"That's a lifetime of bad decisions, and bar fights talking." He took a pull from his beer. "Started plenty of unnecessary fights in my day. Got this," he said, pointing to the scar on his face, “in one of the stupider ones. Learned my lesson about picking battles after that."
“And how did you lose your eye?” she asked. That was a story that he didn’t like to tell much anymore. He used to tell everyone who asked about it, but the truth was, it was embarrassing, and telling Trixie about how he lost his eye wasn’t something that he was ready to do. He shrugged and took another swig of his beer, not giving her an answer.
"I think I remember someone saying something about a taco fight?" she asked, and there it was—a real smile. Cyclops was sure that it was the first one she had given him. It was small, but real.
"That's a story that requires more alcohol and less company." He glanced around at his brothers, who were pretending not to eavesdrop. "But yeah, let's just say I learned something from that experience too.”
She sipped her whiskey, seeming to consider her next move, but he could tell that she wasn’t about to give up. What she asked him next surprised him. Do you really think there's a real threat coming after me?"
"I know there is," he said. Cyclops turned on his stool to face her more fully. "Those weren't random guys who slashed your tires. That was professional work. It was selective damage designed to strand you without destroying evidence. Someone wants you contained, but not gone. That means you've got something they want, or you know something they don't want getting out."
Her knuckles went white around her glass, and he knew that he was on the right track. "So the question is," he continued, voice pitched for her ears only, "are you going to keep running alone, looking over your shoulder, waiting for them to catch up, or are you going to tell me what's going on so we can get ahead of it?"
"You don't understand?—"
"Then help me understand." He leaned in, close enough that their knees touched. "I put my neck out for you already. My brothers' necks, too, by bringing you here. The least you can do is tell me what we're up against." She was quiet for so long he thought she wouldn't answer. Then Ink turned up the jukebox, some old Johnny Cash song filling the space, and she started talking.
"My father owns half the drug trade from here to the state line," she said quietly. "I found out he's expanding into something worse—much worse. And when I confronted him about it, he decided I was a liability."
"Wait, this all has to do with your father?" he asked. He never had a good relationship with his own father, but the thought of him doing something like Trixie’s father had done to her just didn’t sit right with him.
Her laugh was bitter as burnt coffee. "Blood means nothing to him. The only thing that my father cares about is money and power. I became a threat to both, so I became expendable." She drained her whiskey. "You did get one thing right in your analysis—he can't just kill me. By slashing my tires, they would have stopped me, even trapped me, and then they would have taken me back to him. I know where too many bodies are buried, literally and figuratively. He needs me alive to find out what I've done with the information that I stole."
"What did you do with it?" Cyclops asked.
She met his eye. "Put it somewhere safe. It’s my insurance policy for when things go bad."
He wanted to tell her that her father sending his men after her was pretty bad already, but he refrained. "Smart," he breathed. He signaled Ink for refills. "But that only works if you stay alive to use it."
"Hence, I'm running." She accepted the fresh drink. "I've been staying ahead of them for three weeks now—until tonight."
"Tonight, you stop running," he said. "Tonight, you've got backup."
"I didn't ask for backup," she insisted.
"No, you didn't ask." He cut her off. "But you're getting it anyway. That's not negotiable."
Her eyes flashed in surprise. "You don't get to make my decisions for me, Cyclops."
"I'm not. I'm making decisions for my club. We're involved now, whether you like it or not. Those men who slashed your tires did so in Road Reaper territory, and that makes it club business." He leaned back, studying her. "Besides, you walked into my bar, sweetheart. That makes you mine to protect."
"I'm not yours," she said, and there was warning in her voice.
"No," he agreed. "You're not. But you're under my protection, and in my world, that means something. It means anyone who wants to get to you has to go through me. Through all of us." He motioned to the guys who were sitting around the bar, looking back at Trixie.
"And what happens when your president gets back and decides I'm too much trouble?" she almost whispered.
"Then I'll handle it." He meant it too. He'd face Mace's wrath if it came to that. "But right now, I'm in charge, and I say you stay."
"For one night," she reminded him.
"We'll see." He stood, offering her his hand. "Come on. I'll show you where you can crash. You look dead on your feet."
She stared at his hand for a moment, and he could see the war in her eyes. She looked like she was trying to decide if she wanted to take his hand and accept his help or maintain her independence and keep struggling alone. He could see it in her eyes when she finally decided to take his offer and his hand.
Her palm was calloused, not soft like he'd expected. This woman knew what hard work was, and he could tell that sheknew how to fight. Her fingers were steady, no tremor of fear despite everything that seemed to be chasing her. But when he pulled her to her feet, she swayed slightly, exhaustion finally showing through her tough exterior.
"When's the last time you slept?" he asked. "Real sleep, not just catnapping in your car."
