The Twisted Devils’ clubhouse looks different in daylight.
At night, it’s all growl and shadow — bikes lined up like teeth, laughter spilling out of the bar, men who look built out of bad decisions and even worse consequences. In the morning, it’s just an enormous chunk of timber and attitude sitting on the edge of Ironwood Falls like it owns the damn town.
I kill the engine of my forgettable sedan and sit there for half a second, hands on the wheel.
I hate this car.
It doesn’t rumble. It doesn’t roar. It doesn’tlive.
But I didn’t come here to love my transportation.
I came here to work.
And to lie.
I step out and shut the door, grabbing my tool bag from the backseat. The air smells of pine and old smoke. Somewhere behind the building, someone’s already grilling something — because these people treat breakfast like a competition.
A side door opens and a guy wearing a cut with the name ‘Mayhem’ on it strolls out like he woke up this way — boots unlaced, hair a mess, sunglasses on even though it’s overcast.
He points at my car. “Is that your ride?”
“It gets me places,” I say.
Mayhem makes a noise like that answer gave him heartburn. “Don’t you love yourself? You deserve better. There was a garagesale going on near the corner of Elm and Graham Street where they were selling a Power Wheels. A red Jeep. It was a good price, too. They might still have it.”
Before I can respond, another man steps out behind him — taller, calmer, built like an athlete who decided peace was optional. His hair is lighter than most of the Devils I’ve seen, and his eyes are too clear for the world he lives in.
Goldie, according to the patch on his cut.
The VP, also according to the patch.
Molly mentioned him once in passing, as if he were a logistical fact. Not a person. Not someone who could assess a man in three seconds and decide if he belongs.
Goldie looks me over—boots, tool bag, hands, posture.
“Evan,” he says, like it’s already on a list somewhere.
I nod. “Yeah.”
Mayhem claps a hand on my shoulder like we’re buddies. “Welcome to the circus.”
Goldie hooks a thumb toward the garage. “Roof’s this way.”
We walk across the lot. Bikes sit in neat rows, quiet for once, but still watching. A couple of prospects are hauling plywood near the fence. One of them glances up at me too fast, then looks away like he got caught staring.
Goldie doesn’t talk much. Mayhem fills the silence like it’s his job.
“So,” Mayhem says, “you’re a contractor.”
“Yeah.”
“Like, legit? Or ‘I watched three YouTube videos and now I’m dangerous’ contractor?”
I snort. “Legit.”
“Mm.” He nods like he’s disappointed. “I was hoping for the YouTube one. More entertaining. Plus, you can learn a lot from YouTube. I learned about this thing called ‘manifesting’ andonce I send this guy some gift cards, he’ll teach me how to do it. Then I’m going to manifest Richard Nixon.”
“Nixon’s dead,” Goldie says.
