Page 13
Story: Dex (Heavy Kings MC #4)
Dex
T he metal stairs groaned under my boots like they were one tenant away from giving up entirely.
Cleo climbed ahead of me, rucksack over her shoulder, garbage bag clutched in one hand, keys jangling in the other.
The hallway reeked of mildew and someone's attempt to cover it with pine-scented cleaner—a losing battle in a building this far gone.
Fourth floor, no elevator. Because of course there wasn't. Every landing we passed told its own story of barely-making-it: a baby crying behind one door, mariachi music bleeding through another, the acrid smell of something burning that nobody seemed concerned about.
This wasn't just a bad neighborhood—this was where people ended up when every other option had been stripped away.
"It's not much," she said, not meeting my eyes as she stepped aside to let me in.
Not much was being generous.
The studio apartment couldn't have been more than three hundred square feet.
One window with a view of the brick wall next door.
A hotplate on a card table served as the kitchen.
The bathroom door hung crooked on its hinges, not quite closing.
And in the corner, a twin mattress on the floor surrounded by neat stacks of books—the only sign that someone was trying to make this more than just a place to survive.
My chest tightened with a fury I had to swallow down.
This was where she'd been living while slaving away at the diner and volunteering at the shelter, while helping people who probably had more stable housing than she did.
This was what Rattler Brown's abandonment had left his daughter—a box barely fit for storage, let alone a life.
“How much is the rent on this place?”
“$850,” she said with a sheepish look.
“Damn. That’s high. Fuck.”
"Yeah, it’s tough.” She let out a long, painful sigh. “Just give me five minutes," Cleo muttered, already moving through the space with sharp, efficient movements. "I don't have much."
She grabbed clothes from a plastic dresser, shoving them into the garbage bag without folding.
But there was something frantic in her movements, something beyond just hurrying.
When she reached for items on the narrow counter, she quickly covered something with a dish towel.
When she knelt by the mattress, she kicked a cardboard box further underneath with her foot.
Hiding things. From me.
I stayed by the door, trying to give her space in a room that didn't have any. Trying not to catalog every sign of poverty, every indication of just how close to the edge she'd been living. The water stains on the ceiling. The duct tape holding the window closed.
"I just need to grab—" She reached for something on the high shelf above her mattress, stretching on her tiptoes. The box she'd kicked under the bed caught her heel.
It tipped.
The contents spilled across the floor in a cascade of color and worn edges. Coloring books—Disney princesses, baby animals, mandalas. A package of crayons worn down to nubs. Colored pencils in a case held together with rubber bands.
"Shit." The word burst out of her as she dropped to her knees, frantically gathering the scattered items. As she did, something fell from her rucksack: a small stuffed bear with patched brown fur and button eyes that had seen too much.
Her hands shook as she scooped up crayons, shoving them back in the box like they were contraband.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—these aren't—"
I bent down slowly, picking up a coloring book that had fallen open to a half-finished page. Someone had been carefully shading a butterfly's wings in purple and blue, staying perfectly within the lines. The kind of focus that suggested this was more than just a casual hobby.
My chest did something complicated.
The signs were all there.
The retreat into younger spaces when the adult world got too sharp, too cruel. The careful organization of comfort items. The shame about needing them.
Another Little. Another broken woman whose childhood had been stolen, who'd found her own way to reclaim some piece of safety.
"Nothing wrong with coloring," I said, keeping my voice carefully neutral as I handed her the book. "Helps with stress."
She froze, still on her knees among the scattered crayons.
The look she gave me—surprised, wary, like she was waiting for the mockery to start—hit me like a physical blow.
How many people had she hidden this from?
How many times had she been made to feel ashamed for needing something soft in a world that kept cutting her?
"You're not . . ." She swallowed, clutching the coloring book against her chest. "You don't think it's weird?"
"I think it's smart." I picked up the stuffed bear, brushing dust off his worn fur before holding him out to her. "Better than drinking or drugs or punching walls."
Her fingers trembled as she took the bear, and for a second, her guard dropped completely. I saw the exhausted girl underneath the survivor's armor, the one who'd been carrying too much for too long. The one who just needed someone to tell her it was okay to not be okay.
"His name is Mr. Friendly," she whispered, then immediately flushed like she'd revealed state secrets. "I've had him since I was three."
Something fierce and protective reared up in my chest, the need to shield, to provide, to create a safe space where someone could color butterflies and hold stuffed bears without shame. To be the steady ground where a Little could just be little.
Damn it. Not again. Not another woman who needed more than I could give, more than I knew how to handle without destroying us both.
But when Cleo looked up at me with those hazel eyes full of cautious hope, when she clutched Mr. Friendly like he was the only solid thing in her collapsing world, I knew I was already lost.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the external stairs made us both freeze, Cleo still on her knees with Mr. Friendly clutched against her chest. Her face went white as paper, blood draining so fast I thought she might pass out.
The footsteps stopped outside her door. Then came the knock—not polite, not requesting. The kind of pounding that said whoever was on the other side felt entitled to enter whether you answered or not.
"Open up, Miss Brown. I know you're in there." The voice was thick with false authority, the kind men used when they wanted to feel big. "Saw your gentleman friend on the stairs. We need to discuss your new living situation."
Cleo shot to her feet, kicking the box under the bed with desperate efficiency. “Shit, it’s my landlord!” She smoothed down her shirt, tried to finger-comb her hair into some kind of order. Like looking presentable would protect her from whatever was coming.
"Just a minute," she called, voice steadier than her hands. She glanced at me, and I saw the fear there—not of her landlord, but of me seeing whatever power this man held over her. "You don't have to—"
"I'm staying." Not a question. Not a request. I moved to lean against the wall by the window, casual enough to seem non-threatening. For now.
She opened the door, and her landlord shouldered past her without a thought.
Sixty-something, gut hanging over a belt that had given up the fight years ago. Thin hair combed over a scalp that gleamed with sweat despite the morning cool. The kind of man who'd peaked in high school and spent the rest of his life making other people pay for it.
His beady eyes swept the apartment, cataloging the garbage bag of clothes, the box barely hidden under the bed, the general air of someone preparing to run.
Then they found me, taking in the leather jacket, the patches that marked me as Heavy Kings MC.
I watched him process it—the flicker of alarm, the calculation, the way greed won out over self-preservation.
"Well, well." He turned back to Cleo with a smile that made my fists itch. "Heard there was some excitement at your little volunteer job yesterday. Police came by, asking questions about one of my tenants. Something about a fire, threats, criminal elements."
Cleo's shoulders hunched. "Mr. Hoffman, I didn't—"
"Save it." He pulled a folded paper from his back pocket with theatrical flair. "Bottom line is, you're a liability now. Insurance rates, property values, tenant safety—all at risk because of your . . . associations."
His eyes flicked to me again, lingering on the Road Captain patch like he was adding up dollar signs. "So here's the deal. Rent's going up. Five hundred a month, starting immediately. Call it a safety surcharge."
"That's illegal," Cleo said, but her voice came out whisper-thin. "You can't raise rent without proper notice—"
"I can evict you right now for bringing criminal elements onto my property." Hoffman jabbed a finger in my direction, getting bold now that he thought he had leverage. "Your choice, girlie. Pay up or get out. Though looking at this place, I doubt you've got an extra five hundred lying around."
He said it with relish, enjoying the way Cleo seemed to shrink with each word. This wasn't about money—not really. This was about power. About taking someone already on their knees and seeing how much further you could push them down.
The rage that had been simmering in my chest hit full boil. But I'd learned long ago that the best violence was controlled violence. Strategic violence. The kind that solved problems instead of creating them.
"Actually," I said, pushing off from the wall with deliberate calm, "here's what's going to happen."
Hoffman turned to face me, and I watched his bravado flicker as I moved closer. Not threatening—not yet—just closing distance until he had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. Until he could feel the difference in our sizes, our capabilities, our willingness to do damage.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
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- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13 (Reading here)
- Page 14
- Page 15
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- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
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- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
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- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
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- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 53
- Page 54
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- Page 56
- Page 57