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Evan wanders over from the shack behind him. He’s Rigs’ adopted son, and a few months older than his best friend and fellow prospect, Levi. “Of course ain’t, genius. They decided to call him Sabre ‘cause of the throwin’ knives. This man can hit a bullseye at twenty feet. Get him to show you sometime.”

“I know that,” Levi says, defensively. “I’m asking about the before part. You can’t just quit being Harley.”

“I was never Harley. My real name’s Harvey. Maybe you need to get your hearing checked?” I say.

Evan cackles. Levi turns red to his ears.

“For real, though,” Levi presses, because the kid has never once let a thing go in his life. “What changed?”

I shrug. “I got patched in. Maybe Harley would’ve been a good club name, but Siege thought my knife skills deserved recognition.”

That starts them discussing what club names they want when they finally get patched in, so I leave them to it. They’ll learn soon enough that you don’t choose your own name. Either life or the club chooses it for you.

I roll up to the clubhouse, which is lit up from inside. I can hear laughter and music as I dismount from my bike and walk past the other ones lined up gleaming under the lights. Inside the clubhouse are all the people I care about, drinking, shooting pool, playing poker and telling tall tales. I can smell the scent of beer hanging heavy in the air.

This is home, or the closest thing to it I’ve ever had. I head through the back door to the grill. Ever since cooking that steak tonight, I’ve been keen on the idea of making something similar for my club brothers.

Rick, our longest running prospect, rushes over to me. “Thank fuck you put in an appearance tonight. No one can get the grill lit and the brothers are getting hangry.”

I lay down my knife roll and tell him, “I’ll have a look at it. Sometimes the fittings get a little rusty. Go ahead and bring out the steaks.”

“What? You mean like all of them?”

I take a deep breath and clarify, “No, not all of ‘em. We buy that shit in bulk and we usually make a case a night. Bring me a case of the ribeyes.”

Rick’s a prospect who should come with a damn warning label. It used to be that if there was a way to mess something up he’d find it. But he’s been trying harder lately. He’s gotten the hang of asking for clarification before running off half-cocked and doing something we all regret. I respect a man dedicated to fixing himself.

I remove the fittings, scrape off some rust, and make a mental note to replace them. Being outside is hard on fittings because the metal is thinner. I turn on the gas and light it up. Rick drops off the box of steak. I give him a list of things I need, including the whiskey glaze I mixed up yesterday and off he goes.

I pull out my favorite cutting board, a huge, thick fucker, and get busy cubing everything up.

Fifteen minutes later my best friend finds me. “How was the fancy cookin’ class at the fig place?” Talon asks, dropping down into a nearby chair. He’s got a beer bottle in his hand and is eyeing the bite-size pieces of steak I’m in the process of searing.

I shoot him a withering look. “The restaurant’s called The Gilded Fig, not that fig place, Talon.”

“Whatever,” he says. “It’s too fancy for my ass.”

“That’s too bad. I heard your old lady’s been wanting to go there for your anniversary.”

He freezes with his beer almost to his mouth and slowly lowers the bottle. “You’re sure my Kelly wants to go there?”

I give him a feral grin. “I made that shit up just to scare the bejesus out of ya. Did it work?”

“God, you’re such an asshole sometimes, Sabre.” He takes a long draw off his beer before looking at me intently. “You’re also very good at changing the subject. Back to the cookin’ class. Did you like it?”

“It was fine,” I say tightly, concentrating on finishing the sear.

“Fine doesn’t cut it, brother.” Pointing the top of his beer bottle at me, he continues, “You rode to town on a weeknight and paid eighty fuckin’ dollars to learn what you already know. There’s got to be somethin’ more going on here and I want to know what it is.”

“She’s a Michelin starred chef and I’m just a regular self fuckin’ taught cook. I wanted to see if she could teach me anything that I didn’t already know. That’s it. Nothin’ more.”

“She.” Talon says it slow, like he’s tasting it. “What the hell is a Michelin starred chef?”

“It’s just a rating for restaurants that indicates how good their food is. It’s only for fine dining. The restaurant gets the star not the chef, but everyone knows that they’re responsible. It’s a big thing her coming to work in a small town like Las Salinas.”

“I get it,” he says. “My Kelly is a social worker. She has a license. It’s kind of the same thing.”

I nod, keeping my eyes on the grill as I keep shuffling dozens of cubes of steak around. Rick drops off the whiskey glaze, and I begin marinating the pieces and moving them to a less hot part of the grill.