Chapter 4: 1AM Trouble

Sable

The whiskey was warm in my veins. Smooth. Dangerous.

One too many shots, plus the painkillers Hannah gave me earlier, and I was floating. Not in the good way. The room had a soft tilt, like I was on the edge of slipping into something I wouldn’t come back from.

Hannah caught my elbow just as I stood.

“Alright, ballerina,” she said, fishing keys from her back pocket. “Go crash in the truck. You’ve got jelly knees and murder eyes.”

“I’m fine,” I mumbled.

“Liar. Go lay down. We stop serving in an hour, then I’ve got bar breakdown and cash count—it’ll be a couple. You want to sleep somewhere that doesn’t smell like beer farts or testosterone.”

I nodded, sluggish, and took the keys. Her old black Chevy was parked out back. I barely made it to the passenger side before the dizziness hit full force.

Inside, it was dark. Cold. Still. I curled up sideways across the seat, hoodie pulled over my bruised ribs, and closed my eyes.

Hand still wrapped around the keys.

Just for a minute.

Just to stop the spinning.

A sound.

Metal groaning.

Then light—dim, yellow—splashed across my face.

The door was open.

“H-Hannah?” My voice cracked, thick with sleep.

No answer.

Boots scuffed pavement.

Weight shifted into the cab beside me.

“Come on, just grab her legs.”

The voice wasn’t hers.

Hands clamped around my ankles.

“Fuck, she’s out.”

“Not for long. Pull her pants down.”

I blinked, but vision came slow. A blur. Left eye swollen shut, right eye barely holding focus. My arms didn’t move the way I wanted them to. Limbs were cement.

Then—

Cold.

Air hit my thighs. The waistband of my leggings was halfway down.

It registered.

The panic.

The rage.

I kicked.

Hard.

My boot connected with something soft—a groan exploded beside me.

“Fucking bitch!”

A slap caught my cheek. My ears rang. I twisted, adrenaline cutting through the fog, but not fast enough. Someone yanked harder at my pants, another hand bracing on my stomach to hold me down.

I screamed. Thrashed.

My ribs burned. My vision spun.

I got one fist up—slammed it against a shoulder, maybe a neck.

Didn’t matter.

They laughed.

Then a voice cut through the dark like a gunshot.

“Wrong fucking truck, boys.”

The hands froze.

The bodies went still.

A pause. One breath. Two.

Then chaos.

Something slammed against the door behind me. Metal rang.

One man grunted, then screamed.

A dull, sickening thud followed—like bone hitting metal. Then again.

Boots scraped pavement.

“Shit—please—!”

Another thud.

Then the unmistakable sound of a slide being pulled back on a Glock. Cold. Clean.

I flinched at the sound. It echoed louder than the violence.

“Get the fuck out of my town,” the voice said again.

Even through the haze, I knew it.

Jarek King.

The next sound was retching. Spitting. Groveling.

Then footsteps, heavy and scrambling.

Tires spun out behind the bar seconds later.

Silence returned.

Except for the sound of my own breathing—ragged, shallow, too fast.

Then Jarek appeared at the open door, backlit by the glow of a flickering security light, jaw clenched, rage still simmering beneath his skin.

He crouched, scanning me.

I couldn’t sit up.

Couldn’t cover myself.

Couldn’t even stop the shiver that ran through me when his eyes landed on my torn shirt, my half-peeled leggings, my clenched hand still gripping the truck keys like they were holy.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “You hurt?”

I tried to talk, but the words stuck. My mouth was dry. My lip throbbed, freshly split again. My body didn’t feel like mine anymore.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

His gaze darkened. “No. You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine.”

He reached for the door to close it, but I jerked, pulling away.

“Don’t.”

“I’m just—”

“I said don’t.” My voice cracked, but it was sharp. “Thanks for the help. But that doesn’t mean you’re not the same kind of predator.”

That stopped him.

For a second, neither of us breathed.

Then his mouth curved—not into a smile, but something colder.

“I don’t touch what doesn’t want me,” he said, voice low and steady. “And I already emptied the tank earlier, sweetheart.”

His words were clipped. Deliberate.

Like he was reminding me and himself.

We stared at each other.

The air between us tight with heat and unspoken things.

“You could’ve walked away,” I whispered.

“I don’t walk away from shit like that.”

His hand rested on the frame of the truck door, close enough to touch but far enough to say he wouldn’t.

“You drink that much alone?”

“I mixed it,” I admitted. “Pain meds. Didn’t mean to pass out.”

He nodded once.

Then, softly, “It’s not on you.”

I laughed. Sharp. Bitter. “Everything’s always on me.”

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t deny it.

Just studied me like he was still deciding if I was worth the effort.

I laid there in the dark, and he let me. The ache crawling back in where the adrenaline had burned it out. My leggings were still halfway down, and for a second, I didn’t care. Then I fixed them. Wincing.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror.

One eye purple and sealed shut. Lip swollen. Cheekbone red and raw.

I looked like I’d survived a war. Between those men who’d tried to take what wasn’t theirs and the street gang earlier, it’s been one hell of a night.

The door creaked again. Jarek stepped up, slower this time, as if he knew I might bolt.

“You can’t stay out here,” he said. “Not like this.”

“I’m fine.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re bleeding. You’re trembling. And I just pulled two assholes off of you. You’re not fine.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. My body was ice now—shock setting in where the fire had faded.

Jarek exhaled through his nose. “Come inside. I’ve got a room upstairs. It’s quiet. Locked. Private bathroom.”

“I’m not staying in your bed.”

“I didn’t offer it.”

The words weren’t a flirt. They were a statement.

Firm. Final.

He held out a hand.

I stared at it for a second, hate rising like bile.

But I didn’t have another option.

Not one that didn’t end with me freezing in this truck or passing out again and waking up to worse.

I took his hand.

He helped me out carefully, like I might crack in half if he pulled too hard. We walked in silence—through the back door, past the pool tables, through a locked door that led to a narrow stairwell.

I expected chaos.

What I got was calm.

The upstairs was nothing like the bar.

It was dark wood and leather. Clean lines. Art on the walls—some rough, some quiet. A living space, a kitchen, long hallway. Probably even an office and a couple other rooms. The kind of place built to command and retreat in equal measure.

He opened a door midway down the hall.

Guest room.

Queen bed. Thick comforter. Lamp on the nightstand. Window with blackout curtains. A sitting area with a couple chairs in front of a fireplace. A fucking fireplace, in the desert.

Across the room was a bathroom—private, clean, stocked with towels and toiletries.

“You’ll be safe here,” he said, stepping back.

I nodded.

Still shaking.

Still clutching the keys, though I no longer needed them.

He noticed and took them from me. “I’ll give these back to Hannah.”

He paused in the doorway. “You lock the door behind me, alright?”

“I always do.”