Page 59 of Bram

Sniper, Trace, Rusty, Kodiak, and Edge filled out the chairs. There were seven mugs and two shot glasses in the kill zone between us, and someone (probably Rusty) had stacked a sleeve of plastic water bottles on top of the unopened mail. Trace balanced his boots on the crossbar of the table and looked at the ceiling, hands folded behind his head. Edge didn’t bother sitting; he propped a shoulder in the doorway, where he could see the lot and the corridor at the same time.

I slid the gun-running ledger across the table. My columns were cleaner than the old bookkeeper’s, and I ran the numbers out to three decimals just to irritate Rusty, who claimed the extra digits were a waste of ink and masculinity. This meeting was routine—a quarterly review, a check-in with the chapter presidents, the kind of thing you did when you wanted to remind the world that your club was a business, not a mosh pit.

“Kingman and Santa Fe both up double digits,” I said. “Local is holding. Barstow’s running lean because of the heat from last quarter, but the Vegas pipeline is compensating.”

Kodiak grunted, which was as much enthusiasm as he ever offered for financials. Sniper didn’t look at the sheet, just stared at the cover and nodded. He already knew the numbers; he’d probably done them in his head before I finished my second cup this morning.

Trace flicked his eyes over at me, then at the ledger. “Any movement on the White Mountain supply line?”

I shook my head. “Blocked, still. We’ve got eyes at the res line, but unless the Scorpions make a move, we’re not risking it.”

Edge made a sound in his throat, the barest suggestion of a snort, but didn’t say anything.

Rusty picked up the profit sheet and scanned it. “Slaughterhouse is net positive.”

He said it like he’d expected the opposite. I let the comment hang.

Trace grinned. “Shows what happens when you let people fuck on a Tuesday. Karen’s got it locked down so tight even the health inspector tips her in ones.”

The Slaughterhouse—named for the bar where I’d bled half my life out saving Julie Sparta from men who thought a knife made them bulletproof—was open and turning profit. The girls were mostly former regulars, and Karen ran them with a spreadsheet and a bite that kept even Trace in line. The renovation had cost less than I’d guessed, which was to say, Rusty had probably hired cousins from Bakersfield who did drywall for crank and extra engine parts.

I looked around the table. “Any issues from the girls?”

“Nope,” said Rusty. “Karen’s ex tried to show up after hours. He’s not going to do it again.”

“What’d you do?”

Rusty’s mouth barely moved. “Asked Edge to walk him home.”

Edge didn’t blink, but Trace started laughing. Even Sniper let his mouth twitch. Kodiak just sipped his coffee and set the mug down dead center of a ring, then lined the handle back up to twelve o’clock.

“Pussy makes men do some stupid shit,” Sniper said.

Trace waded up a sheet of paper and threw it at him. “Says the caught suspended from the university for a semester because he thought it was a good idea to break into a sorority and sniff panties.”

“Fuck you.”

“Would you two grow up,” I said, and then stared at Sniper. “Fuck, you fucked that female campus police officer, didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “She got stuck in the back of the cruiser with me. What else was I supposed to do?”

I returned to the numbers, which were good; the men were calm, and for the first time in years, I could feel something close to peace at this table. Not the absence of conflict—just a lull, a breathing space, like the way desert heat fades at dusk before you remember the night can kill you, too.

I reached for the next sheet, a roster update from Kingman. Before I could start, Sniper put both hands on the table, palms down.

“Is this the part where you tell us you’re marrying the DA?” he asked.

The room stilled. Trace’s head whipped around, and he dropped his boots to the floor. Edge looked up. Even Rusty set the page down and gave me the whole of his attention.

I didn’t answer right away. I closed the ledger and set my hands on top of it, feeling the roughness of the old wood under my palms.

“She already said yes,” I said.

Trace’s jaw went wide. “Holy shit. Are we invited?”

I shot him a look, and for once, he shut up. Sniper’s face didn’t change. He let it sink in, then nodded. “When?”

“Next week. In Kingman.”