“Attachments outside the club make you vulnerable. I don’t care if you’re fucking the Governor’s daughter or the town librarian. You’re the Secretary now. When war starts, they come for us through the people we let close.”
He let that settle, then drummed his fingers a little harder.
“I’m not telling you to quit her. I’m not your Ma. But if she becomes a weakness, it’s on you to handle it.”
I nodded. “Understood.”
He looked at me a second longer than he had to, then sat back and exhaled. “You’re one of the smartest men I’ve ever patched. Sometimes I think you’re the only one of us who isn’t already half in the ground.” His voice lost thethreat, gained something like exhaustion. “Just don’t make me regret it.”
I found my hand had drifted to my chest, rolling the dog tags between thumb and forefinger.
“She’s not a weakness,” I said, voice even. “She knows how the world works.”
He nodded again. “They always do, until they don’t.”
He stood, letting his hand linger on my shoulder just a second longer than necessary. Heavy, almost fatherly, but with enough weight to leave a bruise if I let it.
“See you at first light,” he said, and was gone.
I stayed in the booth, minute book in my lap, pen pressed so hard against the page it nearly tore. I waited until the clock above the bar reset itself to midnight, and then I left, the sound of men plotting violence echoing in my bones.
The air outside was cold enough to bite. I started the bike, let the engine settle into its old, loping idle. I thought about the meeting, the vote, the way every man in that room had stood up and chosen violence with the same shrug as picking a brand of cigarettes.
I thought about what Damron said, about Emily, about weakness and where you let it live. I didn’t know if I agreed. But I knew I wasn’t going to quit her, either.
I rode into the dark, the minute book heavy in my pack, the dog tags colder than ever against my skin.
***
I sat on the Harley a minute after the ignition died, letting the cold settle into my arms, and the burned-out adrenaline from the club leave its taste in my mouth. The bag of takeout was a grease-soaked anchor in my left hand, and in the right, my thumb rubbed at the velvet pouch in my pocket like it might conjure luck from cheap felt.
Emily’s window glowed softly against the dusk. No curtains, just the blue wash of TV light and the ghostly outlines of dog photos taped along the sill. I looked up and saw her shadow cross the glass—quick, nervous, not the silhouette of someone expecting trouble but the kind of motion you make when you hope whoever’s outside is actually there for you.
She buzzed me up. The lobby was a purgatory of mildew and old coffee, the bulletin board by the mail slots crowded with flyers for lost cats and pay-by-the-week babysitters. I climbed the stairs two at a time, feeling my knee threaten to give but refusing to let it. By the time I hit her floor, my heart was hammering so loud I thought she’d hear it through the door.
Emily opened up before I even knocked. She wore faded jeans and a Humane Society shirt, hair down and wild from the heat, bare feet splayed on the thin welcome mat. She smiled, tight at the corners, but didn’t hide the relief in her eyes.
“Smells like cold French fries,” she said, letting me in.
I shrugged. “Better than the alternatives.”
Inside, the apartment was warmer than I remembered. The couch sagged under the weight of a thrifted blanket and a pile of old textbooks. The walls, plastered with animal photos and the occasional self-deprecating meme, made the whole place feel like a rescue bunker for lost things.
Emily cleared a stack of paperwork from the kitchen table and set out mismatched plates. She moved with the efficiency of someone used to rationing both time and hope.
“You want a drink?” she asked, already pulling beers from the fridge.
“Sure,” I said, dropping the takeout on the table.
She passed me a bottle, label half-peeled. “To what do I owe the honor, Mr. Medina? It’s not every night you bring dinner and a show.”
She didn’t mean it as a jab, but the undertone was there.
I let it slide. “Had a meeting at the clubhouse. Figured I’d stop by.”
She arched a brow but didn’t push. Instead, she unpacked the food—green chile cheeseburgers, fries, and two foil-wrapped sopapillas. She divided it with the precision of a surgeon, then sat across from me, folding her legs up under herself like a kid at a sleepover.
We ate in silence for a minute, the only sound the clink of bottle glass and the slow, deliberate chewing of two people trying not to let conversation get ahead of them.
