"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to finish your shift without causing any more scenes. You're going to keep your distance from Ruby unless she's in actual danger, and I mean danger, not just some drunk being a drunk. And you're going to figure out what the fuck is going on in your head before it becomes a club problem. We clear?"
"Clear."
"Good." His expression calms down again. "For what it's worth? Guy was an asshole. Glad you punched him."
"Yeah."
Pope claps me on the shoulder, then heads for the door. "Clean up your knuckles. You're bleeding on my floor."
He leaves, and I'm alone in his office with half a beer and the uncomfortable realization that I'm completely fucked.
I don't know Ruby Lane.
I don't know where she came from or what she's running from or if she even wants protection from a broken-down enforcer with more scars than sense.
But I know one thing with absolute certainty:
I'm going to protect her anyway.
Even if it destroys me in the process.
Chapter 3 - Ruby
I'm still shaking twenty minutes later.
My hands tremble as I load drinks onto my tray. Two vodka sodas, a whiskey neat, three Bud Lights, and I have to set them down twice to get my grip steady enough that I won't spill them again. The last thing I need tonight is another disaster.
Though I'm not sure anything could top what just happened.
What the fuck just happened?
One minute I was trying to politely extract myself from some drunk asshole's grabby hands, something I've dealt with a hundred times in a hundred different restaurants and bars, and the next minute Havoc was there, moving like violence personified, and the guy was on the floor bleeding.
I've never seen anyone move that fast. That angry.
That protective.
"You okay?" Miguel asks from behind the bar.
"Fine," I lie, because I have no idea how to explain what I'm feeling right now.
"That guy was out of line. Havoc did you a favor."
A favor that might get me fired, I don't say. Instead I just nod, hoist the tray, and head back to my section.
Table sixteen. Deliver drinks. Smile. Collect empties. Don't think about the way Havoc's fist connected with that guy's jaw. Don't think about the sound it made—that solid, brutal crack that should have horrified me, but instead I'm soaking wet between my thighs right now, and it has nothing to do with spilled beer.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I set the drinks down with shaking hands, and the businessman at table sixteen tips me an extra twenty. "You alright? That was some scary shit."
"I'm fine, thank you." I pocket the twenty, grateful. Every dollar counts when you're living in a motel that charges by the week and your son needs new shoes because his feet won't stop growing.
Marcus. God. I need to focus on Marcus, on keeping this job, on not fucking up my one shot at something stable.
Not on the enforcer who just hospitalized someone for touching me.
Except I can't stop thinking about it. About him.
