Chapter 5 - Ruby #2
"It doesn't sound stupid." His voice is firm, no room for argument. "And it's not nothing. You've been moving through life like you're invisible. Like what you've been through doesn't deserve space." He pauses. "It does."
I cannot cry again. I refuse. I am not going to sit here and fall apart in front of this man for the second time in twenty minutes. I have more dignity than that.
I look up at the water-stained ceiling, blinking hard.
"You're going to make me cry again," I tell the ceiling.
"Sorry."
"No you're not."
"No," he agrees, and this time I hear it. The smile in his voice, quiet and rare, like something that doesn't come out often. "I'm not."
I look back at him, this stranger who isn't quite a stranger anymore. The scar on his face. The tattoos mapping stories I don't know. The gray eyes that have seen things I probably can't imagine.
"Your turn," I say.
"My turn what?"
"I told you mine. Your story."
He goes still in a way that's different from before. The listening stillness is gone, replaced by something more guarded, like a door swinging shut behind his eyes.
"That's not usually how this works," he says.
"How does it usually work?"
"I ask. Other people answer. I don't—" He stops. Looks at his bandaged hands. "I don't usually talk about myself."
"You said you wanted to know my story." I keep my voice gentle, like I'm coaxing something wild that might bolt. "It goes both ways."
The motel room is so quiet. Marcus's soft breathing fills the space between us, steady and even, and outside I can hear the muffled sounds of the city—distant traffic, someone's television through the thin walls, the occasional wail of a siren.
Vegas never fully sleeps, but right now this room feels like a bubble outside of time.
Like the rules that apply everywhere else don't quite reach us here.
Havoc looks at me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing it. Measuring the risk.
"Foster care," he finally says. "From as far back as I can remember.
My mother left when I was three. Never knew my father.
" His voice is flat, factual, the way people talk about things they've had to make peace with through sheer repetition.
"Some homes were okay. Most were just...
places. People collecting a check. You learn not to unpack your bag too thoroughly.
You learn not to get attached to the bed or the family or the dog or any of it because it's all temporary. "
My chest aches. "How many homes?"
"Eleven by the time I aged out at eighteen.
" He says it without self-pity, which somehow makes it worse.
"Went straight into the military. Army. Seemed like the logical next step.
Someone tells you where to sleep, when to eat, gives you a sense of structure.
I was good at following orders back then. "
"Back then?"
That almost-smile again, gone as fast as it came. "I'm better at giving them now."
"What happened? In the military?"
The room shifts. I feel it, a change in the atmosphere, like pressure dropping before a storm.
"Two tours in Afghanistan. One in Iraq." He's quiet for a beat.
"I was good at it. The job. Probably too good.
Started to feel like the only thing I was built for, keeping people alive, eliminating threats, protecting my unit.
" He pauses on that last word, and I watch something move across his face like a shadow. "My unit."
"What happened to them?" I ask, even though something in his expression tells me I already know the answer.
His hands curl into fists on his knees. "Ambush.
Third tour. We were moving through a valley we'd cleared twice before, thought we knew the terrain.
" He stops. Starts again. "IED took out the lead vehicle.
And then they were just… Everywhere. Coming from every direction.
I was in the rear vehicle, furthest from the blast." He exhales through his nose, a sound that costs him something. "I was the only one who walked out."
Walked out. Like it was a choice. Like survival was something he did to them rather than something that happened to him.
"Jake," I say, and his head comes up sharply at his real name. I don't know why I use it, exactly, except that Havoc feels like armor and right now I don't want to talk to his armor. "That wasn't your fault."
"I know that," he says, and then, quieter, "Most days I know that."
My eyes burn. I will not cry again. I won't.
"The scar," I say gently.
His hand comes up, almost unconsciously, touching the jaw-length scar on his left cheek.
He seems to catch himself doing it and lowers his hand.
"Bar fight. Six months after I got home.
I was looking for reasons to get hurt." He meets my eyes, unflinching, owning it completely. "Didn't find a good enough one."
"And then Pope found you."
"Club or the gutter, Pope told me," He nods slowly.
"I was outside a bar on Fremont Street at two in the morning with a loaded gun in my waistband and nowhere I needed to be the next day.
" He says it plainly. "Pope sat down next to me on the curb.
Didn't ask what was wrong. Just said he had a job that needed doing and he needed someone who wasn't afraid to bleed for the people they cared about.
Said the pay was shit but the brothers were real.
" A pause. "He sat with me for four hours.
Just talked. Didn't leave until I handed him the gun. "
Tears spill over before I can stop them. I don't wipe them away this time. Just let them fall, because trying to hide crying from a man who just handed me his most broken parts feels dishonest.
"Eight years," I manage.
"Eight years." His voice is rougher now, stripped of its usual control. "The club gave me something to protect again. Something worth staying for." He looks at Marcus. "Brothers are my family. Only one I've ever had."
"You deserved one a long time before that," I whisper.
His eyes come back to mine.
And then I don't know which one of us moves first, only that the distance between us closes, and his hand comes up to cup my face the same way it did in the bathroom, bandaged fingers against my jaw, and then his mouth is on mine.
It's soft. Devastatingly soft for a man who looks like he's made of granite and violence. Just the gentle press of his lips, warm and docile, like he's asking a question and waiting to see if I know the answer.
I do. God help me, I do.
I lean into him, my hand going to his chest, fingers curling into his shirt, and he makes the quietest sound against my mouth, barely a sound at all, more like a sharp exhale, like something releasing that's been held too long…
And then he's gone.
He pulls back so abruptly I nearly fall forward. He's on his feet before I process what's happening, backing away, one hand going to his mouth like he can take back the last thirty seconds.
"I'm sorry," he says roughly. "That was… I shouldn't have done that. That was out of line."
"Havoc—"
"I'm sorry." He says it again, and he looks almost panicked, which on his face, that face built for intimidation and control, is the most startling thing I've seen all night. His eyes are wide, jaw tight, the scar pale against his flushed skin. "I'm sorry, Ruby. That won't happen again."
He moves to the door, and I'm still sitting on the bed trying to remember how to speak, his warmth still on my lips, my hand still fisted in the air where his shirt used to be.
"Jake—"
The door opens and closes, and he's gone. I sit in the silence he leaves behind, the city humming outside, Marcus breathing beside me, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.
What the hell just happened?