Blackjack dismissed us with a flick of his fingers. “Out,” he said. “I’ve got to keep playing with the ideas in my head to see if I can get them to sound less stupid. Try to make sense of what pieces mightmove next.”
Miami shifted like he wanted to stand, caught himself when his leg reminded him that was a bad idea to do fast. I stepped forward without thinking, hand going out. He slapped it away lightly.
“I got it,” he said. “I’m crippled, not useless.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I muttered.
He smirked, then grunted as he pushed up onto his feet. The crutch squeaked once as he found his balance. Quinn opened the door for him when she came back, coffee in one hand.
I followed them out into the main room.
The clubhouse felt heavier and more alive at the same time. There were more bodies around than usual, more guns visible, more eyes on the doors. War changed posture. Men took up more space when they were expecting bullets.
8-Ball and Blackjack came in minutes later and peeled off toward the pool table tucked along the one wall. The green felt was scuffed and old, but the cues were straight and the balls rolled true. They started racking up like it was muscle memory. Business and distraction in the same motion.
The bar on the far side of the room had its own gravity. That’s where Miami drifted to, Quinn at his side, crutch clicking on the wood floor. That’s where I went too.
Jackal was behind the bar. He had the same towel over his shoulder, the same easy stance, the same way of watching the room without making it obvious. Badger hustled past with a crate of something.
At the far end of the bar, Tanya, Rebecca, and Valkyrie had claimed a stretch of stool space. Tanya’s laugh cut across the room once, bright and sharp. Rebecca was saying something with her hands. Valkyrie leaned in to hear better, elbows on the bar, head tilted, hair pulled back.
She looked up right as I looked over.
Our eyes caught.
There was a beat where the noise of the room thinned, just in that line between us. Her mouth lifted, a small, tired smile that still somehow managed to hit like a shot of good whiskey. Not soft. Not shy. More like an acknowledgment.
We’re still here.
I gave her one back before I could think better of it. Then I turned to the bar like my heart hadn’t just tried to climb into my throat.
Jackal slid a glass in front of Miami without being asked. Amber, but lighter than usual.
“Doctor-friendly,” he said. “Less proof. Don’t yell at me.”
“I’ll yell if I want to,” Miami grumbled, but he took a sip anyway.
Jackal dropped a drink in front of me too.
“You’re a saint,” I said.
“I’m a bartender,” he corrected, moving down the bar toward the women.
“Same thing in this place,” I muttered.
Quinn stayed on Miami’s left, one hand resting onhis back, thumb moving in small, unconscious circles.
For a minute, we didn’t say anything. We just stood there—me nursing my drink, Miami adjusting to being in his own clubhouse again instead of in a hospital bed.
“How bad was it?” he asked finally, voice quieter. “Seeing him go.”
I didn’t have to ask who he meant.
Quinn didn’t want to hear the details. She got up and headed over toward the ladies.
“Messy,” I said once she was gone. “Neck shots always are. He was scared. But he listened. Did what he was told instead of panicking.” I swallowed.
Miami’s fingers tightened around his glass.
