She grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "No. This is exactly what I need to worry about. I don't know you. I don't know your club. But something that you should know about me is that I don't take charity, and I sure as hell don't let strangers fight my battles for me."
He turned to face her fully, stepping into her personal space. She didn't back down, just tilted her chin up to maintain eye contact with him. Fuck, she was something else. Most people took one look at his patch, his size, his scarred face, and found somewhere else they needed to be. But Trixie stood her ground like she'd been doing so her whole life.
"First off," he said, voice low enough that only she could hear, "this ain't charity. My club has a code—we see a woman in trouble, we handle it. That's just how it is. Second, I'm not fighting your battles, I'm evening the odds in your favor—there's a difference."
"I don't see one," she said, but her grip on his arm loosened a bit.
"The difference is," he leaned in closer, close enough to catch the scent of her—whiskey and something floral, like jasmine, "when you fight your own battles, I'll be standing beside you, not in front of you. I'm not trying to save you, Trixie. I'm trying to give you a fighting chance." Something flickered in her eyes—surprise, maybe, or recognition. Like she hadn't expected him to understand the distinction. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and his gaze tracked the movement without permission from his brain.
"You don't even know what you're signing up for," she said, but her voice had lost some of its edge.
"Then tell me." He covered her hand with his, keeping it on his arm. "But tell me inside, where it’s safer. It's more secure in there, and you can have a real drink and something to eat. Then you can tell me what kind of shitstorm is coming, and we can figure out how to weather it."
"We?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "There is no 'we,' Cyclops. There's me and my problems, and there's you and your hero complex."
"I don't have a hero complex," he said, grinning. "Heroes wear capes and shit. I just wear an eyepatch and have a thing for beautiful women with trust issues and dangerous men on their tail."
"That's a very specific thing," she said. He laughed and caught her shaking her head at him. He looked her over and was sure that a smile was almost tugging at her lips.
"I'm a very specific kind of guy." He started walking toward the door, pleased when she fell into step beside him instead of pulling away and taking off for the highway. "Besides, you already owe me for the ride. I might as well let you buy me dinner and get a meal out of it, too."
"I don't owe you anything," she said quickly. "You said it was just a ride."
"It was. But my bike doesn't run on good intentions and pretty promises. Gas costs money, sweetheart," he said.
She stopped walking. "You're seriously charging me for gas?"
"Of course not." He held the door open for her, which earned him a suspicious look. "But you looked like you were about to rabbit, so I figured giving you something to be pissed at me about that might keep you here long enough to eat something. When's the last time you had a real meal?"
The question caught her off guard. He could see her trying to remember, which meant it had been too long. "That's not your concern," she said, but she walked through the door with him. He’d count that as a win, but Trixie was going to probably keep him on his toes the whole night.
The clubhouse's main room was exactly what most people expected—pool tables, a bar, couches that had seen better decades, and brothers in various stages of drunkenness. Conversations stopped when they walked in, and every eye tracked to Trixie, then to Cyclops, then back to her. It was almost comical watching them trying to figure out what the hell was going on with him and Trixie.
"Brothers," Cyclops said, his tone making it clear that questions could wait. "This is Trixie. She's under club protection tonight."
Ink looked up from behind the bar. "Since when do you make that call?"
"Since Mace put me in charge." Cyclops steered Trixie toward the bar, one hand on the small of her back. She tensed at the contact but didn't pull away. "Anyone got a problem with that can take it up with me in the ring." Nobody moved. His brothers were all smart men, and they knew better than to challenge him when he used that tone.
"Bourbon?" Ink asked Trixie, already reaching for the good stuff.
"Whiskey," she corrected. "Neat."
"Woman after my own heart," Venom called from the pool table, his massive frame making the cue stick look like a toothpick.
"Keep your heart and everything else to yourself," Cyclops warned, settling onto a stool next to Trixie. "Lady's got enough problems without you sniffing around."
"What kind of problems?" Prospect, shouted. He was apparently too green to know when to shut up.
Trixie tensed again, and Cyclops saw her hand drift toward her pocket, where she probably had a weapon. Christ, the woman was ready for war at all times. He respected the hell out of it, even though it made his job harder.
"The kind that ain't your business," Cyclops said, catching Trixie's hand before it could reach whatever she was going for. "Why don't you go do a perimeter check? Make sure nobody followed us." Prospect scrambled to obey, nearly tripping over his own feet in his hurry to get outside.
"I can fight my own battles," Trixie said quietly, pulling her hand free.
"Never said you couldn't." He accepted the beer Ink slid his way. "But no point starting fights you don't need to have. Save your energy for the ones that matter."
She studied him for a long moment, those dark eyes seeing too much. "Is that experience talking?" Trixie asked.
