Chapter 4 - Havoc
I can't believe I'm actually doing this.
Pope told me to keep my distance. Stone gave me that look that said don't be stupid. Knuckles outright laughed when I said I was heading out early, like he knew exactly where I was going and why.
And he was right. Because here I am, sitting on my bike at a bus stop three blocks from the casino, offering a woman I barely know a ride home, completely ignoring every piece of advice and every direct order I've been given tonight.
I'm fucked. Completely and totally fucked.
And then she gets on the bike, behind me, and I stop caring about any of it.
Her body settles against mine. Soft where I'm hard, warm where I'm cold. She hesitates for a second before her arms wrap around my waist, slow at first, then tighter when I start the engine and it rumbles to life beneath us.
"Hold on," I tell her over the noise.
Her grip tightens, and I feel it everywhere. Her thighs press against mine. Her chest—fuck, her breasts—pressed against my back, soft and full even through our layers of clothing. Every breath she takes I feel, every slight shift of her weight, every nervous tremor that runs through her.
My cock hardens instantly, and I'm grateful she can't see my face right now because I probably look like I'm in pain. Which I am. But it's the good kind. The kind I haven't felt in so fucking long I'd almost forgotten what it was like to want someone this badly.
I pull away from the curb, keeping my promise to go slow. The bike purrs beneath us as we navigate through the tourist district, past the bright lights and fake glamour of the Strip. Ruby's grip tightens every time I turn, her body leaning with mine.
She's a natural. Trusts the bike without realizing it.
Trusts me without realizing it.
We hit East Fremont faster than the ten minutes I promised.
Traffic's light this time of night, and the neighborhood changes around us.
The bright Vegas facade gives way to the reality most tourists never see.
Liquor stores with bars on the windows. Check cashing places charging predatory interest. Motels that rent by the week to people who've run out of options.
This is where she's living. Where her kid is sleeping right now.
I know this neighborhood. Worked security for a place two blocks over when I first got to Vegas, before Pope found me and gave me a better option.
I know what happens here after dark. The dealers on the corners.
The working girls negotiating prices. The violence that erupts without warning when someone gets high enough or desperate enough or just plain mean enough.
Ruby doesn't belong here. Neither does her kid.
"Which one?" I ask, slowing as we hit the strip of motels that line this section of Fremont.
"Desert Rose," she says, her voice muffled by the helmet. "Next block."
I know the Desert Rose. It's one of the better ones, which isn't saying much. At least the owner tries to keep the dealers off the property, and the doors have working locks.
But it's still a shithole, and the fact that she's here with a five-year-old kid makes me want to burn something down.
I pull into the parking lot, navigating around potholes and discarded trash. The two-story building is painted a faded pink that might have been cheerful once but now just looks sad. Half the exterior lights are burned out, casting long shadows across the walkways.
A drunk is shouting near the office, stumbling in circles, yelling at someone who isn't there. His words are slurred, incoherent, but the rage in his voice is crystal clear.
Ruby tenses against me, her grip tightening.
"Which room?" I ask, killing the engine.
"Second floor. Two-fourteen." She's already pulling away, climbing off the bike with none of the grace she showed getting on. Her hands shake as she fumbles with the helmet.
I take it from her gently, our fingers brushing. Even that small contact sends electricity up my arm.
"Thank you," she says quickly. "For the ride. I should—"
The drunk's shouting gets louder, and he's moving now, staggering toward the stairs that lead to the second floor. Toward where Ruby needs to go.
Every muscle in my body goes taut.
"Go," I tell her. "I'll wait until you're inside."
"You don't have to—"
"Ruby." I level her with a look that stops her protest. "Go. Now."
She goes, moving quickly toward the stairs. The drunk sees her, and his attention shifts. I'm off the bike and following before she makes it three steps.
"—hey, pretty thing," the drunk slurs, reaching the bottom of the stairs just as Ruby does. "Where you goin' in such a hurry?"
"Excuse me," Ruby says, her voice tight, trying to move past him.
He blocks her path, swaying. "C'mon now, don't be rude. Just wanna talk to a pretty lady—"
"She's not interested," I say, closing the distance between us.
He turns, bleary eyes trying to focus on me. "Who the fuck—"
His hand shoots out, grabbing Ruby's wrist.
She gasps, trying to pull away, and that's all it takes.
The red edge I've been keeping at bay all night explodes across my vision. I'm moving before thought catches up to instinct, my fist connecting with his jaw in a satisfying crack that sends him stumbling backward. He doesn't let go of Ruby's wrist, dragging her with him.
"Let. Her. Go." Each word is punctuated with another hit: jaw, ribs, face again. He releases her on the third punch, crumpling against the wall.
"Havoc" Ruby's voice cuts through the haze. "He's down. He's down."
I force myself to step back, my knuckles screaming. The drunk is conscious but barely, sliding down the wall to sit in a heap, blood streaming from his nose.
"You okay?" I turn to Ruby, scanning her for injuries. Her wrist is red where he grabbed her, and fury surges through me again.
"I'm fine. But you're not." She's staring at my hands. "You're bleeding."
I look down. My knuckles are split open, blood dripping onto the concrete. Must've caught his teeth on that last hit.
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." Her hand wraps around my wrist, the same wrist that drunk grabbed, "Come on. I've got a first aid kit upstairs."
"Ruby, you don't have to—"
"You just beat up a guy for grabbing me. The least I can do is clean your hands." She's already pulling me toward the stairs, and I follow because refusing her feels impossible right now.
The drunk groans behind us, but I don't look back. He'll live. And he'll think twice before putting his hands on women who don't want them.
Ruby's hand stays wrapped around my wrist as we climb the stairs. Her fingers are small against my skin, soft where mine are callused and scarred. She's leading me, trusting me to follow, and something about that simple gesture undoes me more than anything else tonight.
We reach room 214, and she unlocks the door quickly this time, her hands steadier than they were downstairs. She pulls me inside, and I get my first look at where she's living.
The room is small. One full-size bed, a tiny kitchenette, a bathroom I can see from the doorway. But it's clean. She's made it clean despite everything. The bed is neatly made. No trash on the floor. A stuffed dinosaur sits on the pillow.
An older woman is asleep in the chair near the window, and on the bed, curled up under a blanket, is a little boy.
Her kid.
He's tiny, dark curls, one arm thrown over his head in that boneless way kids sleep. He looks peaceful. Safe.
"Mrs. Amber," Ruby whispers, touching the woman's shoulder. "I'm back."
The woman wakes with a start, then smiles when she sees Ruby. "Oh good, good. He was perfect. Ate his dinner, brushed his teeth, went to bed at eight-thirty like you said." Her eyes land on me, and I watch her assess me in the way only grandmothers can. "Who is this?"
"He works with me. Gave me a ride home." Ruby's already digging in her purse for cash.
"No need tonight, dear. You paid me earlier, remember?" Mrs. Amber pats Ruby's hand, gives me one more assessing look, then shuffles toward the door. "Lock up behind me."
Ruby does, both locks sliding into place, and then we're alone. Well, not alone. The kid's right there, but alone enough that I'm suddenly aware of how small this room is, how intimate it feels.
"Bathroom," Ruby says, nodding toward the tiny space. "Sit on the edge of the tub."
I do as she says, which is a first. I don't take orders well. Eight years in the military beat most of that out of me, and what the military didn't break, the war did. But something about Ruby's quiet authority makes me want to comply.
The bathroom is barely big enough for one person, let alone two. When Ruby squeezes in with a first aid kit, our knees touch. She kneels on the floor between my spread legs, and it takes every ounce of control I have not to pull her closer.
"Give me your hands," she says softly.
I extend them, and she takes them, turning them over to examine the damage. Her touch is clinical, gentle but I feel it everywhere. My knuckles are split and swelling, blood still seeping from the worst of it.
"This might sting," she warns, pulling out antiseptic wipes.
It does, but I don't react. I've had worse. Much worse. A few split knuckles barely register on the scale of pain I've experienced.
But Ruby's face… Concentrated, concerned, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, that registers. That hits me harder than any punch I've ever taken.
"You didn't have to hit him," she says quietly, dabbing at the wounds. "I could've handled it."
"He had his hands on you."
"I know, but—"
"Ruby." I wait until she looks up, meeting those dark eyes. "He put his hands on you. That's not something you handle. That's something I handle."
"Why?" The question comes out barely above a whisper. "Why do you care? You don't even know me."
Because you looked at me tonight like I was more than just the club enforcer. Because you trusted me enough to get on my bike. Because you have a kid sleeping in the next room and you're trying so fucking hard to keep him safe in a place that isn't safe, and I know what that's like.
Because I'm fucked. Because one look at you and I was done for.
"Someone should care," I say instead, my voice rough.
She stares at me for a long moment, her hands still cradling mine, and I see the exact moment she decides something. Her eyes soften, her shoulders relax just slightly.
"What's his name?" I nod toward the main room where her kid sleeps.
A small smile tugs at her lips. "Marcus. He's five."
"He looks peaceful."
"He is. He's... he's everything." Her voice catches. "Everything I do is for him."
"I know."
And I do. I can see it in the way this shitty motel room is clean and organized, in the stuffed dinosaur placed on the pillow, in the exhaustion written all over her face from working herself to the bone to provide for him.
Ruby finishes cleaning my knuckles and starts wrapping them with gauze. "You do this a lot? Hit people?"
"Occupational hazard."
"That's not an answer."
"Yeah," I admit. "I do it a lot. It's part of my job. Enforcer means I enforce club rules, handle problems, protect what's ours."
"And I'm yours? To protect?" There's no accusation in her voice, just genuine curiosity.
"You work for the club now. That puts you under our protection. But this—" I gesture at my wrapped hands, at the situation downstairs. "This wasn't about the club."
"What was it about?"
You. It was about you and the way you make me feel things I thought were dead. It was about the fact that seeing someone touch you without permission made me want to commit murder.
"Didn't like seeing you scared," I say, which is the truth even if it's not all of it.
She ties off the gauze, her fingers lingering on my wrists. We're so close I can count every beauty mark on her face, can see the gold flecks in her dark eyes, can smell that sweet scent underneath the casino smell.
"I don't know what to do with you," she says finally.
"You don't have to do anything with me."
"But you're going to keep doing this, aren't you? Showing up. Protecting me."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yeah."
"Why are you here? Why are you doing all this for someone you just met?"
Because I'm selfish and broken and I want you with an intensity that scares the shit out of me. Because you need protecting and I need to protect you, and maybe that makes me fucked up but I stopped caring about that the moment you wrapped your arms around my waist on my bike.
"Because you deserve better than this," I say, gesturing vaguely at the motel room. "And until you have it, someone needs to make sure you're safe."
Tears shine in her eyes, and fuck, I can't handle that.
"Hey, no—" I reach up without thinking, cupping her face with my bandaged hand. "Don't cry."
"I'm not crying." But her voice breaks on the words. "I'm just... no one's ever... not since my grandmother..."
She doesn't finish, but she doesn't have to. I understand what she's not saying. That she's been alone for a long time. That she's used to taking care of herself and her kid with no help from anyone. That the simple act of someone giving a shit about her wellbeing is enough to undo her.
My thumb brushes across her cheekbone, catching a tear that escaped. Her skin is so soft, and she leans into my touch like she's starved for it.
I should leave. Should walk out that door before this goes somewhere it can't come back from. But she's kneeling between my legs in a tiny motel bathroom, looking up at me with those docile eyes full of tears and trust and leaving feels impossible.
"Ruby," I start, not sure what I'm going to say.
"Stay," she whispers. "Just for a little while. I don't... I don't want to be alone tonight."
Every rational thought in my head is screaming at me to say no. To leave before I make this complicated. To keep the distance Pope ordered me to keep.
But I've never been good at following orders when it matters.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "I'll stay.