“A little of both,” Rosé said.
I nodded with a smirk.
Indigo just watched, ever the silent weight.
“He’s calmer than I expected,” Liberty added. “For someone who almost got shot in the head.”
“He’s shaken,” I said. “Just locked down. Miami’s in a bed he can’t protect. That bag’s a bomb he can’t drop. His Prez is a territory away. Yet he’s holding it together still.”
“And you can tell that from one ride and half a bar conversation?” Indigo asked gently.
I shrugged. “You didn’t see his face in that hallway,” I said. “He didn’t freeze. Didn’t grab for my gun. Dropped when I told him to. That kind of reaction doesn’t come from nowhere.”
Liberty’s eyes narrowed. “You trust him?” she asked.
I thought about it. Really thought about it.
“No,” I said.Not yet.“But I trust what he’d die for. His club. His best friend. And that’s more useful.”
Her lips curved. Approval. “Good answer,” she said. “Keep him that way. Useful and breathing. 8-Ball and one of his boys are on their way. Turnpike, I think.”
I nodded. I knew the name. Everyone did. 8-Ball was Blackjack’s right hand. His brother. His mirror in some ways. Voice of reason, if rumors had it right. It would be interesting seeing how much of that was true.
“What about the cops?” Indigo asked. “Birdie texted. Said they’re buzzing like flies.”
“I’ve got Mink scrubbing anything with our cuts on it,” I said. “Birdie’s on Miami. Any suit or stranger with a badge goes near his room, we’ll know before they finish signing the visitor log.”
“Good,” Liberty said. “If someone wants to play games in our streets, and hospitals, they’re going to find out quick that this isn’t a board they get to move pieces on without pushback.”
She squeezed my shoulder once. A silent, solid weight. Then she went to her office to wrestle whatever demons Alice had shoved into her ear.
The day bled. Time in a clubhouse has a way of stretching. Laughs, clinks of glass, the thud of a cue ball on felt. Someone put on louder music. Cobra argued with Medusa over which band counted as “real” punk. Cali darted through with a box of inventory, nearly tripping over a discarded helmet. Arizona snapped photos when she thought no onewas watching.
Through all of it, Jersey stayed at the bar.
He moved once to take a piss. I walked with him without saying why. He didn’t comment, but he noticed. I could tell. After that, he relaxed about it. Accepted it.
He laughed a little at Raven’s jokes, the sound rusty. He answered Diamondback’s probing questions about his club with careful, vague truths. He didn’t brag. He didn’t play martyr.
Every time someone’s attention wandered too close to his shoulders, his eyes flicked up. The backpack never left his body. Not once. Not when he shifted stools. Not when he shrugged the cut to adjust.
Like I said. Bomb.
Night crept up gradually. Outside, the yard darkened. The fence lights flickered on, bathing the gate in yellow. Someone turned the music down without talking about it, like the whole building had exhaled.
Liberty found me near the back wall.
“He’s staying the night, obviously,” she said simply.
I nodded. I’d already assumed as much.
“In your room,” she then added.
I raised a brow. “What, we short on actual beds?” I asked.
“You trust him more than anyone else here right now,” she said.
“I don’t trust him.”
