Stixx
The first time I see her, she stands at the bar, her red hair haloed by the low lights, glowing in a ruby haze that reminds me of fire. When she laughs, she tips back her head, throat exposed, the sound catching in my chest. Bright green eyes glint with mischief, flicking to mine from across the club for a moment. I know she doesn’t really see me. Not yet. She doesn’t know who I am.
I very much want to know her.
Her eyes sweep back to where Olivia works behind the bar. Their mouths move, but I can’t read lips, certainly not in English, nor can I hear what they’re saying from where I’m posted up watching the stage from the back of the strip club, in the shadows. From the moment she caught my eye, I haven’t been able to look away.
I’ve got a pretty good idea of who she is. I’ve only heard everything about her from the guys in the MC.
“Who is that?” I ask Vaughn anyway as he rejoins me from his fifteen.
The younger biker leans on the wall beside me, twisting open a fresh bottle of water. “Why?” He wiggles dark eyebrows at me. “You trying to hit that?”
“‘That,’” Cliff says, bumping the bottom of Vaughn’s bottle as he passes, “is my cousin, so show some respect.” Water splashes Vaughn in the face, and his hand tightens in reflex, dousing himself with the rest. Cliff keeps on walking, confirming what my gut knew.
The woman at the bar is Lucy.
Trigger Warning
Arsonist's Lullaby is a dark romance. Please check triggers.
“I was just kidding,” Vaughn grumbles, tossing the empty into the trash.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get worse,” I tell him. “I’ll get you another.” Before I can think about what I’m doing, I go to the bar. I’m mentally rehearsing a hello as I get closer to Lucy, then she slips off her cardigan, revealing a lacy tank top beneath. She turns, dropping the sweater onto the stool beside her, the swell of her belly dropping me back into reality.
Lucy is pregnant.
She belongs to another man—one who doesn’t burn down a Catholic school to save a child from a pedophile or a rapist’s house as an alibi for his club. He’s probably in insurance or some other good job that’ll provide for her. I should grab the waters and head back to the stage where I’m supposed to monitor for patrons getting too grabby with our dancers. Instead, I linger near Lucy. I drink her in because if this is as close as I’m ever going to get, then I’m memorizing the finer details, like the way her hair falls to her shoulders, one side tucked behind an ear pierced with hoops and studs.
She doesn’t wear a ring on her finger. The stool beside her is empty.
Maybe she belongs to no one. I wish she belonged to me.
In no world would she ever be mine. I’d have to get through Cliff first, and even though we’re the same height, he’s got at least fifteen to twenty pounds of muscle on me. I’m lean and fast where he’s solid, powerful fists fueled by rage. The club’s lore is built on how far Cliff would go to protect Lucy. He did twenty years in prison for her before making parole, so I can only imagine what he’d do to me. I’d probably outrun him, but no one can run forever.
Olivia pours Lucy another Shirley Temple, reaching over the bar to tuck a strand of red hair behind her ear. It’s a tender gesture, a side of her I’m not used to seeing. I love that Lucy brings that out in her.
I stand almost one stool over—close enough to smell the citrus vanilla of Lucy’s perfume.
“Hey, Stixx,” Olivia says. “Whiskey neat?”
I shake my head, senses flooded by Lucy’s scent, all vocabulary evaporated from my synapses.
“On duty tonight?” She slides a bottle of water to me.
I nod, certain I’m supposed to do something, but the heat from Lucy’s body burns into me, an empty ache. We might as well not even be on the same planet. I swallow, throat dry, brain stuck. Condensation from the cold bottle drips from my hand, reminding me what I came for. “Another for Vaughn, too, please.”
Members don’t pay for drinks, but I tip Olivia anyway. She was a good bartender before she got patched, and the table voted her in unanimously, making her the first woman to join the River Reapers MC. It wasn’t entirely a progressive move. She didn’t leave Ravage—or any of us—much of a choice. Not that it was her fault.
Lucy doesn’t speak while I wait for Vaughn’s bottle. She scrolls through social media on her phone, photo after photo of tags from friends and family. I don’t mean to snoop, but I move closer. There’s a shot of her napping with Olivia’s orange cat asleep on her head. I stifle a laugh. She waits until Olivia passes me another water, then holds up the phone to her. “When did you take this?” She laughs.
Hanging around would be weird, so I don’t hear her answer. In another life, I’d stay, make a joke about how the cat feels right at home. She’d swat at me, her nose crinkling and the corners of her mouth lifting like she does when Olivia replies, but I’m too far away to hear.
I pass a well-dressed man sitting at a table wearing a city inspector’s badge, his piercing glare fixed on Lucy’s back. Despite his clean appearance, dark circles shutter his eyes, his face closed.
“I’d heard her sister was fucking a biker,” he says, voice dripping with contempt.
I turn to ask him who the fuck he thinks he’s talking to. A white earbud nestles in one of his head handles. Of course. I scowl.
“She told me it’s my baby, but what’s she doing? Sitting in a biker bar. She’s probably getting plugged by one, too,” he continues.
He can’t be talking about Lucy. I want to hit him. This is not my fight, though.
“I’m inviting her over to talk, and when she’s not looking, I’ll drop some methotrexate or whatever into her drink and take care of it. I’ve done it before,” he says, and now I’m positive he’s lookin’ at my girl.
He smirks his way to the men’s room, and I decide better safe than sorry.
I drop the cold bottles into Vaughn’s hands. “Taking my fifteen,” I call over my shoulder, following the stranger.
The men’s room dampens the club’s music some, my head throbbing to the beat. He pisses into a urinal, his expensive suit out of place in our club. The Wet Mermaid is very much a bikers’ strip club, our usual working class hang-arounds. Suits like him prefer private parties, that way they can sexually assault the dancers without a bouncer Cliff’s size beating the shit out of them.
I take the urinal next to him.
I work better on an empty bladder.
“A few times,” he continues, still on his call. “It’s almost too easy. The guys would come over for poker, and we’d place bets on how many glasses of wine would put Lucy out. I was the one pouring her red and benzos, so I always won.” His shit-eating grin tells me he thinks he always wins.
Zipping up, I debate whether to wash my hands before or after making sure he never drugs another woman again.
“I told her I don’t want anything to do with her or her bastard,” he goes on. “I asked her to marry me, and she refused. Then she turns up pregnant? I decide when to put a baby in her. She’s making me look weak. She’s all done, whether I put it in her or not.” He stumbles from the urinal. Bumping past me, he reaches for soap. The dispenser whirs and whines, empty. He sneers. “This place is disgusting. I have to go handle this, make sure she knows we’re really over.”
I pluck out his earbud, drop it, and crush it under the heel of my boot.
His mouth twists. “You can’t—”
Driving my forearm into his throat, I shove him back into the urinal. Piss soaks the seat of his pants. “How many?” I growl.
With my arm on his windpipe, his response comes out gargled.
Gripping his shoulders, I shake him. “How many times have you drugged her?”
“Who the fuck are—?”
I reach down and clamp my fist around his testicles, lean in so that I’m rasping in his face. “Never mind who I am. Answer me.”
“A few times a week,” he gasps, trying to twist out of my grip. I hold him tight. “Otherwise she’d just talk and talk. This and that problem at work with her students. She’s such a lightweight, doesn’t take much. I’d tuck her in, make love to her—”
Grabbing the back of his head, I help him kiss the top of the urinal. Blood gushes from his lip. I shove his head over the bowl to catch it. “What’s your name?”
He coughs, splattering the porcelain with meaty red. “You fucking her too? Do I gotta get tested?”
I pull a Zippo out of my pocket and flip it open with a metallic snick. He jumps when I click the wheel. Flame shoots up from my hand. “How much alcohol’s in that hair gel you use?” I ask.
“Benjamin,” he says, going pale beneath his spray-on tan.
He thrashes in my grip. He’s got muscle on me, yeah, but I got one thing he doesn’t—a heart that beats for her. It’s what pins him in place.
“Benjamin,” I say, “I’m Stixx. Earned that name when the River Reapers MC patched me in cuz I play with matches. I gave myself an X for every building I burned down to save someone from a rapist.”
He scoffs, teeth bloody. “I’m not a rapist.”
I lean into him so that we’re close enough to kiss. “What you did to Lucy is rape, Benjamin. You raped her. I don’t give myself Xs anymore because it’d just get outta control. But I still burn down buildings to cleanse the world from people like you.”
He thrashes, and I laugh. He ain’t going nowhere.
“I’m gonna ask you one more time, Benjamin. What’s the alcohol content in your hair gel?”
“Don’t. Please—!”
I tip the lighter toward his hair, let it catch just enough to roll over his gelmet in a whoosh. The sour stench of burning hair stings my nostrils. He screams, not that anybody out on the floor can hear him, and a dark, wet stain blooms across the crotch of his pants, superseding the first.
“You’re just full of piss, aren’t you?” I flush the urinal, dipping his head to extinguish him. His skull cracks into the porcelain. The weak flow of water flushes his waste, but barely douses his hair. Flames engulf his scalp, the smell of roasting skin and sweat wrinkling my nose. I drop him onto the floor, stepping back so I don’t catch. Mark, the MC’s treasurer, won’t be happy if I rack up an emergency services bill, never mind all the damage that comes with fire: ash, smoke, water. While Benjamin writhes on the floor screaming, I check the bathroom for an extinguisher. There isn’t even a sprinkler.
That’s a code violation.
“Did you inspect this building?” I ask him.
He screams in agony.
“All right, all right.” Even if no one can hear him, they’re sure to notice the stink of him. “Let’s put you out, then have a little chat.”
The flames engulf his head, and I wince. Whatever he’s been using, that alcohol content can’t be good for his hair. I’m not one to dole out beauty advice, with my blond mane in need of a trim, but I at least know that much.
“Whenever that, uh, grows back, I know a guy,” I tell him.
He jerks once, twice, then stills. “Benjamin?” I nudge him with the toe of my boot. Right on cue, my fire runs out of gel fuel and blinks out. Benjamin doesn’t move.
Bits of flesh slide from the bloody mess of his neck, too raw to check the pulse. I place two fingers on his wrist. There’s none.
“Whoopsie.”
Forget Mark, now I’ve gotta deal with Ravage, the president of the MC.
The door pushes open, music blasting in, and I slam it shut with my boot, throwing the lock.
“Out of order!” I shout, texting on my phone with one thumb. My other hand tugs at my hair. I didn’t think this through. The way he ran his mouth about Lucy, all I saw was red.
Killing a man in the Mermaid during broad daylight could get me kicked out of the club—or worse.
<< Stixx: Come to the men’s room. Be discreet. >>
<< Vaughn: Thanks, but I prefer women. >>
I crack open the door and watch for his approach, pulling him in and locking it again behind us.
“What—whoa,” he says when he sees Benjamin. “Who’s he?”
“Lucy’s ex.”
He whistles. “Cliff see him in here?”
“I don’t think any of them have. Can we make him go away? I don’t want to tell Ravage.”
“I get illegal shit off the dark web, I can’t make whole bodies disappear,” he says. “Not by myself, anyway. Usually this is a club thing.” He gives me a pained look. “He stinks.”
“My bad?” I shrug. “He’s been drugging and raping Lucy. He was gonna hurt her and her baby.”
“We should tell Cliff, Olivia, and Ravage, then.” He rubs at the stubble on his chiseled chin. Vaughn looks like a bad boy TikTok model and has the mind of a serial killer.
“This is a lot stronger than I wanted to come on when I ask for Cliff’s blessing. We’re not there yet.” I give him a dark look.
“Oh yeah, day one and you’re stalking her? He’ll for sure kill you.” He sighs. “I’ll call Donny.” Before I protest, he says, “It’s either him or Ravage. They’re the only ones who know how to contact the manure man.”
“You hear that, Benjamin? You’re gonna be Connecticut corn.”
“I need the manure man in the men’s room at the Mermaid,” Vaughn says, already on the phone. Whatever Donny says makes him smirk at me. “It’s better if you don’t know.” Hanging up, he shakes his head at me, dark hair falling back into his eyes. “Only you could make me call Donny and use that brand new sentence.”
“Poetic alliteration.” I kiss my fingers.
In less than half an hour, someone who isn’t the manure man backs a beer delivery truck near the rear employees’ door. Whistling, he rolls in a keg, steel buckets, and an industrial hand blender on a dolly.
A guy in a Behr T-shirt—one of our regulars—ambles toward the bathroom.
“Closed,” the whistler says.
“For cleaning,” Vaughn adds. “Just give us a few. Tell Olivia your next beer’s on me.”
Behr guy flashes him a grin and a thumbs up, and stumbles to the bar.
“Gonna be more than a few,” I say, peeking into the men’s room. The keg guy—or whoever he really is—pulls a wireless bone saw out of his bag.
“Is that a battery pack?” Vaughn asks, nodding at the saw. Keg guy doesn’t answer. “Didn’t know they made ‘em like that.”
Keg guy shoots us a glare.
“We’ll, uh, give you some space,” I say, even as he turns on the saw and begins breaking Benjamin down. Before I close the door, I catch him tossing a hand into a steel bucket, clock an industrial hand blender peeking out of his bag.
A minute later, a septic truck pulls up, too. No one gets out.
“Is that part of the, uh, cleanup crew?” I ask Vaughn.
“Hey Cliff.” Vaughn nods at the big man coming at us.
“Men’s room out of order again?” Cliff crosses his arms. “I thought we voted no more burritos for Beer Can.”
Vaughn and I both shrug.
“What can ya do?” the younger man says. Cliff doesn’t notice the tightness in Vaughn’s shoulders, but I do.
“I’m running upstairs, then,” Cliff says. “Cover for me?”
I give him two thumbs up, a grin that’s probably too unhinged even for me, and he leaves.
“Man.” Vaughn sags against the wall. “You owe me. Big time.”
“Want a burrito from the taco truck out front?”
The music drowns out keg guy’s butcher and blend, and I almost don’t notice septic guy snaking a hose into the bathroom that leads to his truck.
“We’re gonna pump him outta there,” septic guy rasps.
Vaughn turns a shade of green. “No thanks.”
I smoke a cigarette, watching Benjamin make his exit from Lucy’s life through a hose I hope is caked with shit on the inside, just like him. I wave as the trucks leave, the happy mistake paving the way for us to meet.
“You’re mopping,” Vaughn says, thrusting a bottle of enzyme-based blood cleaner septic guy left us into my arms.
“Fair enough.” I whistle while I scrub away the rest of Benjamin, the cleaner erasing all traces of his DNA.
Once the men’s room is clean enough to reopen, I wash my hands, then assess the rest of the damage. Thankfully the porcelain is harder than Lucy’s ex. Apart from a drop of blood in the urinal and broken earbud on the floor, it’s like he was never here. I flush away the last traces.
“So, you ready for tomorrow?” Vaughn asks when I rejoin him on the floor.
I grunt, my gaze already back on Lucy. She’s part of the club’s history, and my future. Cliff went to prison to protect her, sacrificing and upending everything to keep her safe.
I’ll take it from here.
Now that I’ve seen her, I don’t ever want to be apart. I want to say hello, at least, before either of us walks out of this bar.
I should’ve made the joke about the cat. I’ll never get an opening like that again.
“The Fishers will ride with you, then get any girls out while you’re doing the return,” Vaughn continues, and I realize he’s been talking.
I should pay attention. Tomorrow’s run’s a big one. I might never get another chance to be around Lucy, though. Though I can’t blame her, she’s not a fan of the club. Tonight’s the first time I’ve ever seen her in the Mermaid. It’s now or never. I start toward her.
She stands, draping her cardigan over one arm and grabbing her bag. Olivia hops up and reaches over the bar to hug her goodbye. The closer Lucy gets to the door, the farther she gets from me, and the slower I move. She slips into the parking lot, leaving me standing in the middle of the floor washed in neon lights.
Vaughn claps my shoulder. “Burners will be in your mailbox in the morning. I gotta take over bar back so Cliff can cover the door. You good here?”
I nod, dazed, disappointed in myself for letting the moment slip through my fingers.
I’ll see her again. It’s a matter of time. When I do, I’ll say hello.
The above excerpt has been edited and revised, and may not reflect the final published product.
Copyright 2026.
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic or mechanical—without permission in writing from the author.
Arsonist’s Lullaby
Available October 25th
She’s burnt out. I’ll give her spark back if it kills her.
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