Chapter 3 - Ruby
I'm still shaking twenty minutes later.
My hands tremble as I load drinks onto my tray. Two vodka sodas, a whiskey neat, three Bud Lights, and I have to set them down twice to get my grip steady enough that I won't spill them again. The last thing I need tonight is another disaster.
Though I'm not sure anything could top what just happened.
What the fuck just happened?
One minute I was trying to politely extract myself from some drunk asshole's grabby hands, something I've dealt with a hundred times in a hundred different restaurants and bars, and the next minute Havoc was there, moving like violence personified, and the guy was on the floor bleeding.
I've never seen anyone move that fast. That angry.
That protective.
"You okay?" Miguel asks from behind the bar.
"Fine," I lie, because I have no idea how to explain what I'm feeling right now.
"That guy was out of line. Havoc did you a favor."
A favor that might get me fired, I don't say. Instead I just nod, hoist the tray, and head back to my section.
Table sixteen. Deliver drinks. Smile. Collect empties.
Don't think about the way Havoc's fist connected with that guy's jaw.
Don't think about the sound it made—that solid, brutal crack that should have horrified me, but instead I'm soaking wet between my thighs right now, and it has nothing to do with spilled beer.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I set the drinks down with shaking hands, and the businessman at table sixteen tips me an extra twenty. "You alright? That was some scary shit."
"I'm fine, thank you." I pocket the twenty, grateful. Every dollar counts when you're living in a motel that charges by the week and your son needs new shoes because his feet won't stop growing.
Marcus. God. I need to focus on Marcus, on keeping this job, on not fucking up my one shot at something stable.
Not on the enforcer who just hospitalized someone for touching me.
Except I can't stop thinking about it. About him.
I make it through the next hour on autopilot.
Taking orders, delivering drinks, dodging eye contact with anyone who might be looking at me with too much interest. Liz checks on me twice.
Jamie gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder during her break.
Even Donna appears at one point, her severe expression softening just slightly.
"You didn't do anything wrong," she says. "Guy was out of line. Havoc handled it."
"Am I..." I swallow hard. "Am I in trouble?"
"For what? Getting harassed by a drunk?" She snorts. "No, honey. You're fine. Havoc, on the other hand, is probably getting his ass chewed out by Pope right now. But that's not your problem."
She walks away before I can ask what that means, leaving me with more questions than answers.
Why did he do it? He doesn't know me. I'm just some new waitress who dumped beer on him within an hour of meeting him. Why would he care if some drunk grabbed my hip?
More importantly… Why did watching him defend me make me feel things I haven't felt in years? Things I thought I'd buried so deep they'd never surface again?
I'm not supposed to be attracted to violence.
I left Marcus's father specifically because of his violence, because I refused to let my son grow up watching his mother get shoved into walls and called worthless and have beer bottles thrown at her head when she forgot to pick up the right brand from the store.
I left because I wanted better. For Marcus, yes, but also for myself.
So why did watching Havoc lose control, watching him hurt someone because that someone touched me, make heat pool low in my belly and my thighs clench together?
"Earth to Ruby."
I blink, focusing on Liz standing in front of me at the waitress station.
"You've been staring at that empty tray for like two minutes," she says. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, sorry. Just... processing."
"I bet." Liz leans against the bar, lowering her voice. "Look, I know that was intense but try not to take it personally. Havoc's... protective. Of everyone. It's just who he is."
"Protective enough to break someone's jaw?"
"When they deserve it? Yeah." She doesn't sound bothered by this. "The brothers don't put up with anyone disrespecting the staff. We're under club protection, that's part of the deal when you work here. Guys know they can't pull shit without consequences."
Club protection. Like I'm some kind of asset that needs defending.
It should bother me more than it does.
"Has he done that before?" I ask. "Gone after someone for... for touching a waitress?"
Liz hesitates, and that hesitation tells me everything. "Not like that. I mean, he's thrown guys out, sure. Banned a few. But I've never seen him hit someone that fast. Usually, he just has to look at them and they back down." She pauses. "You must have really freaked him out."
"I didn't do anything."
"Exactly. You didn't need to." Liz's expression is knowing in a way that makes me uncomfortable. "You're new, you're clearly nervous, and some asshole put his hands on you. Havoc's got a thing about protecting people who can't protect themselves. Especially women and kids."
Women and kids. Does he know about Marcus? Did someone tell him?
"I should get back to work," I mutter, loading up another round of drinks.
"Hey, Ruby?" Liz catches my arm gently. "For what it's worth? You're safe here. I know it probably doesn't feel like it right now, but the brothers... they're good people. Rough around the edges, sure, but they take care of their own. And you're one of us now."
I want to believe her. God, I want to believe that there's a place in this world where I'm safe, where Marcus is safe, where we can just exist without constantly looking over our shoulders.
But I've been disappointed too many times to trust easy promises from near-strangers.
"Thanks," I say anyway, because she's trying to be kind.
The rest of my shift passes in a blur. I avoid looking at the back of the casino where I know Havoc usually stands. I don't see him return to the floor, and I can't decide if that's a relief or a disappointment.
By the time ten-thirty rolls around and my shift ends, my feet are screaming, my back aches, and I've made two hundred and forty-seven dollars in tips. After splitting with Liz and Jamie and tipping out Miguel, I walk away with one hundred and sixty-three dollars.
One hundred and sixty-three dollars for eight hours of work.
It's the most money I've made in a single shift in years.
I change in the employee locker room, pulling on my worn jeans and t-shirt, aware of how the other women chatter around me. Nobody mentions Havoc or the incident directly, but I catch sideways glances, whispered conversations that stop when I get too close.
Great. Now I'm the girl who caused a scene on her first night.
"You working tomorrow?" Jamie asks as I shove my apron into my locker.
"Yeah. Same shift."
"Cool. Gets easier, I promise." She applies another coat of lipstick in the cracked mirror. "And hey, if anyone gives you shit about tonight, tell them to fuck off. You didn't ask for that asshole to grab you."
"Right."
I escape before anyone else can offer advice or sympathy or whatever this is.
The casino floor is still busy as I cut through it toward the exit, but I keep my head down, my purse clutched tight against my body.
The night air hits me as I push through the doors: cooler than the recycled casino atmosphere, but still warm.
This is Vegas in late spring, where the days are brutal and the nights are bearable.
I'm halfway to the bus stop when I feel it, that prickling awareness at the base of my skull that says someone's watching.
I stop, turning, scanning the street.
Nothing. Just tourists stumbling between casinos, a few working girls on the corner, the usual Vegas night crowd.
But the feeling doesn't go away.
I walk faster, my purse clutched tight against my body, keys fitted between my knuckles the way my grandmother taught me when I was sixteen.
If someone grabs you, go for the eyes. Always the eyes, baby girl.
The bus stop is three blocks from the casino, at the corner where the tourist district starts bleeding into the rougher neighborhoods. There's no shelter, just a bench with peeling paint and a sign that says the next bus comes in twelve minutes.
I sit, keeping my back to the wall of the closed pawn shop behind me, and pull out my phone to check the time. 10:47 PM. If the bus is on schedule, I'll be back at the motel by 11:15. Mrs. Amber will want her money, I'll check on Marcus, and then I can finally collapse.
In the meantime, my feet are killing me. Eight hours in shoes that are half a size too small because they were on clearance and I couldn't afford better. I'll soak them when I get back, maybe ice them if the motel's machine is working.
My phone buzzes. A text from Mrs. Amber: *Baby is sleeping. Sweet boy. Take your time.*
At least Marcus is okay. At least I didn't screw that up today.
But sitting here alone in the dark, I can't stop replaying the night.
The weight of the tray. The drunk's hand on my hip, fingers digging in just a little too hard.
The way I'd smiled and tried to step back, tried to be polite because I needed this job and couldn't afford to make waves.
And then Havoc.
God, Havoc.
The way he'd moved like violence was a language he spoke fluently. The sound of his fist connecting with the guy's face. The absolute calm in his voice when he'd asked *you like putting your hands on women who don't want them there?*
I squeeze my thighs together, hating myself for the renewed rush of heat between my legs.
This is wrong. I shouldn't be turned on by this.
I spent three years with Marcus's father, three years of walking on eggshells, making myself smaller, and apologizing for things that weren't my fault.
I know what violence looks like up close.
I know how it smells: like beer and cigarettes and rage that has nowhere to go but into my body.
I left that. I chose to leave that. So why does the memory of Havoc's protective fury make me feel safe instead of scared? The rumble of an engine cuts through my thoughts, and I look up.
Havoc pulls up to the curb on a motorcycle.
Sleek, black, chrome catching the streetlights.
He kills the engine, and the sudden silence is almost louder than the noise.
The scar on his face is more visible in the harsh light, a pale slash that somehow makes him both more intimidating and more beautiful.
Wait. Beautiful? No. Dangerous. He's fucking dangerous. He swings off the bike, pulling off his helmet. Those steel-gray eyes lock onto mine, and I forget how to form a coherent sentence.
"You're waiting for the bus," he says. It's not a question.
"Yes?" My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. I clear my throat. "How did you—"
"Saw you leave." He sets the helmet on the bike's seat, crossing his arms. "East Fremont's forty-five minutes by bus this time of night."
"So?"
"So, it's almost eleven. You've got a kid waiting, right?"
Someone told him. Which means the club probably knows about Marcus, knows I'm living in a shithole motel, knows I'm one bad break away from being completely fucked.
"I'll be fine," I say, even though we both know it's a lie. "The bus is—"
"Forty-five minutes," he repeats. "I can get you there in ten."
It takes me a second to understand what he's offering. When I do, I actually laugh, a sharp, disbelieving sound. "You want to give me a ride? On that?"
"Unless you'd prefer to wait." He doesn't move, doesn't push. Just stands there like he has all the time in the world, like offering strange waitresses rides home on his motorcycle is a perfectly normal Thursday night activity.
"I don't... I've never been on a motorcycle before."
"I'll go slow."
This is a terrible idea. I don't know this man.
He's a biker, an enforcer, someone who just put another man in the hospital without breaking a sweat.
He's exactly the kind of dangerous I swore I'd stay away from.
But he also protected me. Defended me. Looked at me like I mattered, like the thought of someone touching me without permission was enough to make him lose control.
When was the last time anyone defended me?
When was the last time anyone looked at me like I was worth protecting?
"Why?" I ask. "Why would you do this?"
"Because you shouldn't be waiting alone at a bus stop at midnight when I can get you home safe." He tells me without the slightest hesitation.
"You don't know me."
"No." His eyes hold mine, steady and unflinching. "But I know what it's like to have no one. And I know what this city does to people who are alone."
"I should say no," I tell him, “I don’t even know your name.”
"Probably. And I’m Jake."
"I should wait for the bus and forget tonight happened and just... keep my head down and do my job."
"If that's what you want." He doesn't move toward me, doesn't try to convince me. Just waits, patient as stone.
And maybe that's what decides it. The fact that he's offering without demanding. Protecting without controlling. Giving me the choice when I've had so few choices lately that I've almost forgotten what they feel like.
"Ten minutes?" I ask.
"Ten minutes."
I stand, my legs unsteady. "Okay."
He turns back to the bike, pulling the helmet off the seat. "You'll need this."
"What about you?"
"I'll be fine." He holds it out, and I take it. I fumble with the helmet, and he steps closer. "Here. Let me."
His hands are surprisingly gentle as he adjusts the fit, his fingers grazing my jaw and neck. He smells like leather and motor oil and something manly, something that makes me want to lean in and breathe him in.
"Too tight?" he asks, his voice closer than I expected.
I shake my head, not trusting my voice.
"Good." He steps back, swinging onto the bike. "Get on behind me. Feet on the pegs, hold onto my waist or the seat. Whatever feels stable."
I stare at the bike. At him. At the small space I'm supposed to occupy behind him, pressed up against all that muscle and leather.
This is insane, but I get on anyway.