Chapter Nine
Wheels
Tempi was a liar. She’d said one drink, maybe two.
That had been an hour ago, and if I counted right, Goldie was halfway through her third, Britta had just waved an empty glass at Tempi like she was flagging down rescue, and Tempi herself had switched from bartender to full participant about twenty minutes in.
Not that anyone was surprised.
I stood near the front door with my shoulder against the wall and my arms crossed. Twister was posted up on the other side of the door, looking just as unimpressed as I felt. Swift stood between us, his eyes locked on Britta like she was a lit match dancing too close to gasoline.
The rest of the clubhouse had settled into a weird kind of calm.
Nugget, Method, Sully, and Cord had disappeared to their rooms, probably pretending to rest while doing absolutely nothing useful.
Chewy and Plug were out back keeping watch.
Hodge and Podge were at the pool table, though calling what Podge was doing “playing pool” felt generous.
Gramps was in the recliner by the far wall, passed out cold with his boots crossed at the ankles and his mouth open.
The man snored like a chainsaw with a grudge.
Every few seconds, his snore would catch, sputter, and then roar back to life. The first time it happened, Goldie had looked over with genuine concern. By the fifth time, she’d accepted that nobody was going to check if he was dying.
“Does he always sound like that?” she asked, leaning an elbow on the bar.
Tempi glanced toward Gramps and shrugged. “Only when he’s breathing.”
Britta nodded seriously. “If he stops snoring, then we worry.”
Goldie blinked at her.
Britta lifted her glass. “That’s clubhouse medical protocol.”
“It is not,” Swift called.
Britta turned on her stool and pointed at him. “You don’t know. You’re not the doctor.”
“We don’t have a doctor,” Swift replied.
“That’s why we use the snoring system.”
Tempi slapped the bar, laughing uncontrollably, and Goldie laughed with her.
I watched her. Probably too much, but I couldn’t help it.
When Tempi and Britta had dragged her inside, Goldie had been tense. Not stiff like she was going to run, but careful. Like she didn’t want to take up too much room. Like she wasn’t sure if the good mood was real or if she’d accidentally stepped into a private moment she didn’t belong in.
That had changed after the first drink.
The woman still had shadows under her eyes. She still glanced toward the door every now and then. She still touched the strap of the backpack she’d set at her feet like she needed to make sure it hadn’t vanished.
But she was laughing with her head tilted back a little, cheeks flushed, and shoulders loose.
That did something to me.
Twister glanced my way.
“What?” I grunted.
He didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “Didn’t say anything.”
“You thought something.”
“I think a lot of things.”
“Don’t.”
His smirk widened, but he didn’t say anything more.
Across the room, Hodge lined up a shot at the pool table, one eye squinted and his cue angled like he was about to perform surgery.
Podge stood beside him with a notebook tucked under his arm.
“Are you seriously keeping score in that thing?” Hodge asked.
Podge adjusted his glasses. “Yes.”
“It’s pool.”
“It’s competition.”
“It’s bar entertainment.”
“It’s math with sticks.”
Hodge lifted his head slowly. “You know, every time you talk, I understand why Nugget throws things at you.”
Podge looked offended. “Nugget throws things at everyone.”
“Because you inspire him.”
Podge pointed his pencil at the table. “Just shoot.”
Hodge took the shot and missed completely. The cue ball rolled lazily across the felt, tapped nothing, and stopped.
Goldie turned on her stool. “Was that supposed to happen?”
Hodge glared at her.
Tempi leaned over the bar. “No.”
Britta covered her mouth with both hands.
Podge made a mark in his notebook, and Hodge pointed at him. “Don’t you write that down.”
“I have to.”
“No, you don’t.”
“For accuracy.”
“For your funeral.”
Podge didn’t look scared. “Threats don’t change statistics.”
Hodge stared at him for three full seconds before looking toward Twister. “Can I hit him?”
“No,” Twister answered.
Hodge sighed. “Club used to be fun.”
“It’s more fun now,” Britta called. “We have snacks and women.”
“And statistics,” Podge added.
Hodge pointed his cue at him. “You’re on thin ice.”
Goldie laughed again.
Yeah, I liked that sound.
Tempi set another glass in front of Goldie, then paused. “Wait. Did I make this too strong?”
Goldie lifted it, sniffed, and immediately pulled it back from her nose. “Define too strong.”
“Can you still feel your eyebrows?”
Goldie touched one eyebrow. “Barely.”
“Perfect.”
Twister pushed off the wall. “Tempi.”
Tempi looked innocent. “What?”
Twister sighed. “Don’t overpour Goldie.”
“I’m not overpouring.”
Britta leaned toward Goldie and whispered loudly, “She’s overpouring.”
Goldie nodded, also whispering loudly. “I noticed.”
Tempi planted both hands on the bar. “Excuse me, I am creating a welcoming atmosphere. I also am a professional.”
“You’re creating drunk women,” Swift said.
Britta spun back toward him. “And?”
Swift opened his mouth. Closed it. Good man. Sometimes survival meant shutting the hell up.
Britta smiled triumphantly and turned back to her drink.
Goldie looked between them and then at Tempi. “Are they always like that?”
“Worse,” Tempi said.
Swift grunted, and Britta blew him a kiss.
He actually caught it with one hand and pressed it to his chest like a dumbass.
I stared at him.
Hodge saw it too. “What the fuck was that?”
Swift’s head snapped toward him. “What?”
“You caught an air kiss.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did,” Podge said.
Hodge pointed at Podge. “See? Even Calculator saw it.”
Podge frowned. “Don’t call me Calculator.”
“Then stop counting everything.”
“I can’t.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
Britta giggled into her glass. “He caught my kiss.”
Swift looked at her. “Don’t help.”
“I thought it was cute.”
“It was not cute.”
“It was adorable,” Goldie said.
Every head turned to her. Her eyes widened slightly, but the alcohol had apparently given her enough courage not to back down. She lifted her glass toward Swift. “Sorry. It was.”
Swift looked betrayed.
Twister chuckled under his breath.
I grinned.
Swift pointed at me. “Not a word.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t.”
I lifted both hands.
Across the room, Gramps snorted himself half awake, blinked at nothing, muttered, “I ain’t paying for that,” and immediately fell back asleep.
Everyone froze.
Goldie slowly turned toward him. “What do you think he is dreaming about?”
“No one knows,” Tempi said.
“No one wants to know,” Twister added.
Gramps snored again, louder this time.
Britta raised her glass toward him. “Rest easy, king.”
Hodge laughed so hard he almost dropped his pool cue.
For a little while, the clubhouse felt almost normal.
Less than two days ago, Goldie had been running for her life. Last night, the club had been cleaning up bullet holes. Today, we’d found out The Ledger had been inside her apartment. They’d stolen her things, and she was still holding back the location of a second set of copies from Twister.
We were sitting on a pile of dynamite with a lit match nearby.
And yet, right then, Britta was laughing, Tempi was mixing questionable drinks, Hodge was threatening Podge over pool, Gramps was snoring like heavy machinery, and Goldie was smiling.
Goldie took another sip, then coughed.
Tempi winced. “Okay. That one might be a little strong.”
“A little?” Goldie wheezed.
Britta patted her back. “Welcome to the club.”
“Is this how initiation works?”
“No,” Tempi said. “Initiation involves less vodka and more regrettable dancing.”
Goldie shook her head. “I don’t dance.”
Britta gasped, and Tempi looked personally offended.
“You don’t dance?” Tempi asked.
“No.”
“Ever?”
“No.”
“Not even wedding reception dancing?”
Goldie grimaced. “Especially not wedding reception dancing.”
Britta leaned closer. “What about kitchen dancing?”
“That’s different.”
Tempi slapped the bar. “Aha!”
Goldie frowned. “What?”
“That counts.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It absolutely does.”
“I’m alone when I do that.”
Britta grinned. “Even better. That means you dance for yourself.”
Goldie opened her mouth and then closed it. Then she pointed at Britta. “That was weirdly profound for someone drinking whatever Tempi made.”
Britta looked at her glass. “This might be wisdom juice.”
“It’s vodka cranberry,” Tempi said.
“With wisdom.”
Twister rubbed a hand down his face.
Swift muttered, “Jesus Christ.”
I stayed where I was, watching Goldie shake her head and laugh into her glass.
Then Britta suddenly sat straight up. “Oh my God.”
Swift immediately pushed off the wall. “What?”
Britta held up a hand. “No emergency.”
Swift didn’t relax. “What is it?”
She ignored him and turned to Tempi, eyes bright. “Ask me what type of bike Swift rides.”
Tempi stared at her.
Goldie stared at her.
I closed my eyes because whatever was about to happen, I already knew Swift wasn’t going to like it.
Tempi slowly set down the bottle in her hand. “I will lay an egg if you know what type of bike Swift rides.”
Britta shook her head fast. “Wait, wait. I mean, just ask me what Swift rides.”
Goldie’s brow wrinkled.
Britta bumped her shoulder into Goldie’s. “I almost messed up my joke.”
Goldie blinked once, then realization started to dawn. “Oh no,” Goldie whispered.
“Oh yes,” Tempi whispered back.
Britta turned back to Tempi, barely holding herself together. “Ask me.”
Swift’s expression darkened. “Britta.”
She pointed at him without looking. “Shh. Art is happening.”
Hodge set his cue on the pool table. “I need to hear this.”
Podge nodded. “Same.”
Twister folded his arms, looking like a man who already regretted every decision that had brought him to this exact moment.
Tempi cleared her throat dramatically. “Hey, Britta.”
Britta straightened on the barstool.
Tempi leaned across the bar. “What does your ol’ man ride?”
Britta smiled. Not a normal smile. A full Cheshire Cat, trouble-loaded, no-regrets smile. Then she turned just enough to look directly at Swift. “Me.”
For one perfect second, the entire clubhouse went silent. Even Gramps stopped snoring.
Then Tempi lost it.
She slapped both hands on the bar and bent over laughing. Goldie burst out laughing beside her, one hand pressed to her mouth and the other gripping the edge of the bar like she needed it to stay upright.
Hodge roared and Podge made a choking noise. Twister dropped his head and laughed into his hand. I tried not to, but failed.
Swift stood by the door with a smile on his face. “Damn fucking right, babe.”
Britta looked absolutely delighted with herself.
Gramps jerked awake in the recliner. “Who died?”
“No one,” Hodge managed between laughs.
Gramps blinked around the room, eyes landing on Britta. “You say something dirty?”
Britta beamed. “Maybe.”
Gramps grunted, reclined again, and closed his eyes. “Good for you.”
Goldie laughed so hard she had to set her glass down.
Tempi wiped beneath her eyes. “I need a minute.”
“You need Jesus,” Swift said.
Tempi grabbed a napkin and a pen. “Wait. I’m writing this down.”
Hodge moved around the pool table, still chuckling. “Come on, Podge. Your shot.”
Podge looked down at the table. “I believe it’s still your turn.”
“I missed.”
“Yes, but you scratched emotionally, not technically.”
Hodge stared at him. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Podge admitted. “I got distracted.”
“By Britta’s sex joke?”
“Yes.”
“Fair.”
Goldie laughed again, softer this time, and I found myself watching her instead of the chaos around us.
She looked lighter.
The tension that had clung to her shoulders since the apartment had eased. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, and every now and then, she glanced toward me like she wanted to make sure I was still there.
I was. I wasn’t going anywhere.