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CHAPTER TWO

Tildie

My hands shake as I spray the bar with disinfectant, the chemical smell burning my nose.

It's barely dawn, and I'm already here, desperate to lose myself in mindless tasks before the lunch crowd arrives.

Backroads Bar & Grill isn't just open in the late afternoon or evening—we serve breakfast and lunch here as well.

I can't stop thinking about last night—about him.

Ruger.

The way he moved when that drunk grabbed for me—like violence was as natural as breathing.

One second he was across the room, the next he had the man's wrist in a death grip.

I've seen that look before.

The complete certainty of a man used to getting his way through force.

But then he looked at me, and something shifted in those dark eyes.

Concern, maybe. Or was it possessiveness? Regardless, it terrifies me.

Ellie's voice makes me jump. "Starting early again?"

"Needed to catch up on inventory," I lie, keeping my back to her as I wipe down bottles.

"Mmm-hmm." Her knowing tone suggests she doesn't buy it. "Want to talk about last night?"

Yes. No. Maybe.

"Nothing to talk about," I say instead.

She settles onto a stool with a sigh.

I can feel her studying me, that sharp gaze that misses nothing.

After six months working together, I should be used to it.

But some mornings—especially mornings after my past threatens to collide with my present—her maternal intuition suffocates me.

"You know," she says carefully, "my nephew takes some getting used to."

I bark out a laugh. "Your nephew is dangerous."

"He can be." She doesn't deny it. "But not to people he cares about."

The words send something skittering through my stomach. "He doesn't know me, so I doubt he cares."

"Maybe not yet."

The conversation feels loaded with unsaid words I'm not ready to even think about.

I focus on rearranging liquor bottles that don't need rearranging.

"You remind me of myself," Ellie continues. "When I first came to Morgantown. Guarded. Ice Queen sort of vibes."

I freeze. We've never talked about why she—or I—ended up here.

"What happened to you?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"Same thing that happened to you, I'd wager." Her voice is soft but steady. "Man who couldn't handle being told no."

My throat constricts. "I don't?—"

"You don't have to talk about it." She stands, moving behind the bar with me. "But you should know you're not alone here, Tildie. Not anymore."

The kindness almost breaks me.

I've been alone for so long—by choice, by necessity—that comfort feels foreign.

Before I can respond, the bell above the door chimes.

We both turn to see Ruger walking in, looking like sin on a motorcycle.

Dark jeans, boots, leather cut with that President patch that seems to make him sexier.

"Morning," he rumbles, settling onto his usual stool.

"You're here early," Ellie observes, already pouring a cup of hot coffee.

"Couldn't sleep."

His eyes find mine as he says it, and heat floods my cheeks.

Ridiculous.

I'm twenty-eight years old, not some teenager with a crush.

But God help me, the man is attractive.

When he looks at me, I feel exposed—like he knows exactly why I left Pittsburgh, why I jumped at every shadow for weeks after arriving here.

"Breakfast rush starting soon," I say, needing to break whatever this tension is. "Want me to put in a food order?"

"Just keep the coffee comin’," he says, then adds, "please."

The politeness catches me off guard.

My ex, Marco, used to demand things, never ask.

Everything was an order, a command, a test of my obedience.

Ruger downs almost his entire cup like a dog in the summer heat spotting fresh, cold water.

I pour him another cup with hands steadier than they were five minutes ago.

When I slide the mug across, I'm careful not to let our fingers touch.

Yesterday's contact affected me too much.

"About last night," he starts.

My stomach drops. "You don't need to explain yourself."

"I'm not explainin’. I'm apologizing."

I blink. That's... unexpected. "For what?"

"For handling that asshole without asking if you wanted me to. You're clearly capable of taking care of yourself."

His words do something dangerous to my chest.

Men like Marco never admitted that women had the capability.

We were objects, possessions, problems to be solved with force.

"Thank you," I say carefully. "But I've learned it's better to let men like you handle things your way."

His eyebrows furrow. "'Men like me'?"

"Powerful men," I clarify. "Men who are used to getting what they want."

"And what is it you think I want?"

The question hangs heavy between us. I open my mouth to give a sarcastic answer, but honesty slips out instead: "I don't know. That scares me."

Understanding dawns in his expression. "Someone taught you to be afraid."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Someone taught me that men who look like heroes can be monsters."

The words hang in the air, too honest, too revealing. Ellie has moved to the other end of the bar, giving us space but within earshot.

"I'm not him," Ruger says quietly.

"Everyone says that." My voice is flat. "Until they prove otherwise."

He's quiet for a long moment, sipping his coffee. When he speaks again, his voice is different—rougher, more personal.

"My uncle used to beat my aunt. For years. I didn't see it because he was my hero. President of the club, took me in when my father died." He meets my eyes. "I know what monsters look like, Tildie. I've looked in the mirror and seen one."

The confession catches me off guard. "What happened?"

"I grew up. Opened my eyes. Made different choices." He sets down his mug. "Still have to live with not seeing it sooner."

The parallel to my own guilt—staying with Marco as long as I did—isn't lost on me. But I'm not ready to share that story. Maybe never will be.

"Your aunt seems happy now," I offer instead.

"She is. Stronger than ever." He glances at Ellie. "Reminds me of someone else I know."

The compliment makes my heart stutter. Before I can respond, the lunch prep timer goes off in the kitchen.

"I should start prep," I say, grateful for the escape.

"Yeah, I need to head to the clubhouse anyway." He stands, leaving cash on the bar despite Ellie's protests.

As he reaches the door, he pauses. "Tildie?"

"Yeah?"

"You're safe here. From whatever—whoever—you're running from."

The promise should feel empty. I've heard promises before. But something in his voice, in the steady way he meets my gaze, makes me want to believe.

After he leaves, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"That nephew of yours is trouble," I tell Ellie.

She smiles knowingly. "The best kind usually is."

By three o'clock, the lunch rush has given way to the afternoon lull. I'm restocking the cooler when my phone buzzes with an unknown number. My heart stops.

The text is simple: I know where you are.

The phone slips from my hands, clattering to the floor. My vision tunnels, and suddenly I'm back in Pittsburgh, pressed against the refrigerator as Marco reads texts on my phone, his face darkening with each message.

"Tildie? Honey, what's wrong?"

Ellie's voice brings me back. I'm on my knees on the kitchen floor, phone in pieces around me.

"I... I dropped my phone."

She kneels beside me, gathering the parts. "This is more than a dropped phone. You're white as a sheet."

My mouth opens to lie—something about low blood sugar, not enough sleep. But exhaustion wins. The constant vigilance, the fear, the pretending everything's fine when my world could shatter any moment.

"He found me," I whisper.

"Who did?"

"My ex. I got a text..." I gesture helplessly at the broken phone.

Ellie sits fully on the floor, not caring about dirt or discomfort. "Start from the beginning."

And maybe because she shared this morning, or maybe because I'm so tired of carrying this alone, I do.

I tell her about Marco Santini. About how he seemed perfect at first—charming, attentive, protective. How he paid off my father's gambling debts, making himself my salvation when I was drowning in grief and financial ruin.

I don't tell her everything. Can't tell her about the baby, about the stairs, about how something inside me died along with our child. But I tell her enough.

"He used me to cover his drug dealing," I explain. "Made me think I owed him for saving me from my father's debts. But I found out later—he was the one who bought the debts. Set the whole thing up to get close to me."

"Jesus," Ellie breathes.

"When I finally tried to leave, he..." I trail off, unable to finish. "Let's just say he made it clear running wasn't an option."

"How did you get out?"

"Carefully. Slowly. Saved money in cash, hidden away. Changed my name to my middle name, my mother's maiden name. One day, I just... ran. Took a bus to Charleston, then Morgantown. Thought I covered my tracks."

"And now he's found you."

Fear grips my throat. "He has connections. The Grim Vultures—that's part of his family's network. They help with distribution."

Ellie's face sharpens. "The Grim Vultures?"

"Yeah, why? You know them?"

"They're enemies of the Saint's Outlaws. Always have been."

The information should comfort me—my ex's associates are enemies of the club that's become my protection. But it only adds another layer of complication to an already twisted situation.

"I can't bring this trouble here," I say, standing abruptly. "To you, to Ruger's club. I should leave."

"Like hell you will." Ellie's voice has steel in it. "You think running away again will solve anything?"

"It worked for six months."

"Did it? Because you still jump at shadows. Still look over your shoulder. That's not living, Tildie. That's surviving. Barely."

She's right. I know she's right. But fear is a powerful motivator.

"What do I do?" The question comes out small, defeated.

"You let people help you. Starting with putting your phone back together so we can see exactly what that text said."

It takes fifteen minutes to get the phone working. The message is still there: I know where you are.

But there's no follow-up. No threats, no details. Just those four words, designed to destroy my peace of mind.

"We need to tell Ruger," Ellie decides.

"No." My response is immediate. "He's already dealing with club stuff. I won't be another problem."

"You're not a problem. You're family."

The word makes my chest ache. Family. I left mine behind to protect them from Marco. Haven't spoken to my parents or brothers in six months, terrified my ex would use them to find me.

"Please," I beg. "Just... let me think. Figure out what to do."

Ellie studies me for a long moment. "Forty-eight hours. If we don't have a plan by then, we tell Ruger. Deal?"

I nod, relief and dread warring inside me.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. I serve customers on autopilot, my mind racing through possibilities. Move again? Confront Marco? Involve the club?

Around seven, the evening crowd starts filtering in. I'm pulling a draft beer when the door opens, and Ruger walks in. One look at his face tells me he knows something.

He zeroes in on me immediately, bypassing his usual spot to approach the bar directly.

"We need to talk," he says.

"I'm working."

"Ellie," he calls over his shoulder, not breaking eye contact with me. "Tildie's taking a break."

To my surprise, Ellie nods. "Kitchen. Five minutes."

Part of me wants to argue, to maintain the illusion of normalcy. But a larger part—the part that's been terrified since that text—knows I need help. Even if it comes from a dangerous man who makes my heart race for entirely different reasons.

In the kitchen, Ruger closes the door. "You're more jumpy than usual. What happened?"

"Nothing. Just tired."

"Try again."

His intensity makes me want to step back, but I hold my ground. "Why do you care?"

"Because you work here. Because I told you last night you're under our protection."

"Protection from what?"

"From whatever has you checking exits every five minutes." He steps closer. "From whoever taught you to flinch when men move too fast."

"I don't flinch." But we both know it's a lie.

He sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. "Look, I know we don't know each other well. But I can see you're scared. Let me help."

The offer tempts me. God, how it tempts me. To have someone strong on my side, someone who could actually stand against Marco's connections.

But opening up to Ruger feels dangerous for different reasons. There's attraction beneath my fear, desire mixed with self-preservation. Men like him pull you in, make you dependent. I've learned that lesson too well.

"I'm handling it," I say finally.

"How? By pretending nothing's wrong while you shake every time the door opens?"

"Better than being someone's damsel in distress."

His expression shifts—surprise, maybe respect. "I'm not offering to save you. I'm offering backup."

The distinction matters. It acknowledges my agency while extending support. Maybe that's what lets my guard slip, just enough.

"My ex might have found me."

The words hang between us. Ruger's jaw tightens, and I see controlled anger in his eyes—not at me, but for me.

"Tell me everything."

I give him the abbreviated version—Marco, the manipulation, the violence, my escape. I don't mention the baby. That pain is too fresh, too private.

"He has connections to the Grim Vultures," I finish. "I heard them talking once. They help move his product."

Understanding dawns on Ruger's face. "Fuck."

"Yeah." I hug myself, suddenly cold. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring this to your door."

"Hey." He grabs my chin, gently but firmly turning my face to his. "You didn't bring anything. Some piece of shit from your past is threatening you. That's not your fault."

His touch sends electricity through me, and I jerk away. He lets me, but the concern in his eyes doesn't waver.

"We have security measures," he continues. "Cameras, guards. And the Vultures? They won't touch anyone under Saint's Outlaws protection."

"Why would you do that for me? You barely know me."

He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. When he does, his voice is low, almost vulnerable.

"Because I know what it's like to carry guilt that's not yours. To think you deserve bad things because you couldn't see them coming." He meets my eyes. "And because when that fucker grabbed you last night, something in me snapped. Like you were already mine to protect."

The admission steals my breath. Everything about Ruger should terrify me—the leather, the muscles, the easy capacity for violence. He's exactly the type of man I should run from.

But when he looks at me like I'm precious, like I matter, my body betrays every survival instinct I've developed.

"I can't," I whisper, not sure if I'm refusing his protection or acknowledging this impossible attraction.

"Can't what?"

Be vulnerable. Trust again. Want someone who could hurt me.

"I can't handle more violence in my life."

"Then we'll handle it differently." He pulls out his phone. "Let me make some calls. Extra security on the bar. Eyes on the roads leading to town. If your ex shows up, we'll know before he gets near you."

The efficiency with which he mobilizes protection should scare me. Instead, it makes me feel... safe. For the first time in months.

"You don't owe me this," I say.

"Not about owing." He tucks his phone away. "About choices. I choose to protect my people."

"I'm not your people."

"Not yet." The words carry promise and warning in equal measure.

My heart pounds as he leaves the kitchen. Through the pass-window, I watch him rejoin his brothers. They lean in as he speaks, their expressions hardening with shared purpose.

I should be afraid. These men deal in violence, in retribution. Getting involved with them—with him—is dangerous.

But as I return to the bar, watching Ruger's broad shoulders and protective glances, I realize something terrifying:

I'm more afraid of Marco finding me than I am of falling for an outlaw biker who looks at me like I'm worth fighting for.

And that might be the most dangerous realization of all.