“I don’t have the energy to sweet-talk anyone,” he said. “Consider it appreciation. And strategic. We’re stronger when we’re not scattered to the wind.”
She glanced at her girls, then back at him.
“We’ll come,” she said. “We’ve still got adrenaline to bleed off.”
Blackjack nodded and gave the order to return back to the clubhouse.
We mounted up.
This time, when we left, nobody needed to say anything over the comms. The war had had enough words for one night.
Engines lit. Headlights carved slices through the dark. We rode back toward the clubhouse with sand in our boots and with each other. That was enough.
***
The Devils’ clubhouse had seen a lot of moods in its life.
Rage. Grief. Boredom. Horny stupidity.
Tonight, it held that strange, high, humming thing that comes after you walk away from a bullet that had your name on it and realize you’re still breathing.
“You know the drill,” Blackjack says, sliding off his bike. “Weapons checked in, wounds checked out if you got any. Then we drink until we forget how close some of you came to getting ventilated.”
“That’s specific,” Priest says.
“I’m a man of clarity,” Blackjack replied.
Liberty swung her leg off her bike and stretched her back.
“Feels weird walking into someone else’s house for the afterparty,” she says, eyeing the clubhouse door.
“Think of it as neutral territory that happens to have my name on the title,” Blackjack says. “You’re safe here.”
“I know we are,” she says. Then sheraises her voice. “Vipers! Park your asses and your bikes properly. We’re guests, not raccoons.”
The main room filled quick—only now it’s stacked with a mix of leather and cuts that’s never shared this same floor before. Devils and Vipers.
Jackal’s behind the bar, moving like he’s got eight arms—pulling beers, sliding shots, grabbing bottles. Badger runs backup, hauling crates up from the storage room. Mirage prowls, keeping one eye on the bottles and one on how fast they’re disappearing.
Valkyrie and I were almost the last in. As soon as we entered, heads turned.
For a heartbeat, the noise dipped.
Then it spiked.
Cheers. Shouts. Hands slapping shoulders.
“About fucking time,” Miami calls from his stool near the bar, casted leg stretched out, Quinn tucked in close at his side. “We were about to drink without you.”
“That would have been rude. You couldn’t wait?” I asked, taking in the empty glasses beside him.
“I said we were about to,” he protests. “Past tense. Present tense. Whatever fucking tense. Come over here, I got to look at your stupid face to make sure it’s still intact.”
Valkyrie’s hand finds my lower back, guiding us through the mess. People clap me on the shoulder as we pass. Vipers nod at Valkyrie with that quiet, tight-eyed relief only club sisters have when they see oneof their own walking back in under her own power.
Quinn is crying.
Not much. Just a sheen in her eyes and a tremble in her mouth when she sees me and Valkyrie together. She swipes at it quickly, but it’s there.
