A narrow staircase leads down from a door near the back of the clubhouse, and supposedly they’re working on drilling below so there’s access from within the clubhouse.
The space below has been partially renovated—fresh drywall on some walls, exposed studs on others.
Construction materials are stacked in corners: lumber, drywall sheets, buckets of joint compound.
The bones of six bedrooms are framed out, along with what looks like three shared bathrooms, but only two rooms are actually complete.
And by "complete," I mean they have doors, drywall, and functioning electricity. Barely.
"The plan is to use this for visiting members from other charters," Dalla repeats her father’s words as she leads me down the hall. "Or guests from allied clubs. Dad's been working on it for months, but you know how construction goes. Always takes longer than expected."
I nod, cataloging the space.
One exit—the staircase we came down.
Small windows near the ceiling in each room, too narrow for a grown man to fit through but enough to let in some natural light.
The walls are thin—I can already tell sound will carry.
"This one's yours." Dalla pushes open the first door to reveal a small bedroom with a window well near the ceiling, a dresser, and a bed that looks like it's been here since the Cold War.
I eye the mattress.
It's sagging in the middle, the springs visible through the worn fabric.
The frame beneath it is metal, rusted in places.
My back already aches just looking at it—the old bullet wounds never healed quite right, and a bad mattress turns discomfort into agony within hours.
"Charming," I say.
"The Ritz was booked." She's almost smiling. "Sorry about the mattress. It's been down here forever. Dad keeps saying he'll replace it, but..."
"It's fine."
"You don't have to be tough, you know. I can ask him to?—"
"I said it's fine." The words come out harder than I intend. I see her blink, recalibrate. "I've slept on worse.Muchworse. This is a palace compared to some of the places I've been."
She studies me for a moment, like she's trying to read the stories written in my scars. Then she lets it go.
"Mine's across the hall. Bathroom's between us—we'll have to share until they finish the others."
Share a bathroom.
Brilliant.
Just what I need—her toothbrush next to mine, her shampoo in the shower, the sound of water running while I try not to imagine what's happening on the other side of the door.
"There's a small common area down here too." She leads me further down the hall to a space with a worn couch, a mini fridge, and a TV that looks like it predates my birth. "It's not much, but it's quiet. The main clubhouse can get loud at night."
"This is fine."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
She rolls her eyes, but there's something fond in the gesture.
