The room is small. One full-size bed, a tiny kitchenette, a bathroom I can see from the doorway. But it's clean. She's made it clean despite everything. The bed is neatly made. No trash on the floor. A stuffed dinosaur sits on the pillow.
An older woman is asleep in the chair near the window, and on the bed, curled up under a blanket, is a little boy.
Her kid.
He's tiny, dark curls, one arm thrown over his head in that boneless way kids sleep. He looks peaceful. Safe.
"Mrs. Amber," Ruby whispers, touching the woman's shoulder. "I'm back."
The woman wakes with a start, then smiles when she sees Ruby. "Oh good, good. He was perfect. Ate his dinner, brushed his teeth, went to bed at eight-thirty like you said." Her eyes landon me, and I watch her assess me in the way only grandmothers can. "Who is this?"
"He works with me. Gave me a ride home." Ruby's already digging in her purse for cash.
"No need tonight, dear. You paid me earlier, remember?" Mrs. Amber pats Ruby's hand, gives me one more assessing look, then shuffles toward the door. "Lock up behind me."
Ruby does, both locks sliding into place, and then we're alone. Well, not alone. The kid's right there, but alone enough that I'm suddenly aware of how small this room is, how intimate it feels.
"Bathroom," Ruby says, nodding toward the tiny space. "Sit on the edge of the tub."
I do as she says, which is a first. I don't take orders well. Eight years in the military beat most of that out of me, and what the military didn't break, the war did. But something about Ruby's quiet authority makes me want to comply.
The bathroom is barely big enough for one person, let alone two. When Ruby squeezes in with a first aid kit, our knees touch. She kneels on the floor between my spread legs, and it takes every ounce of control I have not to pull her closer.
"Give me your hands," she says softly.
I extend them, and she takes them, turning them over to examine the damage. Her touch is clinical, gentle but I feel it everywhere. My knuckles are split and swelling, blood still seeping from the worst of it.
"This might sting," she warns, pulling out antiseptic wipes.
It does, but I don't react. I've had worse. Much worse. A few split knuckles barely register on the scale of pain I've experienced.
But Ruby's face… Concentrated, concerned, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, that registers. That hits me harder than any punch I've ever taken.
"You didn't have to hit him," she says quietly, dabbing at the wounds. "I could've handled it."
"He had his hands on you."
"I know, but—"
"Ruby." I wait until she looks up, meeting those dark eyes. "He put his hands on you. That's not something you handle. That's something I handle."
"Why?" The question comes out barely above a whisper. "Why do you care? You don't even know me."
Because you looked at me tonight like I was more than just the club enforcer. Because you trusted me enough to get on my bike. Because you have a kid sleeping in the next room and you're trying so fucking hard to keep him safe in a place that isn't safe, and I know what that's like.
Because I'm fucked. Because one look at you and I was done for.
"Someone should care," I say instead, my voice rough.
She stares at me for a long moment, her hands still cradling mine, and I see the exact moment she decides something. Her eyes soften, her shoulders relax just slightly.
"What's his name?" I nod toward the main room where her kid sleeps.
A small smile tugs at her lips. "Marcus. He's five."
"He looks peaceful."
"He is. He's... he's everything." Her voice catches. "Everything I do is for him."
