"Did it? Or did you decide it escalated because you wanted an excuse to break his face?"
I don't answer. Can't answer, because he's not wrong.
Pope sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "How long you been working this floor, Havoc?"
"Eight years."
"Eight years. And in those eight years, how many waitresses have gotten hit on? Grabbed? Had some drunk asshole try his luck?"
"Too many to count."
"And how many times have you hospitalized someone over it?"
My jaw tightens. "This was different."
"How?" Pope pushes off the desk, stepping closer. "How was this different? What made this drunk asshole special enough that you forgot every rule we have about not causing scenes on the casino floor?"
Because it was her. Because the thought of anyone touching her, hurting her, scaring her makes me want to burn the whole fucking city down.
But I can't say that. Can't admit that a woman I've known for less than three hours has somehow crawled under my skin and set up camp in a place I thought was dead.
"He wasn't letting go," I say instead. "She tried to pull away and he held on. Was going for her ass when I got there."
Pope's expression softens slightly. "And you did what any brother would do, you protected someone who needed it. I get that, Havoc. I do. But the way you went at him?" He shakes his head. "That wasn't protection. That was something else."
"What's your point?"
"My point is you need to get your head straight." Pope moves to the mini fridge, pulls out two beers, hands me one. "You've been solid for eight years. Never seen you lose control like that. So,either something's going on with you that we need to talk about, or—" He pauses, takes a long pull from his beer. "Or that new waitress is about to become a problem."
"She's not a problem."
"She is if she's got you throwing punches at paying customers."
I twist the cap off my beer, taking a drink to buy myself time. The cold liquid does nothing to cool the heat still simmering in my blood.
"What do you know about her?" Pope asks.
"Nothing."
"Bullshit. You know something, or you wouldn't have gone nuclear out there."
I exhale hard through my nose. "Stone said she's got a kid. Five years old. Living in a motel on East Fremont. No family listed."
Pope's quiet for a moment, processing. "So, you think she's running."
"Don't know. Don't care. Not my business."
"Then why'd you damn near kill a guy for touching her hip?"
Because the thought of anyone hurting her makes me fucking feral. Because I took one look at those scared dark eyes and something in my chest that's been dormant for years suddenly woke up screaming. Because she's soft and scared and trying so damn hard, and I know what it's like to have nothing and no one, and I'll be damned if I let anyone make her feel smaller than she already does.
But I can't say any of that either.
"Instinct," I finally say.
Pope snorts. "Instinct. Right."
He sets his beer down, fixes me with a look that's pure president now, not friend.