Chapter Eleven
Ace
The hammer sat easy in my hand -- solid oak handle worn smooth from seven years of repairs, steel head ringing true each time contact met a nail.
I drove another one deep through fresh pine into the deck joist, the crack of the strike echoing across The Broken Spoke’s half-rebuilt outdoor area.
Sweat soaked through my shirt despite the October chill, shoulders burning from the kind of work that left a man proud instead of exhausted.
Around me, a dozen brothers moved in synchronized silence, each one aware rebuilding went far beyond lumber and hardware.
This project meant reclaiming everything we’d earned.
Proving fire, threats, and one cop’s vendetta couldn’t tear down what we’d created here.
Three weeks since Mercer torched the back section.
Three weeks since paramedics hauled him into an ambulance, bullet in his shoulder and handcuffs locking down any chance of escape.
The bar carried scars now -- would always carry traces of what happened -- but progress stood in front of us all the same.
New joists stretched overhead where flames had erased the old ones, pale wood glowing against dark beams that survived the blaze.
The scent of sawdust and fresh lumber filled the air, clashing against the faint ghost of smoke no amount of scrubbing would ever fully erase.
“Need another eight-footer over here,” General called from the far corner where he was framing out what would eventually be storage. His military precision showed in every measurement, every cut. Nothing wasted. Nothing rushed.
“Coming at you.” Maui lifted a board onto his shoulder, easy strength on full display, broad frame turning heavy lumber into something that looked weightless.
He moved through the construction zone like a man born to read a space -- adjusting his route around scattered tools, stepping clean over extension cords, never breaking stride.
“You know, brother, this might actually turn out better than before. Fire did us a favor, gave us an excuse to expand.”
“That’s one way to see things.” I set my hammer down, wiped sweat from my forehead using the back of my hand. “Insurance labeled the entire back section a total loss. Which means rebuilding from scratch instead of working around old mistakes.”
“Silver linings.” Maui grinned, easy smile working its usual magic on everyone around him. “I could have done without the whole someone-could-have-died portion of the renovation process, though. What if the two of you had still been here?”
Near the back wall, Truth welded support brackets for what would soon become a new shelving system.
Sparks erupted in bright arcs, scattering across concrete in temporary constellations before fading away.
Meticulous focus poured through every motion, mask hiding his face while body language broadcast complete immersion.
The smell of hot metal layered over sawdust, lumber, and lingering smoke.
I lifted my hammer again, moved on to the next section needing reinforcement.
The rhythm hit meditative territory -- measure, mark, set the nail, drive steel into wood.
Repeat. Familiar motions freed my mind to roam where it wanted.
A month of chaos replayed behind my eyes: Marci arriving terrified and alone.
Mercer’s escalating war. The blaze. The warehouse.
Every step leading to this moment -- rebuilding what he tried to erase from the map.
Movement at the parking lot entrance caught my attention.
Marci’s car pulled in, the engine’s familiar rattle carrying across the open space.
I straightened, wiping my hands on my jeans, watching as she climbed out.
She wore work-stained jeans and a faded tee, her auxiliary leather cut draped over her shoulders despite the afternoon warmth.
Property of Ace. The words on her back still sent something possessive and protective through my chest every time I saw them.
But something she carried made me pause.
Rolled papers tucked under her arm, the kind architects used for drawings.
She hovered at the edge of the construction zone, eyes locking on mine across the space, nervous tension showing in the set of her shoulders.
Her free hand rose to adjust the leather cut, a meaningless gesture born from unease rather than need.
I set down my hammer and headed toward her, weaving around lumber stacks and power tools.
Brothers noticed, work slowing just enough to show awareness, eyes tracking my approach through peripheral vision.
Not obvious, never showy -- just the quiet readiness the club had adopted for Marci after the warehouse incident.
“Hey.” She spoke as soon as I reached her. A faint tremor in her tone, the kind I heard less often these days, but always present when she prepared to take a risk. “Got a minute?”
“For you? Always.” I motioned toward a makeshift table -- sawhorses under a sheet of plywood. “What’ve you got?”
She crossed to the table, every step careful, like she feared disrupting the work around us.
Rolled papers landed on the plywood surface, and she began unfurling them.
Her hands shook slightly. I stepped closer, blocking the sun from her eyes, catching a hint of her shampoo tangled in the smoke that clung to everything here now.
The drawings revealed themselves inch by inch, and my breath caught.
Architectural sketches of The Broken Spoke’s outdoor area -- only transformed.
Expanded. Where plain decking stood now, her plans showed raised garden beds built from weathered wood and stone.
Climbing roses on trellises creating shade and privacy.
A stone path winding through the space, connecting seating areas to planted sections.
Every line precise, thoughtful, full of hope.
My fingers curled around the table’s edge, knuckles whitening from the strain. Silence held me still. No sentence could reach the depth of emotion her plans stirred in me.
“You drew this?” The question came out rougher than I’d intended.
She nodded, gaze drifting away from mine.
“Been working on this for a couple weeks. Mostly at night when sleep refuses to happen. I know the plans probably go too far. Insurance still hasn’t said what they’re paying, but I thought --” A pause, a swallow, another attempt.
“Well, I’ve mentioned it before. Wanting a garden. ”
I studied the drawings again, catching details I’d missed the first time.
Labels called out roses, lavender, herbs for the kitchen.
Vegetable plots sat beside decorative sections.
Seating areas were positioned for morning sun on one side, evening shade on the other.
Not decoration. A future. A declaration of intention to stay long enough to watch things grow.
“I know it’s a bar, but I thought if we were expanding the building and giving it a new look, maybe we could serve beer and burgers for lunch?” She shifted from foot to foot, as she watched me.
“Perfect.” The word scraped through a tight throat.
Her gaze lifted, unsure hope visible across every line of her expression. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” My hand found her hip, pulling her closer against my side. “We’ll make this real. Raised beds, roses, the path. Every dream on these pages.”
A smile spread across her face like sunrise, slow and warm, turning the whole afternoon brighter. She leaned into me, her head settling on my shoulder as we stood together studying her plans while brothers worked around us.
A motorcycle roared through the construction noise.
Heavy. Powerful. I lifted my head in time to catch Spade rolling into the lot, his bike gleaming despite dust from the rural roads leading out here.
He shut the engine down and swung off in one smooth motion, his cut settling across broad shoulders as he headed our direction.
Brothers reacted fast. Tools quieted. Work slowed. Spade showing up during a project always signaled news -- usually important. His face stayed blank, though years of watching him told me satisfaction sat behind his eyes long before he opened his mouth.
“Got word from the DA’s office. Mercer’s been denied bail. Judge called him a flight risk and a danger to the community. He’ll stay locked up until trial.”
The words settled over us like a benediction. Around the site, brothers straightened. Maui set down his lumber carefully. Truth killed the welder, lifting his mask. General moved closer, his expression carved from stone but approval evident in his eyes.
“They’re not going to let him out anytime soon.”
Marci went rigid against my side, her breath catching. When I glanced down, tears streamed silently down her cheeks, yet a smile fought through anyway -- an expression so full of relief my chest pulled tight.
“He can’t hurt anyone else.”
“No. He can’t.”
Around us, brothers lifted whatever they held -- hammers, boards, coffee cups.
A silent toast to justice served and danger neutralized.
No cheering, no celebration. Only quiet acknowledgment of a victory earned.
One of our own stood safe. The man who’d terrorized her for two years would spend time behind bars where he belonged.
Spade’s gaze landed on the architectural plans spread across the makeshift table. One brow rose a fraction -- the closest he ever came to surprise.
“Those for here?”
“Marci drew them.” Pride thickened my voice. “Garden expansion. Roses, vegetables, the works.”
“About damn time this place had some life growing in it.” He nodded once, approval given. “I’ll talk to the insurance adjuster. Maybe I can light a fire under them and get the check sooner rather than later.”
He turned and headed back toward his bike, conversation finished, point delivered. Spade in a nutshell -- efficient in words and movement, always making sure his people had whatever they needed.