Mayhem perks up, eyes alight, and holds up two fingers in a Boy Scout salute. “You’re saying, ‘Try,’ not ‘Definitely do not,’ right?”
“If this place goes up in flames,” Molly says, fixing them both with her steel-wool gaze, “you answer to Rabid and Claire. And trust me, gentlemen, you’d rather face a firing squad.”
Both men immediately sober. Havoc solemnly bobs his head. “We’ll, uh, make sure the proletariat’s hydrated,” he says. “Just don’t tell Claire we joked about burning the place down.”
“Please,” Mayhem adds, scrubbing his hands on his jeans and making a hasty beeline for the taps. “We’ll behave.”
“Good boys.” Molly’s smile is all teeth and something maternal, but also a little wild, like she was born to wrangle men who name themselves after chaos. She ducks behind the bar, grabs her purse, and slides her arm through the crook of mine before I can even process. “Come on,” she says. “We’re going shopping.”
It’s so abrupt that for a moment, I just blink.
“For what?” I say, already half lifted off my seat by her momentum.
“For you, Sparrow.”
The word hits me like a shot of whiskey, fast and warm with an afterburn.
“Sparrow?” I say, palms sweaty, mind whirring.
She smirks, and for a second, she’s the high school friend you could never out-insult, not the tough-as-nails bartender dragging me out into the night.
“What? You didn’t know? Breaker calls you that when he thinks no one’s listening. My guess is it’s because you’re always so damn flighty.”
I can feel my cheeks flare, and not just from the drink. There’s something soft blooming beneath my ribs — relief, maybe, orembarrassment, but I don’t quite know the shape of it yet. I try to laugh it off.
“Great. So now the entire club has a codename for me?”
Molly grins. “Listen, Sparrow, it’s a compliment. Breaker doesn’t give nicknames to just anyone. He’s a cryptex when it comes to feelings.” I try to hide my smile behind a sip of wine, but she sees it anyway. “Now, let’s go. If you’re gonna live here, you need stuff that’s yours. Clothes. Bedding. A toothbrush that isn’t branded with the club logo. Something that says this place belongs to you now.” She pauses, then adds, “Trust me… having your own stuff helps.”
I want to protest, but the words won’t form. I’m too busy picturing a shelf with my books, a mug with my name on it, a quilt that’s mine and only mine. All the things that root a person to a place. Instead, I just nod.
Molly doesn’t wait for more. She tugs me toward the front door; her stride brisk and purposeful. The bar’s lull resumes behind us, Mayhem and Havoc already bickering over which IPA is “most historically aware” and whether water counts as a proletarian beverage. I catch the last of their debate as the door swings shut.
“Hydration is a human right, not a privilege,” Havoc declares as we step into the cool night air.
I'm still smiling. Still holding onto that word — Sparrow — like it might grow wings and carry me somewhere safe.
Chapter Fourteen
Breaker
Colt’s still got that same wolfish grin. Different haircut, new scars, but the same wild glint behind his eyes that says he never really came home. It doesn’t surprise me one bit why he’s here. Bounty hunting seems right up his alley. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he told me he was on the run from the FBI and needed somewhere to lie low. And for him, there’s a damn good chance I’d do it. We sit in the back corner of The Logger’s Tap, a low dive with warped floors and a jukebox stuck on outlaw country. Colt’s beer is half gone already. Mine’s still sweating on the table.
My eye catches something on the exposed skin of his forearm. I blink. “New tattoo?”
He holds up his arm and rolls back his sleeve, exposing a wicked snake that twines around a double-pinprick scar. “Picked this up as a memento of a mission I went on somewhere I sure as fuck can’t tell you about. From a fer-de-lance viper. Nasty little thing. I got a little careless in the jungle while using the latrine. Picked up these scars, got the tattoo, and a new nickname: Viper.”
“Viper?”
“Yeah.” Then his grin fades. “You still good with your hands?”
I raise a brow. “You call me out here to flirt?”
“Well, I’m buying a fucking drink and we’re in the corner table, so what the fuck do you think? As long as you put out,we’ll be good.” He leans forward, voice dropping low. “Got two targets in town. The first one’s named Mike Miller. Wanted for two counts of assault, one count of breaking and entering, one grand theft auto, and one count of possession with intent to sell. He’s a peach, been hiding out in Ironwood Falls for a while, apparently, but hasn’t popped up on my radar until recently when he got in touch with his momma to send him some money. The other… well, the other’s Randall Pike — bail jumper, tied to a triple homicide in Portland. Guy’s connected to something bigger, organized crime, maybe Russian or Mexican syndicates. Cops think he’s got blood on his hands from at least four other jobs and the bodies he leaves behind… well, you can’t fucking hardly call them bodies anymore… suggest he’s got some sick proclivities. There’s chatter to that, fuck, Breaker, he likes ‘em young.”
My chest tightens. Young. Riley's young. And someone smashed her car window.
“This Pike,” I say carefully. “What's he look like?”
