Tag: stixx

Lucy

There’s no way this is legal. It’s my first thought as I pull in front of the shop where I’m supposed to pick up a refurbished stroller and car seat system. By all accounts, the Main Street storefront is empty. Dark windows stained with dust face the street, and I’m the only car parallel parked out front. I knew it seemed odd that a children’s thrift shop would be in Woodbury, of all places—a town where there are more antique and health food stores than people. Around here, moms buy their travel systems new on Prime. Plus, I’m pretty sure car seat regulations don’t even allow for “refurbishing,” or whatever it is this shop does. But I’m desperate.

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I did it to myself. I could be one of those suburban moms with the latest, most expensive baby gadgets if I hadn’t broken up with my baby daddy when he proposed. I’m certifiably insane for even thinking of leaving a man who throws money at every problem with barely a thought. The thing is, I think he saw me as a problem, or he would eventually if I married him. I didn’t want to be his trailer park teacher turned tradwife, even if it came with a perfect white SUV to drive around our perfect five kids—I didn’t want to be a mom. I became a teacher to give kids like me a safe space from their monsters, to keep kids like my cousin Cliff out of prison. When Benjamin proposed, I knew if I said yes, next he’d pressure me into having his baby, and soon after, quit my job. He’d tell me what to wear, which PTA moms to befriend, and how to spend my “allowance.” It took me seven years to figure out he’s not what I want, and once I did, the relief was immediate.

So of course, a few weeks after I said no, a pregnancy test said yes.

Arsonist's Lullaby is a dark romance. Please check triggers before reading.

I don’t want my baby to grow up in the shadow of my addict parents, both likely narcissists. I barely made it out of childhood, and poverty was the least of my traumas. I don’t want her to grow up under Benjamin’s thumb, either. I’d rather we be poor and free.

I need that travel system because it converts from a car seat to a stroller, is lightweight, and foolproof enough that I could do it all myself. That overpriced brand is actually a beacon of freedom, a way to raise a baby I didn’t plan for in the environment of my choice. Mine.

The place is probably closed, anyway. All I have to do is try the door, admit defeat, and get back in my car. Easy. Then I can go back to doomscrolling through more fake secondhand baby paraphernalia in the comfort of AC. Pregnancy’s got me sweating in places I never knew I could, and doesn’t play well with the late summer heatwave we’re in. When I turn the knob and push the door, it opens with a long, dusty creak.

The shop is even emptier than it looked from the street, and worse, there’s no AC. A single, brand new travel system sits in the middle of the small store, still unopened. Part of me is relieved. It fell off a truck, much like most of the things from my childhood: chicken cutlets, satellite cable, my adopted sister Olivia. At least I know it’ll be safe for my baby.

“Hello?” I run a finger over the box, leaving a trail in the dust. The factory seal is unbroken, the box isn’t even dented. I came with exactly enough cash, so this should be quick. I won’t even have to tell Olivia or Cliff how I got something so expensive. I’ll wrap it and pretend someone from work bought it for my shower—the Sip and See my sister started organizing late because I waited until the eleventh hour to tell them I’m pregnant. I didn’t want to dump more of my problems on them, not when Cliff already gave up twenty years of his life for me. Not with things in our little family getting so messy.

They think I don’t know, like I didn’t figure it out the night they left me at a dive bar for over an hour to “get cigarettes.” Olivia came back with that look in her eye, the addict floating from her fix. Cliff looked guilty.

Cliff and I are cousins, but Olivia isn’t biologically related to us. My emotionally unavailable sister’s gonna break his heart, though. It’s too bad, because they could be good for each other.

Not that I know anything about healthy relationships.

Sweat drips between my tits, pooling under them, and my sundress sticks to me. “Hello!” I call again, louder.

“I’m coming,” a man replies, his accent almost Connecticut, the syllables lilting kinda like the actors’ do in the Norwegian TV show I got hooked on a few years back. A man covered in tattoos strolls out of the back, a cigarette clamped between his teeth. He’d be hot without the cancer stick. He rakes dirty blond hair streaked with silver and red back from a face sculpted with high cheekbones. His jawline’s probably just as sharp, but it’s covered in beard.

I look pointedly at the cigarette, down at the small yet heavy watermelon I’m hauling around, and back at him.

“S-sorry.” He drops the butt onto the floor and grinds it out with a steel-toed boot, staring at me with baby blues. “You’re not…” He trails off and rubs his beard, those eyes drinking me in. “I know you,” he says, a warm smile brushing his lips like he’s happy to see me.

I should be alarmed. My pulse quickens, and a fluttering flickers low inside me, and it’s not fear. It’s hormones. I’ve officially reached the horny stage of pregnancy, and it’s insatiable. Doesn’t matter which toy or hand I use. The second I come, my body demands more, now, again.

No one ever looks at me the way he is, pupils dilated, and it shoots straight to my clit.

“You know me…?” I prod. I don’t recognize him, so I don’t think he’s a parent of one of my first graders. I’d remember the way his cut-off Pink Floyd tee clings to all that lean, tattooed muscle.

Hello, daddy.

“You’re Cliff and Olivia’s Lucy,” he says. “I’ve seen you in the bar. The Wet Mermaid?”

“You’re a River Reaper.” I should be concerned that he knows my face and name, but every biker in the club probably knows more about me than I do any of them. We share history.

At least now I can stare at him as long as I want. I assess lips that, even though they’re partially hidden under a mustache needing a trim, look soft and kissable. I should recognize him; I’m in the Mermaid more than I’d like. I stop in for a few minutes here and there, say hi to Olivia and Cliff when they’re working, and then I get out of there. It reminds me too much of standing behind my parents while the bartender slipped them a baggie of coke with their shots.

“Stixx,” he supplies with a wry smile.

I’d definitely remember that name. “Lucy,” I say, even though he already knows. I hold out a hand, and surprise alights on his face for a moment. He grips it in warm tattooed fingers, heat spreading through me. I think he feels it too, because his eyes widen and he smiles.

Then he pulls away.

His face smooths into a mask I can’t read, and he taps the box. “Are you really here for this?”

I catch another tease of an accent. “I really am.” I point to my swollen belly again. He frowns.

I guess we’re not going out to dinner any time soon.

I’m glad I left my ex. I’m proud to become a single mom. I’m also learning no man wants the woman knocked up by some other dude. The bump is the number one reason I haven’t cleansed myself of my Benjamin era. The second I mentioned the pregnancy on dates, the guys sitting across from me vanished. Once I started showing, forget it.

Stixx, apparently, is no different, so I take the hint and get to business.

There’s no cash register, so I guess we’re doing this like a drug deal. I step forward to pass him the money. Closer is both too close and not enough, my nipples puckering against the cotton dress and my heart racing as I inhale. He smells like smoke, leather, and warm sugar. I lean forward and breathe him in.

He steps back. “Are … are you smelling me?”

“No,” I sputter, fanning my hot face. “Just checking to make sure the box doesn’t smell like weed.”

“You won’t draw any attention,” he says, lifting the box and striding toward the door. “False bottom, the package is inside. You’re just gonna drive to the drop. I’ll tail you a few cars behind. Ready to roll?”

I stare at him, scrunching my face more as each sentence lands. “False bottom? What’s inside?” I ask. “And what do you mean, ‘drop?’”

He frowns. “Lucy…” he says slowly, like it’s hurting him a little. “Why are you here?”

I point to the box he’s holding. “Buying a travel system that apparently fell off a truck.”

His frown deepens. “No.”

Since I’m at the too-pregnant-to-cross-my-arms stage, I put my hands on my hips. “What do you mean, ‘No?’”

He drops the box. “You need to leave. Now.” Taking my shoulders, he turns me and marches me toward the door.

Heat radiates from his hands, spreading through my shoulders and zinging down my spine. I lean into him for a delicious moment before the alarm bells in my brain break through. I shrug his hands off and wheel around. “Why won’t you sell this to me?”

“Because it’s not for sale,” he hisses.

“The hell it isn’t.” I show him the screenshot I took of the marketplace post. “Stroller and car seat travel system ‘new’ in box. Pickup ASAP in store,” it reads, giving the address.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “He posted it instead of messaging her,” he mutters in pained horror.

“I’ve got cash,” I remind him.

“You are leaving,” he says.

I start to argue, but the fear in his eyes gives me pause.

His phone rings, cutting off all my questions. “Don’t move,” he orders, pulling a cell from his pocket.

My heart beats faster. Whatever I’ve walked into, it’s definitely not legal.

“Not ‘All good,’” he says into the phone. “Your mule didn’t show. Cliff’s cousin Lucy’s here wanting to buy a used stroller. Yeah, I know there’s no such thing.” He gives me a pointed look. “She saw it in a post.” His hand clenches around the phone. “Yeah, ‘oops.’ Take that shit down, now. Better yet, get Vaughn to scrub it.” He massages the bridge of his nose. “And no more gummies before texting our contacts, you old pain in my ass.” He snaps the flip phone shut.

Stixx peers out the front windows at the street. “That you?” He nods at my beat-up Camry, the only car here. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’m walking you out.” Taking my arm, he draws me toward the door.

I pull away. “I’m not leaving without the stroller.”

“There is no stroller.” He palms my lower back, his hand warm through my dress, and gently but firmly steers me to the exit.

“Why are you in such a rush to get me out of here?” I twist, bumping him with my belly, and find myself staring up into eyes the color of the ocean warning of a storm.

The rear door slams into the wall. Stixx freezes. The fear drains from his eyes, replaced by panic. “Do everything I say,” he whispers to me as the doorway darkens.

The man crowding the frame has to be almost seven feet tall, with powerful shoulders attached to hands capable of crushing my skull. Unnerving violet eyes glare at Stixx from out of a dark face, hardening when his gaze drops to me and my pregnant belly. I swallow, wrapping my arms around myself and backing into Stixx.

“Ugo, move your big ass,” another man says from behind him.

Ugo ducks into the shop, and two men stroll in behind him. They’re each about six-two, and all three share the same complexion and those eyes. On Elizabeth Taylor, they sparkled, photographing beautifully when she wore purples and greens. On these men, they’re void, cold, hypnotic—the calculating orbs of predators.

“Out,” Stixx says, giving me a push, and one of the men tsks.

“Don’t be rude. Is this our mule?” He saunters over.

“No,” Stixx says. “She was just leaving.”

“Dante,” the man says, tucking brown hair behind his ears and holding out a tattooed hand.

I look at his protruding hand and hug myself tighter. All three of these men set off screaming alarms in my head. They carry death.

“That’s Nico.” He points at the third man with his thumb as if I didn’t just snub him. “Now you know us.” He grins. “We still don’t know you.”

They fan out, and Dante loops his thumb and forefinger around my wrist, drawing me toward the door.

Stixx steps between us, severing Dante’s hold on me. “Don’t touch her again,” he growls, his voice reverberating inside all my secret places.

Dante smirks at him.

Nico taps the gold watch on his wrist. “We gotta roll. Everybody out.”

Ugo lifts the box, frowns at the door then me, and I realize he wants me to open it for him.

Except I haven’t agreed to whatever this is.

“Unless there’s a stroller in there that you’re loading into my car, you can put that down,” I say.

Ignoring me, Dante opens the door.

“That you?” Nico nods at my Camry.

“Hold it,” I say in my teacher voice, and all four of them freeze. “What’s in the box?”

The way they all stare back at me reminds me of my first graders when I ask what they’re eating at their desks.

It’s always candy.

Dante turns to Stixx. “Who the fuck is this?”

Stixx throws me a warning look before waving him off. “Re-fucking-lax. She’s just a Seven fan. Fucking nerd.” Circling my wrist, he pulls me outside before I can argue or ask any more questions.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Then he drops his voice, speaking quickly while we’re still alone. “A’ight, Lucy, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna give you an address, you’re gonna put it in your GPS, and we’re gonna take a ride. You won’t be harmed—you’re gonna deliver the package. And you’re gonna keep your mouth shut,” he adds. “You can’t tell Cliff and Olivia about this.” He rattles off an address that I try not to memorize yet sticks in my head all the same.

I laugh. “Nope.”

“No?”

“Make that hell no. I’m not taking your box of dirty club secrets or whatever’s in there anywhere. I want my stroller.” I lift my chin, red bangs falling to the sides of my face, ponytail held high.

“There is no stroller,” he says. “Unfortunately, life has a terrible sense of humor, and Beer Can posted instead of messaging the harmless looking pregnant woman who was supposed to deliver the package. Now the Fishers are here, so you’ve gotta play along, or they’ll kill you.”

I pin him with a look. “Kill me?”

“Have you ever heard the phrase ‘The Fishers are in the hills?’”

“Like, as in Fisher cats? Fun fact, they somehow got a bad rep for it, but they’re not what you hear screaming at night sometimes. It’s probably a red fox.” I clamp my lips shut. Did I seriously just go into teacher mode again in the middle of possibly being kidnapped? I shouldn’t be lecturing or nerding out with these men. I should be running.

“They’re hitmen for the don, Lucy,” he says in a low voice that chills my blood.

“Don? As in, the mafia? I thought you guys just sold drugs and guns.”

“You’re not supposed to know that,” he says, giving me a look. “And who do you think we sell the drugs and guns for?”

I close my eyes, inhaling through my nose. There’s so much to unpack here, and with three hitmen who can make me disappear in no time. With a long sigh, I face him again. “I just wanted the damn stroller.”

“I know,” he says, and he actually looks regretful. He licks his lips. “Look, I need a harmless looking pregnant woman, and you need enough cash to buy the real thing. So get in the car, Lucy, and we both get what we need.”

I open my mouth to ask him who the hell he thinks he is, telling me what to do. No one tells me what to do, even if I’m about to get murdered. Not anymore.

We both get what we need.

Ugo strolls out, Dante holding the door for him, and loads the box onto my back seat. Giving me a long, almost reproachful look, he stands silent beside his brothers.

I should wrestle that box out of my car myself. I should call Cliff or at least drop a pin to Olivia and tell her if I’m not home in thirty minutes, call the cops.

Except, I need that car seat, and this baby’s gonna need a whole lot more. There’s formula, diapers, and clothes, and that’s just for starters. My job barely covers the necessities. Stixx is a River Reaper, which means he’s Cliff and Olivia’s family, too. He won’t let anything happen to me. Probably.

“You’re seriously not gonna tell me what’s in the box, even though I might end up in a Netflix doc for it?”

“I’m seriously not,” he says. “Trust me, it’s better if you don’t know.” His eyes glint, though, and even though that should very much be a red flag, it makes me even more curious.

“Can you at least tell me if I could go to prison over whatever’s in there?”

“You’re not going to prison,” he promises.

“So it’s not drugs?” I ask his retreating back.

He turns, the breeze catching his hair. He pins me with sincere eyes. “No drugs. No prison time. You have my word. Wait here, I’ll be right back.” Before I can reply, he ducks back inside, leaving me alone on the sidewalk with the Fishers.

Or, I thought they were still out here. The box is in my back seat, and the Fishers are nowhere to be seen.

I’ve got maybe a minute before Stixx comes back out, probably less, but still enough time to get the fuck out of here.

I unlock my phone, my fingers slipping on the glass as I type.

“Starting route,” the GPS announces, and Stixx comes back out, not from the shop, but the alley, the roar of his motorcycle drowning out the pounding of my heart.

“Don’t drive too fast,” he warns, pulling on a leather vest covered in River Reapers MC patches.

“Wait,” I call, glancing up from the destination mapped on my phone. “Are we going to the distribution center?”

He stares at me, his expression somewhere between a frown and intrigue.

“Don’t fuck this up,” he says, handing me a burner. “Take this in case. Let’s ride.”

And even though I swore to myself I’d never take orders from another man again, I do what I’m told.

The above excerpt has been lightly 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 burn the world down to give her spark back.

Unlock Chapter 3 when A.L. reaches 25 pre-orders!

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.

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Arsonist’s Lullaby
Available October 25th

She’s burnt out. I’ll give her spark back if it kills her.