“Classic just means old,” Rune muttered. “Play something current.”
“Like what?” Soldier asked from behind the bar fridge, replacin’ bottles with quiet efficiency. “That altered voice crap you listen to? I’d rather eat glass.”
Rune grinned. “One way to find out.”
“Keep drinking that light beer like a good princess.”
Their bickerin’ earned a few laughs from the regulars. I leaned an elbow on the counter, watchin’ them carry on. “Y’all fight about music every shift. Same damn songs, same damn winner.”
Gatsby pointed the bar rag at Rune. “Me.”
Ruby reappeared just in time to shake her head. “Men. Give ’em a beer and a speaker, they think it’s a battlefield.”
The noise rolled easy through the room, banter, laughter, dishes clinkin’. That’s what I liked most about this place. It breathed. It felt alive.
Soldier carried another crate toward the back, head down, sleeves rolled. He’d come down from the Pennsylvania chapter a few months ago, said he’d stay long enough to help with club business, and he hadn’t left. Didn’t talk much, didn’t drink much, and stayed low. There were rumors, sure, but in this world, every man had ghosts.
“Soldier,” I said as he passed. “You hangin’ around tonight?”
He nodded once, eyes flickin’ up just long enough to meet mine. “Until ten or so.”
I watched him go, then turned back to the room. The hum of the bar hit that perfect rhythm, the kind that could almost fool a man into thinkin’ life was simple.
But even with the place hummin’, my mind kept driftin’ to Lark.
Hadn’t seen her since that night at Miriam’s, but she hadn’t left my head. That face, too soft for what she’d lived through, too strong for anyone to break again. I’d asked Sable about her this morning. She said Lark was doing better, and didn’t seem to have any lastin’ effects from the smoke.
It should’ve been enough.
Wasn’t.
Didn’t make sense why she stuck with me when no one else ever did. I’d rescued plenty before—men, women, kids—but none of them haunted me like she did. Maybe it was the way she’d looked at me through the smoke, like she couldn’t decide whether I was a savior or a sin.
“Boss?” Ruby’s voice cut through the haze. “You good? You’ve been starin’ at nothin’ for a full minute.”
“Just thinkin’,” I said, settin’ the clipboard down.
She arched a brow. “About supply runs or somethin’ with longer hair?”
“Maybe both,” I said dryly.
Roxanne slid in close, perfume sweet and familiar in a way that didn’t stir much anymore. “You look like a man who needs a distraction,” she murmured. “I’m off at eight.”
“I’m good,” I said, easin’ back. “Last thing I need is one of your distractions.”
She smiled like she’d expected it. “Friday’s for bad decisions.”
Gatsby snorted. “Chain is a bad decision.”
“Oh, I know,” Roxanne muttered, movin’ off.
I shook my head and picked up my clipboard again. One-night months ago Roxanne showed up at the clubhouse. She made an offer, and I was drunk enough to take it. A mistake and one I wasn’t tempted to make again.
Still, when the voices faded and the music settled back into the hum of the afternoon, the quiet hit strange.
Outside, Charleston shimmered under a clean blue sky, the sun glancin’ off parked bikes and salt-wet asphalt. I caught my reflection in the window—same man, same cut, same life—but somethin’ in my chest shifted. Uneasy.
Didn’t know why. Didn’t know if I want the answer.
