He laughed, then handed me a can of something called “Hot Shit,” which I’d learned to never question. Around us, the other Scythes circled in. Hands slapped my back, voices shouted variations of “welcome home” and “don’t drop the soap.” Isoaked it in, every insult a handshake, every insult a prayer that I’d made it out alive.
After the first round of abuse, Nitro cut the crowd with a shrieked, “Make way, assholes.” He grabbed me by the shirt, steered me past the bar, then through a set of battered double doors. We called it church, a room with a massive oak table and a wall of polaroids that documented every fuck up and success the club had ever made.
Damron was waiting, arms folded, eyes on a ledger. He looked up, and for a second, something almost like a smile pulled at the scar on his cheek.
“You miss us?” he said.
“Like a rash,” I replied. “But it’s good to see you, boss.”
He gestured at the battered seat across from him, and I sat. Nitro vanished, shutting the doors behind him.
Damron didn’t say anything for a minute. He just studied me, weighing the difference between the man he’d sent into lockup and the one who’d come back out. Finally, he spoke.
“You holding up?” The question was heavier than it sounded.
I shrugged. “Better now. Jail was easy compared to the last year.”
He nodded, like he knew the truth of it. “You got plans?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Supposed to fly out tonight. Catherine and Jenna are waiting.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “You bringing both?”
I nodded, not bothering to lie.
He whistled, low and slow. “That’ll be a first for this club.”
“Somebody’s gotta pioneer new territory,” I said.
Damron leaned back, the chair creaking. “You sure you’re not walking into more trouble?”
“I’d rather that than stagnate.”
He grinned, all teeth and malice. “You always did chase the most dangerous thing in the room.”
We sat in silence for a stretch, the two of us listening to the muted chaos outside the door. Finally, he spoke again. “Everything’s quiet here. We handled the Martini fuckers. Any heat coming your way is from your own family now.”
I nodded, knowing he meant it. “What about the club?”
He shrugged. “Nothing you need to worry about. Not for the next ten days, anyway.”
“That’s when I’ll be back,” I said.
He looked at me, dead serious. “Take your time, Seneca. You’ve earned it.”
I waited, thinking he might have more to say, but instead he reached into the desk, pulled out a dusty bottle of club whiskey, and poured two shots. He slid one across the table.
“To survival,” he said.
I picked up the glass. “To loyalty.”
We clinked and drank. The burn was perfect, and the aftertaste better than any freedom I’d ever known.
Damron stood, walked around the table, and pulled me into a bear hug. “Don’t die out there,” he growled into my ear.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.
He let go, patted my back once, then shoved me toward the door. “Now get the fuck out before I start thinking you’ve gone soft.”
