Page 37 of Havoc

“Tell me more about what drew you to the club.”

I figured she needed a break from thinking about the attack, and talking about something else was probably what she needed. So, I obliged.

“I was a grunt in the Marine Corps for ten years. Went in at eighteen. Did two tours in Afghanistan. Survived a bunch of shit that others didn’t. Messed me up for a long time. Storm ran a support group for vets with PTSD. I rolled up on my vintage Harley, and to my surprise, all the guys there were bikers. The more I learned about the Dark Slayers, the more I wanted in. I saw it as a chance to be part of something bigger again—just like the Corps. The brothers were good to me when I prospected. Took me under their wing. Made me feel like I belonged. And here I am.”

She didn’t interrupt, just kept sipping from her water, eyes fixed on mine, like every word mattered.

Then she asked, “Go back to the part about you surviving situations many of the others didn’t. What do you think gave you a survival advantage?”

I hesitated. Of course she asked that. After what she went through this morning, she wanted to understand how to stay alive—how to outmaneuver someone with power and no conscience.

“I’m not gonna pretend like we were smarter or faster,” I told her. “We all had our own strategies for staying alive. Training helped. But I think I had certain traits that worked in my favor. The biggest one? Caution. Relentless caution. I followed safety protocols to the letter. Double-checked everything. Ammo counts, fuel gauges, made sure everyone understood the mission before we moved out. I was always the guy fixing things during downtime, even when it wasn’t technically my job.”

She leaned forward a little. “So, your attention to detail—the constant checks, the planning—that’s what helped keep you and your team safe?”

I nodded. “That and the fact that I couldn’t stand the thought of losing a man because I didn’t catch something. That’s what drove me—protecting the guys around me.”

Her eyes lit up with understanding. “Do you see any parallels between the behaviors that kept you alive when deployed—and the things I was hired to work on with you?”

I blinked. She’d caught me off guard with that one.

I just stared at her for a long moment because—hell—I hadn’t seen it before.

But now that she’d said it, I wasn’t sure I could unsee it.

She began talking in an excited voice. “Think about it for a minute. Why did you leap into action at the nightclub? Why did you prioritize fixing that flickering light?” Before I could answer, she rushed on. “You kept a bunch of innocent people from getting arrested at the nightclub—and me from being abused by Slater—because you’re used to worrying about the people around you. And that flickering light fixture drew your notice because it posed a potential fire hazard. Don’t you see? You’re on autopilot, just doing now what you did then because it kept you and your unit safe.”

Fuck me, when she explained it like that, I could see she was right. That still didn’t explain how something that had kept me alive for years in extremely harsh conditions was now turning me into a complete fuckup.

“Yeah,” I admitted, “I can see how that might be true.”

“There is no ‘might be’. We’re onto something here, Havoc.”

“Still doesn’t explain why everything I touch goes to shit.”

She pulled me over onto the bed and turned to face me. “It explains it perfectly. Hear me out. You’re always on high alert, looking for danger, acting when anything out of the ordinary happens that might endanger or inconvenience the people you care about. It’s not that everything you touch goes wrong. You mess up exactly the same percentage as everyone else. It’s just that you’re always vigilant. Your brain is constantly scanning for danger. You’re always picking up the slack, fixing things, intervening when things start to go wrong. If you’re doing ten times more than everyone else around you, then naturally things are gonna go wrong more often.”

Something clicked in my brain, and a new world opened up in my mind. “I remember one of my old drill sergeants saying, ‘If you’re not making mistakes, it means you’re not doing enough.’ He used to say making mistakes was a natural part of living, working, and learning new things. He had this whole spiel about how fear of failure or looking foolish keeps us from doing what needs to be done—and he equated that fear to being a coward.”

Riley smiled and nodded, her face glowing with understanding. I was feeling a lot of things—relief, clarity—but mostly pride. She had helped me reframe something I thought was broken. This woman took so much pride in helping others, it was clear to me now why being a life coach was her calling.

Unable to contain the emotions swelling in my chest, I reached out and gave her a quick hug. “Thanks for that insight. It changed how I’ve been thinking about this situation.”

When I pulled back, she crawled closer until she was right in my lap. I’d held her back at her apartment, and I knew it helped her. Now, she climbed into my arms like she belonged there. I wrapped her up and settled us down for a quiet moment.

“You’re good at what you’re good at, sweetness,” I murmured. “I feel pretty damn lucky that I ended up with you as my life coach.”

She turned her head to look up at me. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yeah, of course I do. I can see now part of what went wrong was me always jumping too fast to fix things. We’re not at war. Everything isn’t a fuckin’ immediate danger. I can afford to slow down and prioritize things. You know, decide what needs to be done right away and what can wait long enough for me to think things through and talk to everyone involved. It’s more important to operate as a team than a lone wolf. I think that’s a big part of what I was missing.”

The soft smile she gave me was warm and real. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I feel like I might have made the connection, but once you saw it too, you ran with it, putting all the pieces of the puzzle together. It just goes to show you know yourself better than anyone else.”

Emotions of caring and respect multiplied in my chest. I realized, I didn’t just want this woman in my life as a coach. I wanted her for my own.

“You make me feel clever, though I know I’m not,” I told her. “I don’t know what Storm is paying you for this gig, but it ain’t nearly enough.”

She startled a little in my lap. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly accept money from your club. Not after you came for me when I needed you most and your club closed ranks around me and Dae in our time of need.”

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