Burnt. Bitter. Stale.
I step into the main room. The noise sharpens.
A prospect’s standing over the pot, glaring at it like it insulted his mother. He’s got that cautious posture all the new ones wear, like the walls might explode if they breathe wrong.
Havoc’s at the table, looking relaxed in thatI-own-the-roomway. President of the Damned Saints. Nothing touches him unless he lets it.
Ghost is leaned back in a chair, arms crossed, watching the kid like he’s calculating whether to break a finger or let it slide.
And Saint’s here.
Back early.
Vice President patch. Calm eyes. That kind of stillness that says he’s already solved the next ten problems in his head. He doesn’t look road-worn.Saint never looks worn. He looks ready to bury whatever gets in his way.
Havoc taps the table. “You done poisoning it?”
The prospect stiffens. “It’s fresh, Prez.”
Ghost’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not quite. “Fresh trash.”
Havoc takes a sip. Grimaces. “Jesus.”
Saint lifts his mug, stares into it like it might confess. “You drink this by choice?”
Havoc shrugs. “I drink it because I’m awake and it’s here.”
Ghost glances up as I walk in. His eyes narrow, just a hair. Already amused. He always is when he sees me pre-coffee.
Havoc follows the look. “Morning, Viper.”
Saint gives me a nod. Simple. Weighted. We served together. That nod covers years of blood and dirt neither of us talks about.
I stop at the table, look down at the pot, and my nose wrinkles. “Prospect.”
“Road Captain,” the kid replies fast, too formal.
“Stop making this,” I tell him. “It’s disrespectful.”
He blinks, panicked. Havoc laughs.
Ghost finally speaks. “He means it. Hasn’t touched clubhouse coffee in weeks.”
Saint’s head turns. “He hasn’t?”
Havoc’s eyes light up. “That’s right. You were out. You missed it.”
Saint looks at Ghost. “Explain.”
Ghost doesn’t flinch. “He drinks from the coffee truck on Main.”
Saint’s brow lifts. “Every day?”
Ghost nods. “Every day.”
Havoc leans forward, grin creeping in. “Sometimestwice.”
Saint shifts his gaze to me. “Twice?”
