War & Mayhem, Book 7, Blackout
Author
Gina O’Connor
Reads
16.5K
Chapters
33
When Isla escapes her abusive boyfriend, she finds unexpected protection with the Highway Jokers—especially Blackout, the quiet, brooding tattooist who can’t ignore her fear. As Steven’s obsession turns violent, Isla is pulled into a world of danger, loyalty, and slow‑burn connection. Blackout will do anything to keep her safe… even if it means facing the darkness she’s running from.
Chapter 1: The Girl in the Corner Booth
BLACKOUT
The bell chimed as we stepped into the diner, the sound cutting clean through the low hum of conversation and clinking cutlery. Heat followed us in from outside, clinging to my skin for a second before the cooler air inside took over.
Coffee hit first. Strong. Burned just enough to mean they kept the pot on too long. Then grease. Bacon, eggs, something fried that had soaked into the walls over years instead of days.
Underneath it, something sweet. Syrup, maybe. Or pastries sitting too long in a glass case near the counter. Familiar. Neutral.
The kind of place where tradies came in before work, where locals sat too long over one cup refilled too many times. Where nobody asked questions because nobody wanted answers. The kind of place where people came to pretend their lives were simple.
Boots scuffed against old tiles as we moved in. The floor had that worn look, cleaned often but never quite clean. Tables scratched. Booth seats cracked at the edges, patched up in places like the place refused to die no matter how many years it had been standing.
A waitress behind the counter glanced up, gave a quick nod like she recognized us but wasn’t going to make a thing of it. Smart.
Saint slid past me like he owned the place, dragging the heat in with him and dropping it somewhere behind as he moved.
“If I die in this heat,” he muttered, sliding into a booth with a dramatic exhale, “tell everyone I went out doing something heroic.”
“What’s that?” I asked, not really listening.
He leaned back, stretching his arms along the top of the booth like he was posing for something. “Being devastatingly attractive.”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t sit. Because I saw her.
Near the window. Sunlight hit her first, sharp and bright through the glass, catching in her hair, pulling strands of gold and brown into something softer than the rest of the room. It stretched across the table, across her hands, across the untouched coffee in front of her like it was trying to warm something that didn’t want it.
But she didn’t match it. There was nothing soft about the way she sat. Too still. Too controlled. Like if she moved the wrong way, something would crack open and not stop.
At first glance, I thought it was Blaire. Same eyes. Same shape to her face. Same presence that pulled attention without trying. But it wasn’t. This was Isla. And something about her felt…off.
Her hands were wrapped around a coffee cup, fingers curved tight like she was holding onto it for more than heat. But she wasn’t drinking it. Hadn’t been, by the look of it.
Her phone sat in front of her. Screen dark. She kept glancing at it anyway. Not curious. Waiting. The kind of waiting that sat under your skin and made everything else feel like background noise.
“You gonna sit down or just stare all day?” Saint called out, already reaching for a menu he wasn’t going to read.
I didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Because something in the room shifted.
The door chimed again. I didn’t need to turn to know it. You learn to read it after a while: the way conversations dip just slightly, the way heads tilt without people realizing they’re reacting. The way tension slips in quietly before it ever turns loud.
I turned anyway.
The guy who walked in didn’t belong here. He was too clean, too put together—dark shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to look casual without actually being it, not a crease out of place. Shoes that had never seen dust, and a watch that cost more than most people in this room made in a month.
His eyes moved once around the diner. Then landed on Isla. And didn’t move again. That told me everything I needed to know.
He walked straight to her table. No hesitation. No pause. Didn’t ask if he could sit. Didn’t check if she wanted him there. Just leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple like it was expected. Like she owed it to him.
I saw her shoulders tighten. Small. Quick. Easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. I was.
He slid into the booth across from her, taking up space like it belonged to him. Like the entire table had been waiting for him to arrive. His hand reached across and closed around hers.
Isla didn’t pull away. But she didn’t return it either. Her fingers stayed still in his grip. Unresponsive. Like she’d already left the moment before it started.
The man wasn’t a stranger. I had seen him before. Not here. Not like this. But enough. Enough to recognize the type. Enough to recognize the name.
Isla and Blaire didn’t talk much about their lives around the clubhouse. Not in detail. Not in ways that gave anything solid away. But things slipped through. Half-finished sentences. Comments dropped and abandoned. The kind of details people didn’t realize they’d shared until someone else put them together.
Steven Holloway. The name had come up more than once. Enough that I had noticed the way Isla’s posture changed when Blaire pushed too hard. Enough that I had seen her shut things down before they could go anywhere real.
Enough that I knew: He wasn’t good for her. And now he was here. Sitting across from her like he owned the space. Like he owned her.
Steven said something, low enough it didn’t carry. Isla nodded faintly. But her grip on the coffee cup tightened. Her knuckles went pale. She still hadn’t taken a sip.
“You know him?” Saint asked under his breath, suddenly a lot more alert than he had been a second ago.
“Heard of him,” I said.
Saint shifted slightly, leaning forward just enough to get a better look. “He looks like he files complaints for fun.”
“That’s generous,” I muttered.
Steven’s hand moved. Slid from her hand to her wrist. Still no reaction. No pulling away. Just that same stillness. Like she’d learned it was easier not to fight it.
Then his hand slammed against the table. The crack of it cut through the diner. Sharp. Clean. Loud enough to shut down every conversation in the room. Isla flinched.
That was all it took. Something in my chest snapped into place.
I was already moving before I thought it through. I’d seen that kind of flinch before—not the surface reaction, but the deeper one that comes from history, not surprise.
Eighteen months alone teaches you to recognize the difference.
Teaches you to move before you think.
Teaches you to step in.
Chair legs scraped behind me as Saint got up fast. “Yeah, nah,” he muttered. “We’re not doing this today.”
We crossed the diner in a few strides. People shifted. Watched. Pretended not to. They always did. Tension like this pulled attention whether anyone wanted it or not.
Steven looked up as we reached the table. His expression shifted instantly. Irritation. Then calculation. Like he was deciding what kind of problem we were.
“Can I help you?” he asked, voice smooth. Controlled. Like nothing here could touch him.
I didn’t look at him first. My eyes stayed on Isla. Her breathing wasn’t right. Too controlled. Too measured. Like she was holding herself together piece by piece and didn’t trust anything to stay in place if she let go.
“You can let go of her,” I said.
That pulled his attention fully onto me. His grip loosened. Slowly. Like he didn’t like being told to do it.
“This doesn’t concern you,” he said.
“It does now.”
A faint smile pulled at his mouth. Not amused. Dismissive. Saint leaned casually against the booth beside me like this was all mildly inconvenient.
“Mate,” he said, “read the room. You’re about three seconds away from getting kicked out of a place that still serves powdered milk.”
That earned him a look. I didn’t move. Steven’s attention slid back to Isla. “We’re leaving,” he said. Simple. Final. Like that was the end of it.
She didn’t move. Didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at him. That silence hit harder than anything else. Something in his jaw tightened.
“Now,” he added.
Still nothing. I saw it then. She wasn’t refusing. She was waiting. Not for him. For something else.
I stepped forward half a pace. “She’s not going anywhere with you,” I said.
Steven looked at me properly then. Really looked. The calm cracked just enough to show something sharper underneath.
“You don’t get a say in that.”
I held his gaze. “I do now.”
Saint snorted quietly. “Honestly, I’d listen. He’s got that whole ‘I’ll ruin your day without blinking’ vibe.”
Steven ignored him. Of course he did. Men like him always ignored the wrong person. For a second, it looked like he might push it farther. But he didn’t. Not here. Not with people watching.
That mattered more to him than anything else. His expression smoothed out again. Polished. Controlled. But it didn’t reach his eyes.
“This isn’t over,” he said quietly.
“Didn’t think it was.”
That got nothing back. He let go of Isla completely, stood, and adjusted his jacket like none of this had touched him. Before leaving, he leaned down slightly toward her. Not soft. Not kind. A reminder.
Then he turned and walked out. The bell chimed again as the door shut behind him.
The diner exhaled all at once. Sound rushed back in. Conversations restarted, quieter at first, then building again like nothing had happened. But it had.
I stayed where I was for a second longer. Eyes on the door. Making sure he was gone.
Then I looked back at her. Isla hadn’t relaxed. Not really. Her hands were still around the cup, but her fingers weren’t steady anymore. Her breathing was off. Too controlled. Like she didn’t trust it not to break.
“You okay?” I asked.
Her eyes lifted to mine. Just for a second. Something flickered there. Not fear. Something quieter. Strained.
“I’m fine,” she said.
She wasn’t. Not even close. I didn’t push it. Instead, I reached across the table and slid her coffee a fraction closer. Small. Grounding.
“He’s not coming back in here,” I said quietly. “Not today.”
Isla hesitated. Then gave a small nod. And for the first time since I’d seen her sitting there, she actually looked at me. Really looked.
Behind me, Saint let out a slow breath.
“Well,” he said, dragging a hand down his face before glancing at the waitress like nothing had just happened, “on the bright side… I’m still starving. So unless we’re all emotionally compromised and skipping lunch, I’m getting chips.”
I huffed a quiet breath through my nose. Isla’s mouth twitched. Just slightly. There. That was better.
I didn’t look away from her. And for some reason I couldn’t explain yet, that felt like the beginning of something I wasn’t going to walk away from cleanly.
