Chapter 5 - Ruby
I feel like an idiot.
Crying in a motel bathroom, kneeling on a floor that's seen better decades, in front of a man I met approximately four hours ago. A man who's covered in tattoos and has a scar on his face and just beat up two people tonight, one of whom I'm fairly certain has a broken jaw.
I am the definition of pathetic right now.
"Sorry," I say quickly, pulling back from his hand, from the devastating gentleness of his thumb against my cheek. I stand, busying myself with tidying away the first aid kit. Caps back on bottles, wrappers in the trash, everything in its place. "I don't know why I… I'm not usually like this. I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing."
"I just… It's been a long day, and I'm tired, and you were—" I stop myself before I say *kind*. Before I say *the first person in years who did something for me without wanting something back.* "I'm just tired," I finish lamely.
"Okay."
He's still sitting on the edge of the tub, those massive tattooed arms resting on his knees, watching me with those gray eyes that see too much. The bathroom light catches the scar on his cheek, and I have the most inappropriate urge to trace it with my fingers.
"You should go," I say. "It's late, and you probably have—"
"You said stay."
I did say that. I did, in a moment of weakness that I'm now thoroughly regretting. "I know, but I wasn't thinking straight. I don't want to keep you from—"
"Ruby." His voice is quiet but it stops me cold. "I said I'd stay. So, I'm staying. Stop trying to take it back."
I stare at him. "Why?"
"Because you asked me to."
"But you probably—" I stop.
What does he think of me? That's what's really happening here. That's the spiral I can't stop falling into. He sat through my breakdown and now he's looking at me with those unreadable eyes and I can't figure out what's going on behind them.
He probably thinks I'm a disaster. A crying, curvy disaster with a kid in the next room and a first aid kit full of mostly expired supplies. He probably already regrets the ride, regrets following me upstairs, regrets all of it.
Men like him don't stick around for women like me.
I know this. I learned it young, learned it thoroughly, learned it in ways that left bruises both visible and not.
"Come sit down," Havoc says, pushing himself up from the tub.
The bathroom is so small that when he stands, he takes up most of the available space, and I have to press back against the sink to avoid our bodies touching. Or maybe that's an excuse. Maybe I'm pressing back against the sink because if he gets any closer I'm going to do something monumentally stupid.
He moves past me into the main room, and I follow, pulling the bathroom door mostly closed so the light doesn't wake Marcus. My son shifts in his sleep, throwing one small leg out from under the blanket, and I go to him automatically, pulling the blanket back up, smoothing a curl away from his face.
Gap-toothed smile even in his sleep. My whole heart, this boy.
I feel Havoc watching from behind me, but for once it doesn't make me nervous. Feels different from being watched by the drunk downstairs, or by Marcus's father when he was cataloguing my failures. This feels like being witnessed rather than surveilled.
I settle on the edge of the bed beside Marcus, and Havoc takes the chair Mrs. Amber vacated, pulling it to face me. It's too small for him, looks almost comical, this giant of a man folded into a motel chair with a floral print that's twenty years out of style.
He doesn't seem to notice.
"Tell me about her," he says.
I blink. "Who?"
"Your grandmother. You mentioned her. Said she was the last person who..." He pauses, seeming to search for the right words. "Who did something for you. Who you let in."
