Chapter Three #4
Tempest eyed me, then stuck out her right hand, palm up. "Arm wrestle. Winner sets the terms."
I wrapped my hand around hers, feeling the roughness, the scars. Her grip was granite. We braced on the table, elbows dug in, knuckles white.
"Three, two, one—go."
She drove down with the strength of a piston, but I held her, not giving an inch. My arm trembled, pain flaring, but I held the line. She bared her teeth, sweat beading on her forehead. We locked like that, muscles burning, for a solid minute.
Finally, she broke the stalemate with a quick feint let up, and then slammed down so fast I barely saw it.
My knuckles hit the table. She released, then tapped the surface twice. "Not bad," she said, "for a pencil pusher."
We both laughed, breathless.
I reached into my jacket and slid the Tail-Gunner patch across to her. She picked it up, stared at it, then, without a word, used the edge to cut her own palm. Blood welled up, dark and thick. I did the same with my palm.
She offered her hand. I took it, let her squeeze until the blood mixed. It hurt like hell, but pain is the oldest loyalty in the world.
"Blood oath," she said.
I nodded, feeling the sting. "Welcome to the club."
We wiped our hands, and she bandaged hers with a bar napkin. "So what’s the play, Selene?"
"Tomorrow, we roll out. Real show of force. You up for it?"
She grinned, savage and wild. "Always."
We clinked glasses, and the regulars watched us like they’d seen a new animal at the zoo. I finished my drink, and as I left, Tempest called after me.
"Hey, President."
"Yeah?"
"You ever need backup, call me first."
I didn’t look back, but I smiled all the way to the Harley.
One day left. The storm was ready.
***
The road out to the clubhouse ran straight through the badlands, two miles of cracked tarmac hemmed by ghost Joshua trees and the perpetual mirage of Vegas in the rearview.
By late afternoon, the heat shimmered so hard the Harley’s shadow stuttered, broken in half a dozen places.
But I liked the ride. I liked the way the engine sang under my knees and the wind tried to pry the skin from my bones. It made everything else feel honest.
The clubhouse itself was an old mining lodge, squatting between two mountains like it had something to prove.
The wood was sun-bleached to the color of old teeth, and the windows were covered in security mesh that hadn’t stopped a single rock in twenty years.
But it was solid, and—more importantly—ours.
Out front, a double row of bikes. Joker’s Kawasaki, black and low; Spade’s matte Triumph, all military angles; Aces’ Ducati, red enough to turn heads from a mile off; Glitz’s vintage Vespa, plastered in stickers; Nines’ ratty Honda, more solder than metal; Tempest’s Harley, which looked like it had already been through a war. Everyone would need a new bike.
They were waiting in the main hall, standing around a scarred-up table big enough to seat a dozen. The chairs didn’t match because Buck had never cared for symmetry, but everyone had already picked their spot. I took the head, set the President patch on the table, and watched the room hush.
Joker was the first to break the silence. She tapped her knuckles twice on the wood, a signal. “So what’s the first order, Prez?”
I looked at the line of faces, each one unique and lethal in its own way. “First, we make it official.”
I reached under the table, pulled out a wooden box lined with black velvet. Inside were the cuts, stitched and pressed, each one marked with rank. I tossed them out, one by one.
“These are the official Royal Harlot patches. Joker—Vice President. You ride second, handle discipline, and keep the crew tight.”
She caught the patch midair, grinning. “Thought you’d go with someone less likely to stab you in the back.”
I shrugged. “I like living dangerously.”
“Spade—Sergeant at Arms. You run security, keep the guns loaded, and train the prospects.”
Spade nodded, eyes flat. “Already started an inventory.”
“Aces—Road Captain. You set the routes, plan the escapes, and never get caught.”
Aces smiled, slow and sly. “I’ll have maps by tomorrow. Digital and paper.”
“Glitz—Treasurer. You move the money, scrub the books, and make sure we never pay more tax than we have to.”
Glitz was already flicking through her phone, running numbers in her head. “I’ll need a new ledger. And more whiskey.”
“Nines—Secretary. You run the comms, digital and real. If someone wants to find us, they’ll have to go through you.”
Nines barely looked up, but I saw the reflection of the logo in her glasses. “Already set up a dead drop. VPN is up.”
“Tempest—Tail-Gunner. You ride sweep, handle trouble, and if things go sideways, you make sure it’s someone else who hits the ground.”
Tempest winked. “I’ll need a bigger gun.”
There was a beat, and then they all laughed, the kind of noise that shook the dust off the rafters.
I waited for it to die down, then stood.
“Here’s the real deal. Zeke’s got the city divided.
Every block he takes, he squeezes the life out of the girls, the runners, the dealers, everyone who makes this place work.
We don’t just take it back. We own it. Our way.
With three streams: Aces Wild, Sexy Beavers, and,” I paused for effect, “the custom arms runs. Each of you has a stake in all three.”
Joker spoke up. “Sexy Beavers is still Mary’s, right?”
“She’s a partner, not a subordinate,” I said. “We protect her girls, they bring us clients, and we get a cut. Everyone’s safer, everyone wins.”
Glitz raised a hand. “What about the books?”
“They’re open to the crew,” I said. “You catch anyone skimming, you bring it to the table.”
She grinned. “Even you?”
“Especially me,” I said.
The patches went around, each woman running a thumb over the embroidery, like it was a holy relic.
Glitz had a penknife, and she sliced open the plastic on the spot, pricked her finger, and smeared a dab of blood on the back.
“For luck,” she said. The others followed, some with knives, some with teeth.
Aces produced a bottle of bourbon from her duffel. “Inaugural toast?”
I nodded. “Pour it.”
She filled seven mismatched glasses. We all raised them.
“To the Harlots,” I said. “May we ride free, and may we never get caught.”
The whiskey burned like gasoline, but that was the point.
One by one, the women stood. The room was silent except for the tick of the ancient wall clock and the desert wind at the window.
Joker spoke first. “I’m in.”
Spade, “I’m in.”
Aces, “In.”
Glitz, “In and never out.”
Nines, “Affirmative.”
Tempest just grinned, showing the blood on her teeth. “Fuck yes.”
I looked around, feeling the weight of it settle on my shoulders. “Then let’s get to work.”
We formed a circle, each hand stacked in the center. Skin, scars, blood, and polish, all pressed together.