Chapter 4 — Chuck
The burgers Walt brings smell better than they have any right to.
Isla unwraps the paper and takes a bite without ceremony and I find myself watching her instead of my own food.
She's talking about the arts collective she worked with this afternoon — a board chair undermining the executive director in front of volunteers, budget projections that wouldn't close no matter how she arranged the numbers.
Her hands move when she talks. Precise little gestures that match how she thinks.
I pick up my burger and let her go.
There's a pause. She looks at me. "How was your day?"
I take a drink. "Walt called Clint last night. Apparently, the moment we walked out of here together, Walt went straight to the phone."
She blinks. "Walt called your president??"
"Walt's been trying to get me to settle down for years." I turn the glass between my fingers. "Clint was waiting when I got to the clubhouse this morning. Read the situation off my face before I said a word."
"What did he say?"
"Asked if you knew what I was. What the club does." I look at her. "Told me not to lie to you. Said women handle the truth better than they handle finding out you've been lying."
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "And?"
"And then one of my brothers sat across from me at noon and told me three days wasn't enough time to know if something was real or if I was just using it to fill the hole Perry left."
Isla sets her beer down. "The friend who died alone."
"Yeah."
"He thinks that's what this is."
"He thinks it might be." I meet her eyes. "He's not wrong to ask. I've been asking myself the same thing since I left the clubhouse."
"And?"
"I don't think that's what this is." I hold her gaze. "But I won't sit here and tell you I'm certain."
She nods slowly. Like that's worth more to her than a clean answer would've been. She picks up her burger again and I do the same and the silence that follows doesn't need filling.
After a while she says, "Does the violence scare you? Your work?"
"No." I think about how to say the next part. "It's the part I know how to do. Most of the job is boring phone calls. The violence is the exception."
"But it happens."
"Yeah. It happens." I finish the burger. "Does that change anything for you?"
She considers it properly, which I appreciate.
Doesn't rush to reassure me. "I grew up watching my dad handle situations that weren't always clean.
He worked construction, dealt with union politics, territory disputes between crews.
Sometimes that meant fists. Sometimes worse.
" She pauses. "So no. It doesn't scare me.
But I want to understand the code. What lines you won't cross. "
"We don't target civilians. Ever. We protect Bloomfield and the people in our orbit. When someone threatens that, we handle it fast enough and hard enough they don't try again."
"And Marrow doesn't follow those rules?"
"No. They use civilians for leverage. Run drugs through schools. Beat people who can't defend themselves. That's why we exist. Someone has to keep them out."
She nods slowly. "You've done this for twenty-five years."
"Yeah."
"You ever think about stopping?"
"Sometimes. But this is what I'm good at. What I know." I look at her. "You ever think about stopping the rotations? Settling somewhere?"
"Honestly? No. The moving is the point. It's freedom."
"Or protection."
She looks at me sharp but not angry. "What's that mean?"
"You left someone who made you disappear. Built your whole life around not staying anywhere long enough to risk it happening again." I keep my voice even. "That's not freedom, darlin'. That's armor."
She's quiet for a long moment, staring at her beer.
Then: "You're one to talk. Twenty-five years of leaving and calling it necessary when maybe you're just scared of wanting something permanent."
"Fair point."
"We're a mess, aren't we?"
"Little bit, yeah."
She smiles despite herself and something in my chest loosens.
Around seven the bar starts filling. Brothers I know, locals, couples coming in for Friday night. Tate walks in with Katherine and they head straight for us.
"Isla." Katherine lights up. "I was hoping I'd see you before Sunday."
"Hey, Katherine."
They hug like they're actual friends and Tate gives me a look that says he's filing this information away.
"You coming to church tomorrow?" Tate asks me.
"Planning on it."
His eyes flick to Isla briefly but he doesn't say anything. Just nods. "Good. See you there."
They move off to a table and Isla watches them go.
"Church?" she asks.
"Club meeting. Every Saturday morning, all the brothers and their women. Family business."
"His woman was there. Katherine."
"Yeah. That's how it works. If you're serious with someone, they come to church. Meet the family. Become part of things."
She processes that. "And you go every week?"
"When I'm in town."
She doesn't ask if I'm bringing her tomorrow and I'm grateful. Around eight the music gets louder and the crowd thicker. I'm finishing my second whiskey when Walt leans across the bar.
"Chuck. You got a second?"
His tone makes me alert. "What's wrong?"
"Got a situation outside. Young guy, drunk, yelling in the parking lot. Pulled up about ten minutes ago on a bike I don't recognize."
Everything in me goes still. "What kind of bike?"
"Can't tell from here. But he's got a cut and I don't recognize the patches."
I stand up and Isla's hand catches my wrist.
"What's wrong?"
"Maybe nothing. Stay here with Walt."
"Chuck—"
I look at her directly. "Stay. Here. Whatever happens, you stay inside with Walt. You understand?"
Something in my tone must register because she nods.
I head for the door and the noise of the bar falls away behind me.
Outside it's dark now, heat still thick, cicadas screaming. The parking lot is half full, bikes and trucks parked in rows under the streetlights.
Near the far edge, away from the building, there's a kid on a motorcycle I don't recognize.
But I recognize the patches on his cut.
Marrow.
He sees me coming and grins, swaying slightly. Drunk or high or both.
"You Chuck?" he calls out, too loud.
I keep walking, steady and controlled. Assess as I move: early twenties, maybe one-seventy, left hand favoring his side like he's carrying. No other riders visible but that doesn't mean they're not nearby.
I stop about fifteen feet away. Close enough to talk, far enough to react if he moves wrong.
"You need to leave," I say. Voice low and level. "Right now."
He laughs. "Crane's got a message for you, old man."
And my whole world narrows to this moment, this threat, this choice I'm about to make.