10. Bram
ten
Bram
Iwas still picking cotton threads out of the wound under my shirt when the compound gate came into view.
The metal slats caught the morning sun and flashed it into my eyes, so I kept my head down and rolled through without slowing.
The prospect on duty saw me and waved me forward, knowing better than to ask questions.
He nodded—more respect than fear, but only just—and hit the switch.
The gate whined open, slow as a funeral, and I gunned the engine through.
Inside, the yard was already alive: three patched men lugged cases of ammo into the garage, Edge was breaking down a shotgun on the picnic table, two kids I didn’t recognize were mopping up last night’s spill from the loading dock.
Everything in motion. If you squinted, you’d almost believe it was a regular day.
This is what I lived for. This was home; it was family. I glanced back at Julie and wondered if she’d feel the same way.
Julie parked behind me and killed her engine with a surgical little twist, like she was disarming a bomb.
She slid out of the car and into a jacket that looked more expensive than my bike.
Her hair was down, sunglasses on. She didn’t wait for me, just walked toward the clubhouse door, pace even, eyes straight ahead. I watched her go.
I followed at a distance, moving slower. The stitches in my side pulled every time I hit a step wrong, and the ache was a hot red pulse beneath the skin. I wore it. No reason to hide it. The men in the yard tracked my progress, and I let them see every wince.
Inside, the air was cold and chemical. Someone had run a mop over the linoleum in the hallway, but the blood from last night still lingered, a ghost at the base of every wall.
I passed the kitchen, caught a flash of Doc at the stove, pouring coffee one-handed and texting with the other.
He looked up and gave me a nod, more a medical assessment than a hello.
I took the back hallway to the office. At the end of it, the windowless room was waiting. Rusty was already inside, arms folded, back to the wall like he owned the place.
In the visitor chair sat Karen Devito.
She looked like she’d been waiting her entire life for this meeting.
Early forties, but built for endurance, not speed.
Dark hair, cut severe; fitted gray jacket, black shirt beneath, a leather portfolio resting flat on her knee.
The only hint of nerves was in her fingers, which tapped a silent Morse on the clasp of the portfolio, one-two, one-two.
When I entered, her eyes found mine and didn’t move.
Rusty said, “She’s been here seven minutes. Didn’t touch the water.”
I grunted. “Means she’s serious. Or doesn’t trust the glass.”
Karen almost smiled. “Both, actually.” Her voice was low, almost amused. She sized me up in a glance, then reset the world back to neutral.
I took the other chair. My side complained, but I didn’t let it show. I glanced at the single sheet of paper laid out in front of me—a summary, not a contract. Rusty had printed it and underlined the important parts in red. He stood back, arms crossed, his face a warning not to waste time.
With my eyes, I let him know there were more important things to attend to.
I read the paper, lips not moving, letting the silence work on everyone.
There was something bothering me with the fucked-up Julie situation.
Her father, the Colonel, was an asshole.
Everyone knew that. But why was he having his men try to rape her?
I sat back and pondered that for a moment, ignoring the paper.
Then it hit me. What was the worst thing a man could do to his daughter?
The man was going to die. Maybe not as he walked out of prison, but I’d sure as fuck beat the living shit out of him until he took his last breath.
I noticed the room had quieted, and I looked up, not hiding the fury in my eyes.
Karen broke the silence. “I’m losing girls to the Vegas corridor,” she said, hands still. “They’re getting picked up for double the rate, half the risk. If I try to match the money, I’m in the hole by next quarter.”
The girls were being trafficked. That was the elephant in the room, and that shit was going to stop.
Her hands opened, fingers splayed flat on the portfolio. “I want a new deal. Muscle and reach. My operation becomes your operation—full share of profit, in exchange for exclusive protection. You push out the Vegas poachers. I pay up front.”
Rusty said nothing, but I heard the chair creak under his shifting weight. He didn’t like this, but he wasn’t going to say so with a guest present.
I said, “What’s the product?”
She didn’t blink. “Live entertainment, web content, private parties. No drugs, no minors, nothing that brings the Feds. All cash, all off the books.”
I watched her face. “You want it run through here? Or you want a satellite operation?”
She smiled, this time for real. “You run it. Strip club, if you want to call it that. The market wants high-class, not a roadhouse. You already own the building; you just don’t use it.”
“It’ll keep these girls safe?” I looked up at Rusty and then Sniper and Trace when they entered the room.
My sons weren’t here to sign a pussy deal.
We’d yet to talk about me taking a knife to the side.
They were going to tell me I was too old to get stabbed.
But I wasn’t too old for Julie? Fuck, I’d forgotten she was out in the common area waiting.
I wanted eyes on her until I put her father in the ground.
“The girls need to know there’s someone watching out for them, even if…” she stopped talking, and I decided to finish her sentence.
“Even if it’s biker trash,” I said. I pointed at my two sons. “Both are college graduates.” I nodded at Rusty. “This asshole has an MBA.”
“I’m sorry,” Karen said.
“We’re brains and brawn,” Trace added. “It’s what sets our club apart from the biker trash.”
Rusty said, “Legitimate front brings in real money, keeps the wives off our ass, and there’s no product liability. If you want my advice—”
“Don’t,” I said. But I kept my eyes on Karen. “Why not cut your losses and walk?”
She shrugged, businesslike. “I like the work. And I don’t like losing.” Her hands stilled. “Besides, if the Scorpions squeeze out Barstow, you’re next. We both know how this goes.”
She’d obviously been around the block a few times.
“Not on my watch,” I said.
I looked at the whiteboard, at the lines and the numbers and the word BAKERSFIELD in block letters. Then I looked at Rusty, gave him the space to object. He didn’t.
Karen said, “I’ll handle the transition. I just want assurances on timeline, and on my role.”
I said, “You’ll have both.”
She extended her hand, palm down. Not a shake, not a threat—just a contract in skin.
I reached across and took it. My hand was twice the size of hers, but she squeezed hard, her nails biting in just enough to make a point.
We sat like that for one second, two, then let go. The deal was done.
Rusty uncrossed his arms, grabbed the summary from the desk, and turned it face down. “We’ll be in touch,” he said. No warmth.
Karen gathered her things, glanced at her watch, and stood. “Forty minutes,” she said, glancing at her watch. “Not bad for a Monday.”
She let herself out, heels echoing on the tile. Rusty waited until the door shut. Then he said, “You trust her?”
“Not one fucking bit,” I said. “But I trust she wants to win more than she wants to die.”
He nodded, satisfied. “You want me to draft the contract?”
“Yeah. Keep it tight. No wiggle.” I stood and stared out the window before turning back to the three men in my office. “She’s dirty. In bed with the Desert Scorpions. Make sure the contract says we become sole owners of the club if anything happens to her.”
“We can make that happen,” Trace said.
I shook my head. “Not yet. Let’s see what game she’s playing.”
Kodiak entered the office, bad news in his eyes. “Julie said to tell you she’s heading to her mom’s, and she doesn’t need an escort.”
I grunted. “She’s lying.”
Rusty smiled, bare and grim. “I know.”
“Get eyes on her right now.”
Rusty and Kodiak left, the door closing softly behind them.
I sat for a minute, letting the air settle, the sound of the generator in the walls like a living thing. I looked at the spot where Karen had sat, and at the deep red divot her nail had left in the skin of my hand.
After Karen’s truck bounced down the washboard lane and went out through the gate, I let myself drift to the common room.
Inside, the light was never right. Even with the blinds open and the sun coming through in stripes, it still felt like night.
Maybe it was the carpet, the stains and cigarette burns preserved like crime scene markers, or the way the dust from the yard worked itself into the fabric of everything.
I didn’t mind. Some rooms were supposed to be ugly.
A couple of prospects were at the far table, playing cards with the intensity of men who knew someone would be watching, even if they didn’t see who.
The pool table was silent, a single stripe ball left parked near the pocket, like a shot someone forgot to finish.
Over by the bar, three bottles of bourbon sat in a row.
I picked Maker’s Mark, poured two fingers into a clean glass, and didn’t drink it.
Instead, I set it on the bar and let my hand rest beside it, fingers splayed wide.
The couch by the window—the one with the cracked leather arm—was empty.
I looked at it too long. The memory of Julie, feet up, head back, green eyes half-closed, flickered across the space like a glitch in a film reel.
I caught myself, picked up the bourbon, drank half, and set the glass back down with a clink.
I drummed my fingers once on the edge of the bar.
Stopped. Pulled out my phone and stared at the screen.
No missed calls, no texts, just the blank blue and the time blinking at me, making it clear I was waiting for something that wasn’t coming.
I started to dial, thought better of it, and slid the phone back into my pocket.
“We can handle the club, Dad,” Sniper said as he and Trace joined me. “Go find her.”
“You’re right. It’s fucking eating away at me.” I grabbed the Glock from my office. “You two be ready. We’re gonna make a trip to the prison and be there when that asshole is released.”
Out the window, the yard was bright and blinding.
Two of the patched crew—Edge and Kodiak, I thought—were hunched over a Harley near the garage, arguing about something with hands instead of words.
The sun made the dust shimmer, the whole world reduced to brown and bone-white.
If I squinted, I could almost see the shimmer peeling the men away from the bikes, as if they weren’t really here. I knew the feeling.
The hollow space in my chest wasn’t pain, not exactly, and not fear.
Just a wrongness, a gear out of line. Something new for me.
I’d loved Millie for so long I thought it was going to be impossible to ever care about another woman.
Then Julie stepped into my life. I had to protect Julie. Fucking had to.
The door opened with a slap, and one of the prospects—the kid from the gate, cheeks still speckled with acne—came in fast. He froze a step inside, caught sight of me at the bar, and his mouth worked for a second before he found the words.
“Boss?” His voice was tight, not scared but on the edge. He clutched his radio like a life preserver.
“Spit it out,” I said.
He swallowed. “They found Julie Sparta’s car. Parked off Avenue K, two blocks from the old mill. Driver’s door was open. No sign of her.”
I smashed my fist through the closest wall and the room fell silent. Trace and Sniper looked at each other.
The bourbon stayed on the bar. I turned before the kid finished, already moving toward the door.
“Get Rusty,” I said. The kid was gone before I even reached the hallway, running so fast his boots left little black marks on the tile.
I walked out into the desert sun, my head already full of names and numbers, every old instinct firing at once.
Time to go to work.
And then it wasn’t.