Inside, the place was as I’d left it: low ceiling, brick painted an optimistic blue, two couches that smelled like a bender left to rot in the sun. The table by the window was littered with empty bottles and a deck of cards mid-game. Even in the dead hours, there were always bodies—two patched guys passed out on the sofa, a third leaned over the sink, fighting a hangover with tap water and aspirin.
I nodded to the one awake enough to see me. “Morning.”
He grunted, which in this club was a declaration of love.
Damron stood at the far end, near the pool table. He was a head taller than me, all muscle, the kind of presence that made a room feel smaller when he walked in. He wore the president’s rocker, and even if you stripped him naked, you’d know he was in charge just by the way he looked at you. His arms were folded, showing off the fresh ink—a barbed wire that ran from wrist to elbow, still angry red around the edges.
He didn’t speak until I crossed the floor and stood within his shadow. “Medina. You’re up early.”
“Accounted for,” I said.
He snorted, glancing at the ledger tucked under my arm. “You always are. Got a minute?”
I shrugged. “Have at it.”
He jerked his head toward the back. We walked down a corridor that smelled of cigarettes and Pine-Sol, his boots thudding against the old linoleum. I could feel him cataloguing me as we went—his job was to know exactly how likely every man in the club was to bolt, break, or betray. The back room was mostly empty except for a battered desk, a map of New Mexico riddled with thumbtacks, and an ashtray the size of a soup bowl.
Damron motioned for me to sit. He went around the desk, pulled a pack from the drawer, and lit up. “You hear about the fight at the Cactus Lounge last night?”
I shook my head.
“Not our guys. Sultans. The new blood from Albuquerque. Three of them jumped a loner in the lot, left him with a broken nose and a concussion.” He dragged on the cigarette, smoke curling off his lip. “They’re moving in faster than I thought.”
I set the ledger on the desk and flipped it open to the relevant page. “Saw some of their bikes at the Valero. All imports, not even broken in yet. They don’t know the roads.”
“Doesn’t matter. They know how to bleed.” Damron eyed me over the pack. “I want you on top of it. I know you got your own shit to handle, but this takes priority.”
The words hit me right in the sternum, where the tags lay cold. “I got it. Anything else?”
Damron leaned in, elbows on the wood. “Yeah. Your mother’s on my mind, too. She’s the only one keeping you from going full psycho, Dean. Take care of her. Today especially. These Sultans—if they’re looking to make a statement, they’ll target anyone close to us.”
I nodded. “She’s solid. I’ll be there.”
He looked at my hands then, the left one curled around the ledger, the right unconsciously tracing the faded compass tattoo on my forearm. My father had always said that a man needed one fixed point, or he’d drift. I’d made my choice, but the lines between duty and death were thinner than skin.
Damron’s eyes softened, just for a blink. “You got direction, kid. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”
I closed the ledger and tucked it under my arm. “What about retaliation?”
He gave a tight, mirthless smile. “We don’t make noise until we’re ready. Eyes open, mouth shut. That’s how we survive. You hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
He stubbed out the cigarette, stood, and clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Go get your mother a dog. If you see anything weird, call me. No hero shit.”
I said nothing. Didn’t need to. He trusted me, or at least trusted the part of me he could predict. I left him in the office and walked back through the main room, the others now half-awake and grumbling. One of them—Dunn, a prospect with three months left on his probation—offered me a can of Monster and a joke about my haircut. I flicked him off, let myself out, and felt the sunlight burn away theclubhouse’s chill.
At one of the club cars, I paused. The wind had picked up, tossing bits of trash along the fence line. I ran my thumb over the compass tattoo again, feeling the ridges where the ink had gone in deep, and thought about what my father would say if he could see me now. Then I got in, turned the key, and rode toward the shelter, the engine’s roar drowning out anything else the world might try to say.
2
Emily
The Humane Society always smelled like ammonia and nervous animals. I unlocked the side door at 5:47 AM—seven minutes behind schedule—and was greeted by the usual wall of sound: the anxious, high-pitched yodel of the beagle twins, a bass rumble from the Rottweiler in intake, and a scattershot percussion of claws on sealed concrete. I set my bag down and took a second to adjust my ponytail in the warped reflection of the fire extinguisher. Half the strands had already escaped and were climbing my cheekbones. Figures.
I flipped on the main corridor lights. The kennels lit up in stages—metal mesh and plastic crates, stainless steel water bowls, newspaper bedding already torn and pissedthrough by the early risers. My job was to restore some tiny, temporary order before the doors opened for the public. I walked the row, left hand tracing the clipboard, right hand pushing treat after treat through the wire with a kind of practiced tenderness.
First stop was Tasha, the ancient yellow Lab who’d outlasted two foster families and at least one rival for the title of “Shelter’s Most Obnoxious.” I gave her a rub behind the ears, told her she was a good girl, and moved on. Next came Nova, the orange tabby with the broken tail, then a chain of pit mixes with names like Cupcake, Diesel, and Mister Spock. I said their names out loud. Always. It made the place feel less like a warehouse and more like a triage unit for the world’s unloved.
