Page 24 of Bram

I looked at the whiteboard, at the lines and the numbers and the word BAKERSFIELD in block letters. Then I looked at Rusty, gave him the space to object. He didn’t.

Karen said, “I’ll handle the transition. I just want assurances on timeline, and on my role.”

I said, “You’ll have both.”

She extended her hand, palm down. Not a shake, not a threat—just a contract in skin.

I reached across and took it. My hand was twice the size of hers, but she squeezed hard, her nails biting in just enough to make a point.

We sat like that for one second, two, then let go. The deal was done.

Rusty uncrossed his arms, grabbed the summary from the desk, and turned it face down. “We’ll be in touch,” he said. No warmth.

Karen gathered her things, glanced at her watch, and stood. “Forty minutes,” she said, glancing at her watch. “Not bad for a Monday.”

She let herself out, heels echoing on the tile. Rusty waited until the door shut. Then he said, “You trust her?”

“Not one fucking bit,” I said. “But I trust she wants to win more than she wants to die.”

He nodded, satisfied. “You want me to draft the contract?”

“Yeah. Keep it tight. No wiggle.” I stood and stared out the window before turning back to the three men in my office. “She’s dirty. In bed with the Desert Scorpions. Make sure the contract says we become sole owners of the club if anything happens to her.”

“We can make that happen,” Trace said.

I shook my head. “Not yet. Let’s see what game she’s playing.”

Kodiak entered the office, bad news in his eyes. “Julie said to tell you she’s heading to her mom’s, and she doesn’t need an escort.”

I grunted. “She’s lying.”

Rusty smiled, bare and grim. “I know.”

“Get eyes on her right now.”

Rusty and Kodiak left, the door closing softly behind them.

I sat for a minute, letting the air settle, the sound of the generator in the walls like a living thing. I looked at the spot where Karen had sat, and at the deep red divot her nail had left in the skin of my hand.

After Karen’s truck bounced down the washboard lane and went out through the gate, I let myself drift to the common room. Inside, the light was never right. Even with the blinds open and the sun coming through in stripes, it still felt like night. Maybe it was the carpet, the stains and cigarette burns preserved like crime scene markers, or the way the dust from the yard worked itself into the fabric of everything. I didn’t mind. Some rooms were supposed to be ugly.

A couple of prospects were at the far table, playing cards with the intensity of men who knew someone would be watching, even if they didn’t see who. The pool table was silent, a single stripe ball left parked near the pocket, like a shot someone forgot to finish. Over by the bar, three bottles of bourbon sat in a row. I picked Maker’s Mark, poured two fingers into a clean glass, and didn’t drink it. Instead, I set it on the bar and let my hand rest beside it, fingers splayed wide.

The couch by the window—the one with the cracked leather arm—was empty. I looked at it too long. The memory of Julie, feet up, head back, green eyes half-closed, flickered across the space like a glitch in a film reel. I caught myself, picked up the bourbon, drank half, and set the glass back down with a clink.

I drummed my fingers once on the edge of the bar. Stopped. Pulled out my phone and stared at the screen. No missed calls, no texts, just the blank blue and the time blinking at me, making it clear I was waiting for something that wasn’t coming. I started to dial, thought better of it, and slid the phone back into my pocket.

“We can handle the club, Dad,” Sniper said as he and Trace joined me. “Go find her.”

“You’re right. It’s fucking eating away at me.” I grabbed the Glock from my office. “You two be ready. We’re gonna make a trip to the prison and be there when that asshole is released.”

Out the window, the yard was bright and blinding. Two of the patched crew—Edge and Kodiak, I thought—were hunched over a Harley near the garage, arguing about something with hands instead of words. The sun made the dust shimmer, the whole world reduced to brown and bone-white. If I squinted, I could almost see the shimmer peeling the men away from the bikes, as if they weren’t really here. I knew the feeling.

The hollow space in my chest wasn’t pain, not exactly, and not fear. Just a wrongness, a gear out of line. Something new for me. I’d loved Millie for so long I thought it was going to be impossible to ever care about another woman. Then Julie stepped into my life. I had to protect Julie. Fucking had to.

The door opened with a slap, and one of the prospects—the kid from the gate, cheeks still speckled with acne—came in fast. He froze a step inside, caught sight of me at the bar, and his mouth worked for a second before he found the words.

“Boss?” His voice was tight, not scared but on the edge. He clutched his radio like a life preserver.