“You look like shit,” he said. The voice was dry, with an edge I recognized from years of cross-examinations. The kind of voice that made you want to answer honestly, just to get it over with.
Seneca shrugged, eyes never leaving the guy’s face. “Rough two days.”
“No shit. I’m Damron, the club president.” Damron nodded at me. “Hope our accommodations are up to your standards.” His face turned grim. “You should know those assholes torched your house.
Nothing of value, including pictures, jewelry, and documents, was in a fireproof safe. “Thank you for your concern.” I glanced at Seneca. “And your help.”
“You should get her a drink,” he told Seneca. “We’ll talk once she’s acclimated to the club way.” He walked back to the pool table.
Seneca led me past the bar. The regulars watched, eyes flicking from my face to my legs, to the bruise on my cheek. None of them spoke, but I felt their judgment, equal parts curiosity and threat. Two scantily clad young women watched me from behind the bar. They were young, but not too young to know better.
He steered me to a booth in the corner, shielded on two sides by the juke and a column of spent shell casings glued artfully into a table lamp. The seat was warm. I slid in, wincing as the bruised ribs protested. Seneca sat across from me, hands flat on the table.
I tried to find my composure, the mask I wore in chambers. It felt thin as tissue here. “Nice place,” I said, because sarcasm was all I had left.
Seneca’s mouth quirked at the corner. “Better than County.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but Nitro joined us, sliding in next to Seneca and crowding the booth until the table pressed into my thighs. I expected a shake-down, maybe a threat. Instead, he produced a battered bottle of Jameson, poured threeshots into mismatched glassware, and pushed one in front of me.
“To survival,” he said. “And to keeping the walls up.”
We clinked and drank. The whiskey burned the way it was supposed to, scorching a line from teeth to belly. I felt it bloom inside me, a heat that masked the pain. I wanted another shot but refrained from asking.
Nitro leaned back, hands splayed. “So, Seneca. You bring her here because you want to keep her alive, or because you want her to see how we live?”
Seneca didn’t answer right away. “Does it matter?”
Damron slid in next to me. “It does if you’re dragging heat onto the crew.”
Seneca nodded. “She’s an asset.”
I wasn’t sure how to take Seneca’s comment, but surrounded by three large men, I kept quiet.
There was a silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It was strategic, a holding pattern while the real talk lined up. I took the moment to look around. The other bikers were back to their games, music, and women.
Nitro turned to me. “You understand what you walked into, Judge?”
I met his gaze, refusing to blink. “You mean the criminal underworld, or just the clubhouse?”
Damron grinned, genuine this time. “I like her,” he told Seneca.
Seneca’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “She’s tougher than she looks.”
I took another sip, let the fire work its way through the pain. “You ever been shot at by a made man, Nitro?”
He laughed, the sound a dry rattle. “Once or twice.”
“Then you know what’s coming,” I said.
Damron studied me, eyes all calculation now. “You’re not just hiding out. You’re looking for payback.”
I let that hang, because it was true.
Seneca reached under the table and squeezed my hand. “They’re going to come again,” he said, low. “They don’t miss twice.”
“I’m counting on it,” I replied.
Damron leaned forward, voice a whisper. “You want to use us as bait?”
