23. Bram
twenty-three
Bram
Three months out from the Scorpions massacre, and I was at the head of the big oak table in the Barstow compound’s so-called “executive office,” or church, which was a windowless back room the size of a double garage, if you counted all the storage crammed against the far wall.
The table had been with the club since I created the founding chapter in Barstow.
There was a scorch line down the near edge from a bottle rocket that went off at a Christmas party, and the surface was ruined with cigarette burns, gouges, and enough coffee rings to chart the history of every meeting the Jackson Brothers ever had.
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.”
Kodiak coughed. “Fuck, that’s fast. Pussy must be good.”
Everyone laughed while I watched and strummed my fingers on the table.
I shrugged. “It’s very fucking good.” I waited for them to stop laughing. “We’re not doing a parade. She wants it small.”
Trace leaned in, elbows on the table, and lowered his voice. “Dad. You sure about this?”
I looked at him. “Never been surer. Besides, you assholes have been on me for years to do this shit. What, now I’m doing it, and you don’t like it?”
There was a moment, just a fraction of a second, where the old tension threatened to bubble.
I saw it on Rusty’s face, the way he wanted to challenge, to test it for weakness.
But it passed. He just gripped my shoulder with one big hand and gave it a squeeze, the way you do when the moment matters, and you can’t afford to fuck it up with words.
“Congratulations,” he said. And that was all.
Edge looked away, and the corner of his mouth lifted. “Guess we’ll need to order more champagne.”
Trace made a noise between a laugh and a groan. “That’s so fucking weird, coming out of your mouth.”
Edge shrugged. “World’s a weird place.”
I turned to Sniper. “Get your crew ready. I want the perimeter tight, no tourists, no press. If anyone so much as sets foot near the lot, you handle it personally.”
He nodded once. “Done.”
“Any questions?”
They all shook their heads, except for Trace, who opened his mouth, caught my eye, and thought better of it.
“Meeting adjourned,” I said.
Sniper stopped at the door and turned. “Damn, I’m about the same age as my stepmother.”
“Get the fuck outta here.”
Chairs scraped. Rusty gathered the profit sheets, Trace snagged a water, Kodiak moved out the door before anyone else. Sniper lingered, then looked at me.
“You happy?” he asked, voice low.
I considered it. The feel of the wood under my hands. The way my ribs ached every time I breathed, the line of new scar tissue where Julie had stitched me up herself. The image of her in her office, legs spread, eyes daring me to come closer or try my luck.
“I am,” I said. “You?”
He nodded. “You did good, Dad.”
The last time he’d said that, he was twelve, and I’d just taught him how to change a tire without splitting his knuckles on the lug wrench. Now he was the man I’d always hoped I could build, and it stung worse than the knife wound, knowing he didn’t need me anymore.
“See you in Kingman,” he said, and was gone.
I sat there for a while, just staring at the ledger. The compound was quiet, the kind of quiet that told you nothing was about to go wrong for the next five minutes.
I poured myself a coffee and let my hands rest on the table, feeling the grain, the scars, the heat from the mug. I wasn’t a man built for ceremony, but the week ahead of me was full of it.
For once, I didn’t mind.
I thought Millie would approve.