Page 3 of Falcon’s Forever

"Relax."

"Right. Yeah." His face goes red enough that I almost feel sorry for him.

I hand him the towel. "You already apologized."

"Get those over to the women's house when you're done," I tell him. "Knock before you go in."

"I'm not patched yet. I know the rules."

"Good." I watch him haul the basket toward the door, and something in my chest loosens a fraction. Five years ago, this clubhouse looked like the aftermath of a hurricane most mornings. Bottles on the floor, bodies on couches, and usually Ice Pick trying to remember where the hell he'd left his boots. Now we've got rotas. There are still two beer bottles sitting out and somebody's cut is slung over a chair, but Digger, another prospect is sweeping and Dynamite, a third prospect is emptying bins, and Harrier's guarding his bacon like it owes him money.

Gull, one of the younger prospects, tries to sneak a piece and gets the flat of a spatula across his knuckles for his trouble.

"Fuck, that hurts." He pulls his hand back and rubs it.

"Get out of my kitchen, prospect." Harrier is not the man to mess with. If you think Gordan Ramsey can be angry, then you’ve not met Harrier.

Carrot, folding towels by the door with the dedication of a kid still trying to prove he belongs here, doesn't even look up. "Told you not to try it before the second batch." He shakes his head and has a smile on his face.

"Nobody asked you, Carrot."

"Nobody ever does." He says it easy, like it doesn't bother him, and goes back to the towels.

Zip's already at the counter with a coffee, laughing at him. Ice Pick sits beside him scrolling through his phone. Condor's got a laptop open at the far end because there's apparently no hour of the day that man isn't tethered to a screen. Rook and Hustler are arguing near the pool table about something that doesn't matter. It's ordinary. Heartwarming, even, though this place wasn't always home. Chicago wasn't supposed to be permanent for most of us. Vulture came for his father. The rest of us followed for our own reasons, and somewhere between bloodshed and rebuilding what other men tried to burn down, we stopped being a collection of transfers and became a chapter.

A family. One I haven't been showing up for.

Zip clocks me first. He always does, I swear he looks at me like a customs officer looks at a bag he already suspects.

"Morning, sunshine," Zip says.

"Fuck off."

"Good start." He's grinning into his coffee.

Harrier slides a mug across the bar without being asked. "Drink that before you speak to anyone else."

I catch it. "Am I that bad?"

"Worse."

Ice Pick doesn't bother hiding his smirk. I flip him off and drink. It's strong enough to strip paint, exactly how I like it.

"Church at noon," Zip says.

"I know when Church is. I'm VP, for fuck's sake."

"Do you?" He doesn't even look up from his mug when he says it, which somehow makes it worse.

"I said I know."

"Good. Vulture wants everybody there. Especially the VP." Zip is pushing me today.

Harrier's got very interested in his frying pan. Ice Pick's still staring at his phone, though I'd put money on him not having read a word of it in the last minute. I lean one forearm on the bar.

"You got something to say?"

Zip takes his time with another mouthful of coffee. "You've been missing meals. Sleeping like shit. Disappearing on that bike every chance you get. You missed two planning meets this week."