He's right. We don't dig into employees' pasts unless they give us a reason. Everyone's got shit they're running from. That's half the reason people end up in Vegas in the first place.
But the thought of her being scared, of someone coming after her, of that kid being in danger—
"Havoc." Stone's voice cuts through the spiral. "You good?"
I force my hands to relax. "Fine."
"You sure? Because you're looking at her like—"
"I'm not looking at her like anything," I cut him off. "I'm doing my job."
Stone raises his hands in surrender. "Alright, brother. Just checking."
He walks away, heading toward the high roller section, and I'm left alone with thoughts I don't want and a hard-on that won't quit. I watch her move through her section, and she's getting the hang of it. Not as smooth as the other girls yet, but she's trying. Every time she sets down a tray without spilling, I catch a flicker of relief on her face.
A guy at table eighteen gets handsy when she delivers his scotch, his hand going to her hip.
I'm moving before the rational part of my brain can engage, before I can think about consequences or club protocol or the fact that she's not mine to protect. My boots eat up the distance between us, and the red edge creeping into my vision, the one that shows up when shit's about to go sideways, sharpens everything into crystal clarity.
His hand is still on her hip. Fingers splayed possessively over the curve like he has any fucking right.
She's trying to step back, saying something with that polite smile that doesn't touch her eyes, but he's not letting go. He's grinning, drunk and stupid, saying something that makes his buddies laugh.
I'm three feet away when his other hand reaches for her ass.
He doesn't make contact.
My fist connects with his jaw first.
The crack of bone on bone is satisfying in a way that probably says terrible things about me, but I don't give a fuck. The guy's chair tips backward, and he goes down hard, sprawling on the casino floor with blood streaming from his mouth.
"Havoc!" Ruby's voice, sharp with shock.
I barely hear her. I'm already reaching down, grabbing the asshole by his collar, hauling him up. He's bigger than average, maybe six foot, probably two hundred pounds, but I've got four inches and fifty pounds of muscle on him.
"You like putting your hands on women who don't want them there?" My voice comes out low, deadly calm. The voice that makes grown men reconsider their life choices.
"What the fuck, man—" He's slurring, trying to pull away.
I slam him against the nearest support pillar. His buddies are scrambling up from their chairs, but one look from me and they freeze.
Smart.
"Answer the fucking question." My forearm presses against his throat, not hard enough to cut off air but hard enough that he feels it. "You think you can touch her? You think you have any right to put your goddamn hands on her?"
"I didn't… She's just a waitress—"
Wrong answer.
My fist pulls back for another hit, and this time I'm aiming for his nose. Going to break it. Going to make sure he remembers this every time he looks in a mirror.
But someone catches my arm mid-swing.
"Havoc. Stand down."
Pope's voice cuts through the red haze. The club president's grip on my bicep is firm, and when I glance at him, his expression is neutral. The face he uses when he's about to handle a situation that could go very bad very quickly.
"He touched her," I growl.