Damron’s gaze flicked between us, measuring, weighing, judging. “You realize you’re not worth dying for, right? Not to this club. Not to anyone but maybe him.” He jerked his chin at Augustine.
“I’m aware,” I said, and straightened my spine. “I never was.”
Damron looked at Augustine. “This is your mess. You clean it up.”
Augustine’s reply was so quiet I almost missed it. “She stays.”
Damron nodded. He downed half the beer in one go, then dropped the can on the coffee table so hard it dented the aluminum. “She gets out of hand, I don’t want to hear about it. Handle your shit, Sadist. Or I will.”
He left, the door bouncing off the frame behind him.
For a second, neither of us moved. Augustine finally ran a hand through his hair, then looked at me with something like pity.
“Sorry,” he said, “he’s an asshole.”
“Better an asshole than a corpse.”
He grinned, but it faded quick. “He’ll come around. If you want to stay, we’ll make it work.”
I looked down at my hands. I wanted to believe him, but the thing about growing up with a man like CutlerD’Agossa is that you never stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. Usually, it comes with a foot attached.
“Do you think he’ll really come?” I asked.
Augustine didn’t answer right away. He was already staring at the door, at the hallway beyond, at the universe of enemies waiting just outside. “If it was me, I’d already be here.”
I laughed, sharp and ugly. “My dad’s not you.”
“That’s why you’re still alive.”
He stood, holstered the Glock, and offered me his hand. “You want to see the rest of the place?”
I looked up at him. The bruises on my arms throbbed, but I couldn’t tell if it was pain or hope. Maybe both.
I took his hand. His palm was warm, steady.
“Lead the way, Auggie,” I said with a smile.
5
Augustine
The following day, the Leatherbacks came calling, while the Bloody Scythes were hungover, half-dressed, and not expecting company. I’d just finished showing Melissa the back room—her eyes lighting up at the wall of antique switchblades, her laugh echoing off the stainless steel like she’d never bled in her life—when the world outside the club exploded into a parade of idling Harleys and the iron stink of war.
If you’ve never seen six Leatherbacks dismount at once, you’re missing out. They moved as a single, mean organism: chrome skulls, oil-black boots, those ridiculous turtle patches leering from their backs. In the middle of the pack, like a general at the world’s most violent flea market, wasCutler D’Agossa. He looked like he’d been carved out of bad intentions and barbed wire, his beard gone all gunmetal gray, his old eyes cold enough to keep beer chilled.
He kicked the Scythes’ clubhouse door so hard it ricocheted off the wall, rattling the ancient Coors Light clock and sending three hang-arounds bolting for the back. Cutler didn’t bother to look at them—he only had eyes for the main room, for Damron at the bar, and for me, standing arm’s length from Melissa.
For a split second, the room was silent except for the clink of pool balls and the low static of the radio. Then the Leatherbacks fanned out, covering every exit, and the temperature in the room dropped by ten degrees.
Damron set down his beer without looking up. “That’s a lot of turtles for breakfast,” he said. “You boys get lost on your way to the aquarium?”
“Business,” Cutler growled, voice sandblasted from years of whiskey and betrayal. “Private. You want to clear the civvies, or should I?”
Damron’s face didn’t move. “They’re with me. So’s Augustine.” He nodded at me, then at Melissa. “What’s the problem?”
Cutler’s eyes found Melissa. She went white, but to her credit, she stood her ground. I put myself between her and the Leatherbacks before I even realized I’d done it, handhovering near my Glock, spine locked straight. Cutler’s lip curled.
“I’ll be goddamned,” he said. “You finally grew some balls, Augustine.”
