“Sit down. You’re making me tired.”
I sit. He doesn’t look up from his cards.
That’s it. That’s the whole moment. But it cracks something loose, because the next morning I sit again, and the morning after that, and by Thursday, I’m eating at the table like I belong here.
I don’t belong here. But my body is starting to forget that.
The clubhouse has a rhythm, and I’m learning it.
Mornings are quiet. Most of the men don’t surface before ten. Trapper—the prospect, the one who makes coffee that could strip paint—is always up first, sweeping the bar and restocking bottles.
He’s young, maybe twenty-two, with a mop of sandy hair and the nervous energy of a dog who wants to be pet but isn’t sure he’s allowed on the furniture.
“Why do they call you Trapper?” I ask him one morning.
He grins. “Set a snare for a raccoon that was getting into the trash behind Bones and Bucks. Caught Razor’s dog instead. He didn’t talk to me for two weeks.”
“Did the dog survive?”
“The dog survived just fine. My dignity didn’t.”
The sweetbutts come and go. I’ve learned to read which ones are hostile and which ones are indifferent. The blonde from my first day—her name is Crystal—gives me a wide berth now, ever since Duke shut her down. The others glance at me and look away.
Other women are here sometimes, and they’re treated differently. They seem to be the wives or girlfriends of the club members. Old Ladies, that’s the term. But they aren’t old, and I don’t quite understand it.
They’re not looking to make friends. I’m nobody’s wife or girlfriend. And I’m not a sweetbutt. I don’t fit in anywhere. Story of my life.
The men are easier. Duke is dry and blunt and plays cards at the kitchen table every morning. Razor is quieter, all sharp edges, but he nods at me when we cross paths.
I don’t ask about club business. That rule I figured out on my own, watching how conversation dies when I enter a room where the men are talking low. Doors close. Voices drop. There are parts of this building I’m not invited into, and the biggest one is the room at the end of the first-floor hallway with the heavy door and the padlock.
Church. That’s what they call it. Where the club votes, makes decisions, and handles whatever needs handling. No women allowed. No prospects unless called.
I asked Duke about it once. He dealt a card and said, “Don’t.”
So I don’t.
But I’m learning the rest.
Trapper taught me about the vests. But the leather vests aren’t vests; they’re cuts. Short for cutoff, because the sleeves are cut from the jacket. Every patch on a cut means something. The big one on the back—crown and skull—is the club. The top rocker says HELLBORN KINGS. The bottom rocker says ASH VALLEY.
The patches on the front are rank—President, Vice President, and Sergeant at Arms. There are other titles, but I’m still learning.
There’s a small diamond-shaped patch on the front, too. A one-percenter patch, Trapper told me, which means the club operates outside the law. He said it like he was proud. I filed that away and didn’t ask a follow-up question.
Saber’s cut has PRESIDENT on the left chest, and I’ve spent more time staring at those letters than I’ll ever admit. Not because of what they mean in the club. Because of what they mean about him. Every man in this building answers to him, follows him, would bleed for him, and he carries that on his shoulders every single day.
I work up the courage to ask Trapper one morning what exactly a one-percenter patch means, beyond operating outside the law. He lights up like I’ve asked him about his favorite subject.
“Trapper.” Razor looks up from his breakfast.
Trapper shuts his mouth so fast his teeth click.
“She doesn’t need a history lesson.”
Trapper mumbles an apology and goes back to sweeping.
Razor looks at me, and his face isn’t unkind, but it’s clear.
