checking under the bed, in the closet, behind the curtains. "All clear. No monsters here."
"What about the bad man?"
I sit on the edge of his bed, stroking his dark hair.
"The bad man is gone, Tommy. And if he ever tries to come back, Mr. Joey will protect us."
"Promise?"
"Promise." I kiss his forehead. "Now go to sleep. Tomorrow we'll make those cookies, remember?"
Once he's asleep, I retreat to the living room with my laptop. I should work on the website design I'm supposed to deliver next week, but instead I find myself standing at the window, looking out at the quiet street.
A motorcycle rumbles to life next door. I peek through the curtains, watching Joey mount his Harley. The streetlight catches on his silver hair, on the leather of his vest. He pauses, head turning toward my house, and for a moment I think he can see me watching him.
Then he kicks the bike into gear and roars off into the night, leaving only the lingering rumble of his exhaust and the rapid beating of my heart.
I press my forehead against the cool glass. This is crazy. I'm barely out of one bad situation—I can't afford to get caught up in fantasies about a dangerous man, no matter how kind he was today. Tommy has to be my priority. Our safety, our stability, our fresh start.
But as I finally settle down to work, I can't help remembering the gentle way Joey spoke to Tommy, so at odds with his intimidating appearance. The careful way he wrote down his phone number, making sure the digits were clear. The respect in his voice when he talked to me, like I was someone worth protecting.
My phone sits on the coffee table, his number already programmed in. Just in case, I tell myself. Just for emergencies.
But deep down, I know I'm lying to myself. Deep down, I'm already wondering what his voice sounds like when he laughs, what his hands would feel like when they're not dealing out justice.
Deep down, I'm already in trouble.