Chapter 3
Sage
“You came,” Thomas says with a sly grin, scooting his chair closer so I have to slide sideways to avoid tripping over his orthopedic shoes.
“Of course I came,” I reply, setting a tray of cinnamon rolls down on the table in front of him. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Two days after I met Havoc, I’m back at the community center. It’s not one of my teaching days, but it’s craft day in the main hall, and I promised to bring treats and help out.
If I’m honest, I needed the distraction. I barely slept. The low thrum of engines haunted the edge of my hearing, and I could still feel his gaze like a weight on my skin, even though I knew he wasn’t there.
“Regret? Spending time with us old farts is good for the soul,” Thomas declares. “Did you hear about Margaret’s grandson? The one that plays football? He’s single.”
“I’m busy,” I remind him. “And we’re not matchmaking me. We’re making centerpieces out of pinecones.”
He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But if you change your mind…”
“I’ll let you know,” I say, not meaning it.
“She already likes someone,” Dorothy chimes in. “And he’s a biker, not a bum like your grandson.”
“Careful, Dorothy,” Thomas warns. “You keep talking like that and I’ll tell Gladys you cheated at bridge last week.”
The room buzzes with chatter and the sharp scent of glue sticks. The radiator hisses in the corner. I pass out baked goods with a smile and small talk, keeping the frayed, anxious parts of myself tucked deep beneath the surface.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I pull it out. A number I don’t recognize lights up the screen, and my stomach flips.
Unknown numbers usually mean danger.
I use a burner now. Three months ago, I saw something I wasn’t supposed to. Cartel money buying a judge Flores’s favor in a murder case.
Panicked, I ran home and packed in under ten minutes.
Grabbed what I could. Documents, clothes, my grandmother’s recipe book.
Called the cops, but they did not come. Then I watched from across the street as some men broke into my apartment, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might give me away.
I didn’t wait to see what they wanted. I already knew. They were after me.
I took a cab, bought the burner, and kept going until I landed in Lovestone Ridge.
Mr. Hayes rented me a room cheap. Now he acts like that means I owe him.
The phone is still ringing.
I step into the hallway for a sliver of quiet and thumb the green icon.
“Hello?”
“Sweetheart.”
Havoc’s voice is gravel and velvet all at once. It slides down my spine like it belongs there.
I lean against the wall. My knees weaken with a rush of heat and something else I’m not ready to name yet.
Relief.
Safety.
Craving.
“Hi,” I whisper. “I’m… at the community center.”
“One of our prospects told me. He’s just across the street.”
My head jerks toward the window. Sure enough, a Harley waits across the road. The man on it wears sunglasses despite the clouds. He lifts two fingers in a casual wave.
“He’s not there to scare you,” Havoc says, voice lower now. “He’s watching your six.”
My first instinct is to bristle. To tell him I don’t need help.
But then I remember how my lungs tighten when the streets go quiet. How every shadow feels like it’s waiting for something. How I still sleep with the lights on, just in case.
And yeah, Mr. Hayes. His hand on my arm. His body too close. Close enough to make my skin crawl.
Maybe letting someone watch my back doesn’t make me weak.
Maybe it just means I’m scared.
And tired of being alone.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “For sending him.”
“I wanted to be there myself.” There’s grit in his tone, like he hates the distance. “Club business kept me. Can I see you tonight?”
“I work late,” I hedge. My body screams yes. My brain fumbles.
“I’ll walk you home.”
I nod before I even answer, like he could see it. “Okay.”
A pause. Then, amused, “How did you get my number?”
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low and smooth, “I asked the right person. That’s all you need to know.”
By the time class ends, the sun has dropped and the streetlights buzz to life.
I step outside and see him across the street.
Leaning against a lamppost, arms crossed, leather cut catching the glow. Havoc looks massive and out of place, like violence decided to stroll through suburbia.
Thomas lets out a low whistle. “That yours?”
Dorothy fans herself with a paper plate. “Mercy. Up close, he looks like trouble and bedtime stories all in one.”
“I’ve made worse decisions for less,” Gladys says under her breath.
Thomas smirks. “I had that look once. Broke a few hearts myself before arthritis took me out of the game.”
“You didn’t break hearts,” Dorothy says. “You broke furniture.”
I bite back a laugh and feel heat crawl up my neck. “Be good. I’ll see you next week.”
They wave me off with knowing grins.
He watches me cross the street like he’s counting every breath I take. Then he turns, silent and steady, and walks with me like it’s already decided.
“Evening,” he says.
“Evening,” I answer. My voice doesn’t shake, but it wants to.
We walk in step. Not speaking much. It isn’t awkward. It’s loaded.
When we round the corner to the cabin I rent a room in, Mrs. Hayes is already waiting on the porch.
Arms crossed. Lips pursed.
My battered backpack sits at her feet like a period at the end of a sentence.
“What’s going on?” I ask, slowing to a stop.
She doesn’t waste time. “You need to find somewhere else.”
"Why?"
Her voice is sharp, shaking only slightly. “You think I don’t see what’s been going on? Throwing yourself at my husband like some cheap—”
I blink, stunned. “What? No. That’s not—”
“Don’t lie to me.” Her voice rises, laced with venom. “You really think a man could want you? Please. You waddle around here like you’re hot shit, stuffing yourself into jeans two sizes too small, flashing those hips like they’re an asset instead of an accident. He didn’t want you. He pitied you.”
My stomach drops. Shame flashes through me so fast it steals my breath.
Then Havoc steps forward.
Slow. Controlled. Terrifying.
His voice is low, tight. “Watch your mouth.”
Mrs. Hayes flinches.
“You throwing her out?” he asks next, dead calm.
“That’s right,” she snaps, but her voice wavers now.
“Good.” His tone sharpens. “Because if you weren’t, I’d be telling her to leave anyway. No one with sense stays under the same roof as a man who corners a tenant and a wife who spits poison because she can’t face it.”
She opens her mouth. He doesn’t give her the chance.
“You should be talking to your husband,” he says. “Not attacking a woman who’s beautiful, inside and out, just because you couldn’t handle the way he looked at her.”
She reels back like she’s been slapped.
He reaches down, lifts my bag like it’s nothing, and turns from her without another word.
“You’re coming to my place,” he says to me, quiet but certain. “At least for tonight.”
I nod. No protest. No questions.
I shouldn’t feel so excited.
But my skin is buzzing. My pulse is a drumbeat in my throat.
Heat blooms low in my belly, sharp and aching, and I can’t tell if it’s from adrenaline… or from the way he called me beautiful like he meant it.