Chapter 2 - Havoc #2
His hand is still on her hip. Fingers splayed possessively over the curve like he has any fucking right.
She's trying to step back, saying something with that polite smile that doesn't touch her eyes, but he's not letting go. He's grinning, drunk and stupid, saying something that makes his buddies laugh.
I'm three feet away when his other hand reaches for her ass.
He doesn't make contact.
My fist connects with his jaw first.
The crack of bone on bone is satisfying in a way that probably says terrible things about me, but I don't give a fuck. The guy's chair tips backward, and he goes down hard, sprawling on the casino floor with blood streaming from his mouth.
"Havoc!" Ruby's voice, sharp with shock.
I barely hear her. I'm already reaching down, grabbing the asshole by his collar, hauling him up. He's bigger than average, maybe six foot, probably two hundred pounds, but I've got four inches and fifty pounds of muscle on him.
"You like putting your hands on women who don't want them there?" My voice comes out low, deadly calm. The voice that makes grown men reconsider their life choices.
"What the fuck, man—" He's slurring, trying to pull away.
I slam him against the nearest support pillar. His buddies are scrambling up from their chairs, but one look from me and they freeze.
Smart.
"Answer the fucking question." My forearm presses against his throat, not hard enough to cut off air but hard enough that he feels it. "You think you can touch her? You think you have any right to put your goddamn hands on her?"
"I didn't… She's just a waitress—"
Wrong answer.
My fist pulls back for another hit, and this time I'm aiming for his nose. Going to break it. Going to make sure he remembers this every time he looks in a mirror.
But someone catches my arm mid-swing.
"Havoc. Stand down."
Pope's voice cuts through the red haze. The club president's grip on my bicep is firm, and when I glance at him, his expression is neutral. The face he uses when he's about to handle a situation that could go very bad very quickly.
"He touched her," I growl.
"I saw." Pope's eyes flick to the guy I'm still pinning against the pillar, then back to me. "And you made your point. Now let him go before this becomes a bigger problem."
Every muscle in my body screams to finish what I started. To make this piece of shit understand that touching her—touching Ruby—is off limits. That she's under protection now whether she knows it or not.
That she's mine.
Except she's not mine. She doesn't belong to me. I don't even know her beyond her name and the weight of her terrified apology still echoing in my head.
But the possessive rage burning through my veins doesn't give a fuck about logic.
"Havoc." Pope's voice drops lower, takes on the edge of command that means this isn't a suggestion anymore. "Let. Him. Go."
I release the asshole, and he crumples, coughing, one hand pressed to his bleeding mouth.
"Get him out of here," Pope tells Stone, who's materialized at his shoulder. "His money's good but he's done for the night. Maybe longer."
Stone nods, gesturing to the guy's buddies. "You heard the man. Help your friend walk. And don't come back until you remember how to act like you've got some fucking manners."
They scramble to comply, hauling the bleeding guy toward the exit. He keeps looking back at me like he might say something, but survival instinct must kick in because he stays quiet.
The crowd that had gathered starts to disperse. In a casino like this, violence isn't exactly uncommon, and most of the regulars know better than to gawk when the brothers are involved.
I'm still standing there, fists clenched, breathing hard, when Pope steps into my line of sight.
"My office," he says quietly. "Now."
"Pope—"
"That wasn't a request, brother."
Fuck.
I glance past him, looking for Ruby, and find her standing by table eighteen with her empty tray clutched to her chest like a shield. Her eyes are wide, dark, locked on me with an expression I can't read. Fear? Shock? Something else?
Liz has an arm around her shoulders, saying something in her ear, but Ruby doesn't seem to hear it. She's just staring at me.
I want to go to her. Want to make sure she's okay, that the asshole didn't hurt her, that she understands I wasn't trying to scare her, I was trying to protect her.
But Pope's hand lands on my shoulder, steering me toward the back hallway.
"Office," he repeats. "Before I make this an order you'll regret ignoring."
I let him guide me away from the floor, through the employee areas, up the stairs to the second-floor offices where the club handles business.
My knuckles are split, bleeding sluggishly, and my shoulder's barking from the old shrapnel wound that likes to remind me it exists whenever I throw a punch.
Worth it.
Pope's office is exactly what you'd expect from a MC president who runs a successful casino—half legitimate business, half outlaw clubhouse.
A massive desk dominates one side, paperwork and laptop organized.
The other side has a worn leather couch, a mini fridge stocked with beer, and walls covered in photos of the club over the years.
He closes the door behind us and leans against his desk, arms crossed, staring at me with the kind of patience that means he's waiting for me to explain myself.
I don't have an explanation that makes sense.
"You want to tell me what the fuck that was about?" he finally asks.
"Guy had his hands on her."
"I saw. And she was handling it." Pope's voice is calm, but there's steel underneath. "You know the protocol. Waitresses deal with handsy drunks all the time. If they need backup, they call for it. You don't start swinging unless it escalates."
"It escalated."
"Did it? Or did you decide it escalated because you wanted an excuse to break his face?"
I don't answer. Can't answer, because he's not wrong.
Pope sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "How long you been working this floor, Havoc?"
"Eight years."
"Eight years. And in those eight years, how many waitresses have gotten hit on? Grabbed? Had some drunk asshole try his luck?"
"Too many to count."
"And how many times have you hospitalized someone over it?"
My jaw tightens. "This was different."
"How?" Pope pushes off the desk, stepping closer. "How was this different? What made this drunk asshole special enough that you forgot every rule we have about not causing scenes on the casino floor?"
Because it was her. Because the thought of anyone touching her, hurting her, scaring her makes me want to burn the whole fucking city down.
But I can't say that. Can't admit that a woman I've known for less than three hours has somehow crawled under my skin and set up camp in a place I thought was dead.
"He wasn't letting go," I say instead. "She tried to pull away and he held on. Was going for her ass when I got there."
Pope's expression softens slightly. "And you did what any brother would do, you protected someone who needed it. I get that, Havoc. I do. But the way you went at him?" He shakes his head. "That wasn't protection. That was something else."
"What's your point?"
"My point is you need to get your head straight.
" Pope moves to the mini fridge, pulls out two beers, hands me one.
"You've been solid for eight years. Never seen you lose control like that.
So, either something's going on with you that we need to talk about, or—" He pauses, takes a long pull from his beer.
"Or that new waitress is about to become a problem. "
"She's not a problem."
"She is if she's got you throwing punches at paying customers."
I twist the cap off my beer, taking a drink to buy myself time. The cold liquid does nothing to cool the heat still simmering in my blood.
"What do you know about her?" Pope asks.
"Nothing."
"Bullshit. You know something, or you wouldn't have gone nuclear out there."
I exhale hard through my nose. "Stone said she's got a kid. Five years old. Living in a motel on East Fremont. No family listed."
Pope's quiet for a moment, processing. "So, you think she's running."
"Don't know. Don't care. Not my business."
"Then why'd you damn near kill a guy for touching her hip?"
Because the thought of anyone hurting her makes me fucking feral.
Because I took one look at those scared dark eyes and something in my chest that's been dormant for years suddenly woke up screaming.
Because she's soft and scared and trying so damn hard, and I know what it's like to have nothing and no one, and I'll be damned if I let anyone make her feel smaller than she already does.
But I can't say any of that either.
"Instinct," I finally say.
Pope snorts. "Instinct. Right."
He sets his beer down, fixes me with a look that's pure president now, not friend.
"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to finish your shift without causing any more scenes.
You're going to keep your distance from Ruby unless she's in actual danger, and I mean danger, not just some drunk being a drunk.
And you're going to figure out what the fuck is going on in your head before it becomes a club problem. We clear?"
"Clear."
"Good." His expression calms down again. "For what it's worth? Guy was an asshole. Glad you punched him."
"Yeah."
Pope claps me on the shoulder, then heads for the door. "Clean up your knuckles. You're bleeding on my floor."
He leaves, and I'm alone in his office with half a beer and the uncomfortable realization that I'm completely fucked.
I don't know Ruby Lane.
I don't know where she came from or what she's running from or if she even wants protection from a broken-down enforcer with more scars than sense.
But I know one thing with absolute certainty:
I'm going to protect her anyway.
Even if it destroys me in the process.