Page 23 of Bram

I followed at a distance, moving slower. The stitches in my side pulled every time I hit a step wrong, and the ache was a hot red pulse beneath the skin. I wore it. No reason to hide it. The men in the yard tracked my progress, and I let them see every wince.

Inside, the air was cold and chemical. Someone had run a mop over the linoleum in the hallway, but the blood from last night still lingered, a ghost at the base of every wall. I passed the kitchen, caught a flash of Doc at the stove, pouring coffee one-handed and texting with the other. He looked up and gave me a nod, more a medical assessment than a hello.

I took the back hallway to the office. At the end of it, the windowless room was waiting. Rusty was already inside, arms folded, back to the wall like he owned the place.

In the visitor chair sat Karen Devito.

She looked like she’d been waiting her entire life for this meeting. Early forties, but built for endurance, not speed. Dark hair, cut severe; fitted gray jacket, black shirt beneath, a leather portfolio resting flat on her knee. The only hint of nerves was in her fingers, which tapped a silent Morse on the clasp of the portfolio, one-two, one-two. When I entered, her eyes found mine and didn’t move.

Rusty said, “She’s been here seven minutes. Didn’t touch the water.”

I grunted. “Means she’s serious. Or doesn’t trust the glass.”

Karen almost smiled. “Both, actually.” Her voice was low, almost amused. She sized me up in a glance, then reset the world back to neutral.

I took the other chair. My side complained, but I didn’t let it show. I glanced at the single sheet of paper laid out in front of me—a summary, not a contract. Rusty had printed it and underlined the important parts in red. He stood back, arms crossed, his face a warning not to waste time.

With my eyes, I let him know there were more important things to attend to.

I read the paper, lips not moving, letting the silence work on everyone. There was something bothering me with the fucked-up Julie situation. Her father, the Colonel, was an asshole. Everyone knew that. But why was he having his men try to rape her? I sat back and pondered that for a moment, ignoring the paper. Then it hit me. What was the worst thing a man could do to his daughter? The man was going to die. Maybe not as he walked out of prison, but I’d sure as fuck beat the living shit out of him until he took his last breath.

I noticed the room had quieted, and I looked up, not hiding the fury in my eyes.

Karen broke the silence. “I’m losing girls to the Vegas corridor,” she said, hands still. “They’re getting picked up for double the rate, half the risk. If I try to match the money, I’m in the hole by next quarter.”

The girls were being trafficked. That was the elephant in the room, and that shit was going to stop.

Her hands opened, fingers splayed flat on the portfolio. “I want a new deal. Muscle and reach. My operation becomes your operation—full share of profit, in exchange for exclusive protection. You push out the Vegas poachers. I pay up front.”

Rusty said nothing, but I heard the chair creak under his shifting weight. He didn’t like this, but he wasn’t going to say so with a guest present.

I said, “What’s the product?”

She didn’t blink. “Live entertainment, web content, private parties. No drugs, no minors, nothing that brings the Feds. All cash, all off the books.”

I watched her face. “You want it run through here? Or you want a satellite operation?”

She smiled, this time for real. “You run it. Strip club, if you want to call it that. The market wants high-class, not a roadhouse. You already own the building; you just don’t use it.”

“It’ll keep these girls safe?” I looked up at Rusty and then Sniper and Trace when they entered the room. My sons weren’t here to sign a pussy deal. We’d yet to talk about me taking a knife to the side. They were going to tell me I was too old to get stabbed. But I wasn’t too old for Julie? Fuck, I’d forgotten she was out in the common area waiting. I wanted eyes on her until I put her father in the ground.

“The girls need to know there’s someone watching out for them, even if…” she stopped talking, and I decided to finish her sentence.

“Even if it’s biker trash,” I said. I pointed at my two sons. “Both are college graduates.” I nodded at Rusty. “This asshole has an MBA.”

“I’m sorry,” Karen said.

“We’re brains and brawn,” Trace added. “It’s what sets our club apart from the biker trash.”

Rusty said, “Legitimate front brings in real money, keeps the wives off our ass, and there’s no product liability. If you want my advice—”

“Don’t,” I said. But I kept my eyes on Karen. “Why not cut your losses and walk?”

She shrugged, businesslike. “I like the work. And I don’t like losing.” Her hands stilled. “Besides, if the Scorpions squeeze out Barstow, you’re next. We both know how this goes.”

She’d obviously been around the block a few times.

“Not on my watch,” I said.