There was no guilt, no rush. Just the echo of bone breaking and the certainty that, at least today, I’d done exactly what was expected.
***
I spent fifteen minutes working the blood out of my knuckles, picking clots from under my nails while the club’s ancient water heater coughed and threatened to die. It never did. I scrubbed until the skin was raw and the only thing left was a stinging, bright pink that matched the first real sunrise I’d seen in weeks.
Red watched me from the doorway, one foot cocked against the frame, cigarette burning between her fingers. She had a way of filling up a room without saying shit, just the barest arch of an eyebrow or the way her hips set the tempo for everyone else’s breathing. She’d swapped out her work tank for a beat-up flannel, which did nothing to hide the bruises on her forearms or the fresh bite mark near her collarbone—my work, last night, though I doubted anyone but her would recognize it.
She took a drag, exhaled, and said, “You gonna have skin left by tomorrow?”
I turned the tap off, dried my hands on the same towel I’d been using all week. “Depends on what else Vin has planned.”
She stepped inside, offered me the cigarette. I took it, inhaled deep, then handed it back. She held it for a second, then stubbed it out in the sink.
“Drink?” she said, already reaching under the bar for the bottle.
“Fuck yes.”
She poured two whiskeys, neat. Set one in front of me, kept the other for herself.
We drank in silence for a minute. I watched the smoke curl around her face in the neon light, tracing the way it twisted and dissolved before it hit the greasy ceiling.
“You ever think about just… quitting?” she asked, not looking at me.
“Quitting what?”
She shrugged, ran a thumb along the rim of her glass. “All of it. The club. The rules. The people who treat you like disposable.”
I thought about it. Not for long. “No.”
She laughed, but it was soft, almost sad. “Didn’t peg you for a lifer.”
I knocked back the rest of the whiskey, relished the burn. “I’m not. But I’m not anything else, either. At least here, you know what you are. Even if it’s shit.”
She reached across the bar, took my hand. Her grip was rough, calloused, but there was a gentleness there I hadn’t seen before. She turned my hand over, traced the scars with her thumb.
“You ever had a clean slate?” she asked, voice low.
I pulled my hand back, not unkind but firm. “My slate’s a fuckin’ canvas, Red. And every mark is permanent.”
She smiled at that, a real one this time. “You got a way with words, Ax.”
“Don’t let Vin hear you say that,” I said.
Red’s eyes searched mine, like she was trying to see past the deflection. “You ever shoot anyone?”
I held her gaze. “Does it matter?”
She finished her drink, slammed the glass down. “Only if you want it to.”
That was the end of that. She slipped out the side door, her boots loud on the concrete. I stood there a long time, watching the spot where she’d been, feeling the weight of the question settle in the room like a second layer of dust.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The club was dead, most of the guys off chasing women or burning time at the 24-hour pool hall. I wandered the floor, restless, the scars on my hands throbbing with each heartbeat. I ended up by the back exit, propped against the door, cigarette in my mouth and eyes locked on the empty parking lot.
The club’s community board was right by the exit, a mess of old event flyers, ads for cheap tattoos, and the occasional “missing person” from a distant, better life. Something newcaught my eye. A bright blue flyer, crisp and unmolested, with a glossy photo of a white-steepled church and a headline in curly font:
“Fable Christian Church: Annual Christmas Market & Santa Claus Parade!”
There was a cartoon Santa below, fat and grinning, beard so white it glowed. Underneath, in smaller type: “All are welcome! Free cider & cookies! Dress festive!” There was also a young woman dressed as a Santa’s elf, a woman I wanted to see.
