Page 23 of Ruger's Rage

I head back inside church and rap my knuckles on the table. "Emergency at the bar. Ounce, you've got point until I get back."

"Everything okay, Prez?" Coin asks, our secretary already reaching for his notebook to record the interruption.

"Don't know yet. If I'm not back in two hours, send someone to check on me."

I don’t waste any time waiting for any replies. I head out, needing to know what the fuck is going on.

Aunt Ellie is the only family I have left, and it sounds like she really needs my help.

The ride to Backroads gives me too much time to think.

Aunt Ellie has been a little different lately—quieter, more distracted.

I've been so focused on club business, watching our territory for signs of fuckers getting too ballsy, that I might have missed something happening right under my nose.

Again.

The gravel crunches under my tires as I pull into the lot.

Early afternoon means the place is mostly empty—a few regulars nursing beers, the lunch crowd already cleared out.

I spot Tildie immediately, moving behind the bar with that careful grace I always notice.

She looks different in daylight—still gorgeous, but softer somehow.

Like sunlight reveals more details that the dim bar lights hide at night.

Ellie stands at the end of the counter, wringing her hands.

She sees me and physically sags with relief. "Ruger," she calls out, using my road name.

Professional distance. That can't be good.

I settle onto a stool, watching her face. "What's going on?"

"Let's talk in the office."

The tiny office behind the kitchen is crammed with filing cabinets and precarious stacks of paperwork.

Ellie closes the door and slumps into the desk chair.

"Honey, I need to tell you something."

"I'm listenin’."

"The bar's in trouble. Financial trouble." She opens the center drawer, pulling out a manila folder. "I should have said something sooner, but I was trying to handle it myself."

She slides the folder across to me.

Inside are bills, bank statements, spreadsheets covered in red ink.

My stomach drops as I scan the numbers.

"How long?" I ask.

"Six months."

"Jesus Christ, Aunt Ellie." I run a hand through my beard. "Why didn't you tell me?"

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