By the time ten-thirty rolls around and my shift ends, my feet are screaming, my back aches, and I've made two hundred and forty-seven dollars in tips. After splitting with Liz and Jamie and tipping out Miguel, I walk away with one hundred and sixty-three dollars.
One hundred and sixty-three dollars for eight hours of work.
It's the most money I've made in a single shift in years.
I change in the employee locker room, pulling on my worn jeans and t-shirt, aware of how the other women chatter around me. Nobody mentions Havoc or the incident directly, but I catch sideways glances, whispered conversations that stop when I get too close.
Great. Now I'm the girl who caused a scene on her first night.
"You working tomorrow?" Jamie asks as I shove my apron into my locker.
"Yeah. Same shift."
"Cool. Gets easier, I promise." She applies another coat of lipstick in the cracked mirror. "And hey, if anyone gives you shit about tonight, tell them to fuck off. You didn't ask for that asshole to grab you."
"Right."
I escape before anyone else can offer advice or sympathy or whatever this is. The casino floor is still busy as I cut through it toward the exit, but I keep my head down, my purse clutchedtight against my body. The night air hits me as I push through the doors: cooler than the recycled casino atmosphere, but still warm. This is Vegas in late spring, where the days are brutal and the nights are bearable.
I'm halfway to the bus stop when I feel it, that prickling awareness at the base of my skull that says someone's watching.
I stop, turning, scanning the street.
Nothing. Just tourists stumbling between casinos, a few working girls on the corner, the usual Vegas night crowd.
But the feeling doesn't go away.
I walk faster, my purse clutched tight against my body, keys fitted between my knuckles the way my grandmother taught me when I was sixteen.
If someone grabs you, go for the eyes. Always the eyes, baby girl.
The bus stop is three blocks from the casino, at the corner where the tourist district starts bleeding into the rougher neighborhoods. There's no shelter, just a bench with peeling paint and a sign that says the next bus comes in twelve minutes.
I sit, keeping my back to the wall of the closed pawn shop behind me, and pull out my phone to check the time. 10:47 PM. If the bus is on schedule, I'll be back at the motel by 11:15. Mrs. Amber will want her money, I'll check on Marcus, and then I can finally collapse.
In the meantime, my feet are killing me. Eight hours in shoes that are half a size too small because they were on clearance and I couldn't afford better. I'll soak them when I get back, maybe ice them if the motel's machine is working.
My phone buzzes. A text from Mrs. Amber: *Baby is sleeping. Sweet boy. Take your time.*
At least Marcus is okay. At least I didn't screw that up today. But sitting here alone in the dark, I can't stop replaying the night. The weight of the tray. The drunk's hand on my hip, fingers digging in just a little too hard. The way I'd smiled and tried to step back, tried to be polite because I needed this job and couldn't afford to make waves.
And then Havoc.
God, Havoc.
The way he'd moved like violence was a language he spoke fluently. The sound of his fist connecting with the guy's face. The absolute calm in his voice when he'd asked *you like putting your hands on women who don't want them there?*
I squeeze my thighs together, hating myself for the renewed rush of heat between my legs.
This is wrong. I shouldn't be turned on by this. I spent three years with Marcus's father, three years of walking on eggshells, making myself smaller, and apologizing for things that weren't my fault. I know what violence looks like up close. I know how it smells: like beer and cigarettes and rage that has nowhere to go but into my body.
I left that. I chose to leave that. So why does the memory of Havoc's protective fury make me feel safe instead of scared? The rumble of an engine cuts through my thoughts, and I look up.
Havoc pulls up to the curb on a motorcycle. Sleek, black, chrome catching the streetlights. He kills the engine, and the sudden silence is almost louder than the noise. The scar on his face is more visible in the harsh light, a pale slash that somehow makes him both more intimidating and more beautiful.
Wait. Beautiful? No. Dangerous. He's fucking dangerous. He swings off the bike, pulling off his helmet. Those steel-gray eyes lock onto mine, and I forget how to form a coherent sentence.
"You're waiting for the bus," he says. It's not a question.
