Chapter 2 - Havoc
My cock is raging hard, and I have no fucking idea why.
I push through the casino floor toward the back hallway, beer soaking through my shirt and dripping down my abs, and all I can think about is dark brown eyes gone wide with panic and the way her hands shook when she shoved those napkins at me.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I've worked this floor for eight years. Seen every type of woman Vegas has to offer: the showgirls with legs for days, the high rollers in designer dresses, the tourists in too-tight club wear, the working girls who know exactly what they're selling.
Beautiful women. Confident women. Women who've made it clear they'd be happy to spend a night forgetting their names in my bed.
I've never given a single one of them more than a passing glance.
But this girl, this curvy little thing with wild dark hair escaping her ponytail and a constellation of beauty marks scattered across her left cheek like someone spilled stars on her skin, dumps three beers on me, and my dick decides now is the time to wake the fuck up.
I adjust myself as I walk, grateful the casino's dim enough that nobody notices. The wet shirt's going to be a pain in the ass to explain, but that's the least of my problems right now.
*You new?*
Brilliant fucking conversation, Mercer. Really smooth.
I didn't even get her name. Just stood there like an idiot, dripping Corona, while she apologized a hundred times with those full lips that I should not be thinking about, and then I walked away because staying near her for another second was going to make this hard-on situation a lot more obvious.
"Yo, Havoc!"
I stop, turning to see Knuckles heading toward me from the direction of the high roller tables. He's grinning that shit-eating grin that means he's about to say something that'll make me want to punch him.
"The fuck happened to you?" He gestures at my soaked shirt. "Someone finally get tired of your sunny disposition and throw a drink?"
"New waitress," I say flatly. "Accident."
Knuckles' eyebrows shoot up. "New waitress? The one Donna hired today?"
"Didn't ask her life story."
"But you didn't lose your shit on her." It's not a question. Knuckles knows me well enough to read between the lines. "That's interesting."
"It's not interesting. It's nothing. She got bumped, drinks spilled, shit happens."
"Uh-huh." Knuckles crosses his arms, still grinning. "So why do you look like you want to murder someone?"
"I always look like I want to murder someone."
"Fair point." He glances back toward the main floor. "She cute?"
My jaw tightens. "Didn't notice."
"You're full of shit."
He's not wrong, but I'm not giving him the satisfaction. "Don't you have tables to watch?"
"Don't you have a shirt to change?" he counters. "You're dripping on the carpet. Donna's gonna bitch."
He's right about that. I need to get upstairs, change, and get my head on straight. I've got four more hours on shift, and I can't spend them thinking about a woman whose name I don't even know.
"Later," I tell Knuckles, heading for the employee elevator.
"Hey, Havoc?"
I stop, looking back.
His grin widens. "She's got an ass that won't quit. Just in case you didn't notice that either."
I flip him off and keep walking.
The elevator ride to the third floor gives me sixty seconds to get my shit together. I focus on my breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth, the technique my VA therapist tried to teach me before I stopped going to appointments.
It doesn't help.
By the time I reach my apartment, I'm still half-hard and pissed off about it.
The place is small: one bedroom, one bath, a kitchen I barely use, and a living room dominated by a couch I've had for six years.
It's not much, but it's mine. More than I had growing up in the system, bouncing between foster homes that ranged from indifferent to actively hostile.
More than I had in the military, sleeping in barracks or tents or whatever hole we could find that didn't have insurgents waiting to blow us to hell.
I strip off the wet shirt and drop it in the sink, running cold water over it even though it's probably fucked. The beer smell is already setting in.
My reflection catches in the bathroom mirror, and I stop.
Tattoos cover most of my torso—a memorial piece for my unit across my ribs, dog tags inked over my heart with names I'll never forget, symbols and dates that mean something only to me.
The scar on my face is the most visible damage, but there are others.
Shrapnel scars on my shoulder. A knife wound on my side. Bullet graze on my thigh.
I look like exactly what I am, a man who's been through the shit and came out the other side meaner for it. What the hell would a woman like her want with someone like me?
Not that it matters. Not that I'm thinking about it.
Except I am thinking about it. I'm thinking about the way her dark eyes went soft with genuine distress when she apologized, like she thought I might hurt her for an accident.
I'm thinking about how her hands trembled, how her voice shook, how fucking tiny she looked standing there with an empty tray, terrified.
And I'm thinking about how badly I wanted to tell her she didn't need to be scared. Not of me. Never of me.
Which is insane, because I'm the guy people should be scared of. I'm the enforcer. The one who handles problems. The one who makes grown men think twice before fucking with the club.
I'm not the guy who comforts nervous waitresses.
I grab a black t-shirt from my drawer and pull it on, then change into jeans that aren't soaked through. The whole process takes maybe three minutes, but my cock still hasn't gotten the memo that we're not doing this.
"Fucking hell," I mutter, bracing my hands on the bathroom counter.
I could take care of it. Quick and efficient in the shower. Get it out of my system and move on.
But something about that feels wrong. Feels like using her image without permission, and I've done a lot of shit in my life I'm not proud of, but that's a line I won't cross.
So instead, I adjust myself again, will my dick to calm the fuck down, and head back downstairs.
The casino floor is busier than when I left. Thursday night crowd's picking up—locals mostly, people who know the rhythms of the place, who come for the decent odds and the fact that we don't water down the drinks.
I take my usual position near the back wall where I can see the whole floor.
High roller tables to my left, main floor to my right, bar straight ahead.
From here, I can spot trouble before it starts.
Card counters trying to be subtle. Dealers getting too friendly with players.
Assholes getting handsy with the waitresses.
My eyes find her without meaning to.
She's at the bar, waiting for drinks. Even from here, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she's trying to make herself smaller. She's talking to Miguel, and he's saying something that makes her smile, just a little, just enough that I catch a glimpse of it.
"You're staring."
I don't have to look to know it's Stone.
"I'm watching the floor," I say. "It's my job."
"Uh-huh." Stone settles against the wall next to me, arms crossed. "Knuckles said you got beer spilled on you."
"News travels fast."
"Said it was the new girl."
"It was an accident."
"And you didn't scare the shit out of her?"
I finally look at him. Stone's face is impassive, but there's curiosity in his eyes. "Should I have?"
"No. Just surprised you didn't." He pauses. "She seems nervous. Donna said it's her first casino job."
"Lot of people are nervous their first night."
"True." Stone's quiet for a moment, watching the floor with me. "She's got a kid."
That catches my attention. I look at him sharply. "What?"
"Donna asked for emergency contacts. She put down a neighbor at some motel on East Fremont. Said she's got a five-year-old son."
East Fremont. That's not a good area. Cheap motels that rent by the week, neighborhoods where you don't walk alone at night, the kind of place people end up when they're out of options.
Something twists in my gut.
"She running from something?" I ask.
Stone shrugs. "Didn't say. Donna didn't push. But a woman shows up in Vegas with a kid, no family listed, living in a motel, desperate enough to work here? Usually means she's running from something. Or someone."
My hands curl into fists. "We know if someone's looking for her?"
"No idea. And it's not our business unless it becomes our business."
He's right. We don't dig into employees' pasts unless they give us a reason. Everyone's got shit they're running from. That's half the reason people end up in Vegas in the first place.
But the thought of her being scared, of someone coming after her, of that kid being in danger—
"Havoc." Stone's voice cuts through the spiral. "You good?"
I force my hands to relax. "Fine."
"You sure? Because you're looking at her like—"
"I'm not looking at her like anything," I cut him off. "I'm doing my job."
Stone raises his hands in surrender. "Alright, brother. Just checking."
He walks away, heading toward the high roller section, and I'm left alone with thoughts I don't want and a hard-on that won't quit.
I watch her move through her section, and she's getting the hang of it.
Not as smooth as the other girls yet, but she's trying.
Every time she sets down a tray without spilling, I catch a flicker of relief on her face.
A guy at table eighteen gets handsy when she delivers his scotch, his hand going to her hip.
I'm moving before the rational part of my brain can engage, before I can think about consequences or club protocol or the fact that she's not mine to protect.
My boots eat up the distance between us, and the red edge creeping into my vision, the one that shows up when shit's about to go sideways, sharpens everything into crystal clarity.