Page 36 of The Fire We Crave

“Yeah,” Catfish agrees wearily. “Are you gonna tell him or am I that the club owes me a new truck?”

Taco must have called ahead up to the clubhouse, because Butcher walks out to meet us.

“Can we not have a day without fucking trouble? What happened?” he asks when we get out of the truck.

“A trap,” Catfish said. “Been doing that run the same time all summer. Handed off the product to Big Daddy, but then they came for us.”

“Six of them,” I say. “We followed the truck they were in back to that warehouse where they hid our weed that time. The one we blew up. Guess they got a new building there. Managed to get a few rounds off at Lev Zakharov.”

Butcher’s mood changes. “You get him?”

“Seemed like he was hit, given how he fell to the floor. We didn’t stick around to see if he was dead. He wasn’t alone. Had several men on him.”

“Good work. That’ll teach the fucker.”

Catfish looks at his truck and lovingly pats the gunshot-riddled hood. “Gotta get rid of this. Just FYI, the club’s gonna buy me a replacement.”

Butcher rolls his eyes. “Fuck me. Fine.”

Atom ties up his horse to the fence, then jumps over it to get to us. “What the fuck went down on the drop?”

Butcher looks to Catfish. “Can you update Wraith, Atom, and Grudge?”

Catfish nods. “Will do, Prez.”

“Come have a whiskey with me,” Butcher says to me when Catfish and Atom head into the clubhouse.

“Perfect idea.” Because I’m still a little lost. Can’t decide what I want or should do next.

My mom was prone to depression. Prolonged periods where she couldn’t find the will to do even the most basic functions. The worst times were when she’d take to bed and not get out for three weeks. Then, she’d reappear, a smile on her face, and complain about the mess I’d left in the kitchen. She’d batch-cook soups and buy me little treats from the bakery. I promised myself I’d never fall into that, but this period of confusion isstarting to feel a whole lot like it. Sure, I’m not bed-ridden, but I’m stuck.

“Don,” Butcher says to the prospect behind the bar. “Two glasses and the bottle of the single malt.”

Don does as Butcher says with minimal fuss and the tip of his chin. Butcher pours us both a large measure.

“Good initiative taking your shot on Zakharov when you had the chance.”

We knock glasses together before taking a sip.

It burns my throat. Never used to, but I’m guessing all that smoke inhalation did a little more damage than I thought. Either that, or it stripped the heat-resistant coating I’d built up over the years.

Perhaps I should drink a lot more to speed it along.

I bite back the wince.

“Thanks,” I say. “Saw an opportunity. Took it.”

“You want to talk with me about how you’re doing?”

There are a million different answers I could give to this question. They all make sense. And yet, I can’t settle on one of them.

Instead, I sip some more of the whiskey. The burn actually…helps. Centers me.

“You know,” Butcher continues, “the death we see as a club is deserved. You want to play in this life outside the lines, you have to be willing to pay the ultimate price for it. We know that no one is going to save us. Law enforcement won’t intervene. We live by our own rules. But it’s another thing to see death where it doesn’t belong. You’d be well within your rights to need some time and space.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder, and maybe it’s the mood I’m in, but it all feels a little bit too vulnerable.

A little bit too raw.

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