Chapter Four
Breaker
I should've let someone else handle it. Molly would've heard the commotion and dealt with him herself, or another club member would've stepped in. But I couldn't stand by. The second I saw him make a pass at Riley during her shift, I knew I needed to watch him. When he lingered after closing, waiting for her to leave, I followed.
The moment I saw fear flash across her face, something inside me snapped.
It’s been a long time since I’ve cared about anything or anyone that much.
And yet here I am, walking back into The Noble Fir with my hands still shaking and her voice still stuck in my head.
I can take care of myself.
Yeah, sure, she can. I saw it in the way her hands were shaking at just the thought of fighting with that drunken son of a bitch; I saw it in her eyes, too — fire and pain, both fighting for space, both consuming her so hot and deep that she probably goes to sleep each night wondering just how much longer she can go on before everything inside her turns to ash. It’s the same haunted misery I see in the mirror every damn day.
That’s the problem.
People like us shouldn’t get close. My life’s built on violence and ghosts. I’ve watched men die screaming — been the cause of some of those deaths — and I’ve seen what happens to anyonewho stands too close when I lose control; the last thing I need is some broken, beautiful woman getting tangled in my wreckage.
Inside, the guys are still hanging around. Reaper and Tank are nursing beers at the corner table, probably talking about food or baking or some shit, which is the last thing you’d expect two guys who look like them to be talking about, but that’s about as far as my criticism will go, because I’ve chased off more than one life-threatening hangover with the food they cook and bake. At another table, Diesel, Mayhem, and Havoc are arguing over who can rebuild a carburetor faster.
Diesel grins when he sees me. “So, Breaker, you and the new girl, huh? Heard you went all knight-in-shining-leather on her.”
“I did what I had to do,” I say.
He smirks. “Didn’t think you liked damsels, prospect. You usually scare ‘em off before they blink.”
I grunt, sliding behind the bar to grab a bottle. “She’s new, she was in trouble and that guy was an asshole who needed to be dealt with. So I did what I did, and that’s it.”
Diesel chuckles. “Yeah, sure. And I only drink for the taste.”
Before I can answer, Molly leans in from the other end of the bar, eyes sharp beneath that tangle of red curls. “Stay away from her, Breaker. She’s been through enough.”
Her voice leaves no room for argument, but it’s not the threat that gets me — it’s the knowing; the way she looks at me like she’s already seen how this ends.
"I don't have any intention of… "
"Don't bullshit me." Molly's voice drops, quiet enough that the others can't hear. "I've seen the way you look at her. And I've seen the way she looks at you when she thinks no one's watching. That girl's running from something bad, and the last thing she needs is your jagged edges cutting her up worse than she already is."
I want to argue, want to tell her she's wrong, that I don't look at Riley; she's just another waitress and the only time I’ll look at her is when she brings me my damn drink. The lie dies somewhere between my brain and my mouth.
"I'm not going to hurt her," I say instead.
Molly's laugh is sharp and humorless. "Men like you never mean to. That's the whole damn problem." She pushes off the bar, grabbing a rag to wipe down the counter. "Just keep your distance. Let her find her feet. She deserves a chance to breathe without some brooding wannabe-biker complicating things."
“Wannabe?”
“Yes, prospect,” she says, leaning hard into the title. “You heard me.”
Molly walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing there with a whiskey bottle in my hand and her words rattling around in my skull like shrapnel.
She's right. I know she's right.
But even as I pour myself a drink and try to focus on the burn sliding down my throat, I can still feel the ghost of her fingers brushing mine, still hear that catch in her breath when our eyes met. The way she stood up to that drunk bastard, shaking but refusing to back down — that's burned into my memory.
Riley's already under my skin, deeper than any scar, more dangerous than any bomb I ever defused.
Mayhem slides onto the stool next to me, his perpetual grin firmly in place. "So, scale of one to ten, how screwed are you?"
