“Seven small rooms.One’s already got a mattress and,” Nugget paused, looking back at Sully, “shackles on the radiator.”
I blinked.“Shackles?”
“Deadass,” Sully said.“Bolted down and everything.”
Swift raised a brow.“That wasn’t in the listing.”
“No,” I said, and walked toward the back hallway.“But it tells me we’re not the first outlaws to use this place.”
“And we probably won’t be the last,” Hodge added.
The back office was mostly empty, with one half-broken chair, a desk that looked like it had been used as a battering ram, and a single file folder on top.I opened it.
Blank pages.
Except for one thing—a sticker, peeling at the edge.
The Saint’s Outlaws skull, grinning in black and silver.
I’d left it there six weeks ago when I came through solo to scout the property.
A promise to myself.
A mark.
A warning.
We were coming.
And now we were here.
There were three other rooms back here that I planned to split to make rooms for all of us to have our own space, and also a room to have Church.For the time being, we would use the main room for Church.Everyone would have their own room.Well, Cord and Plug were going to have to share a room.They would get their own room when they became full members, which was not going to be anytime soon.
I walked back to the main floor as every bootstep echoed.
“You all feel that?”I asked and turned slowly to face the club.“That shift in the air?”
Nobody answered, but they all knew.
“That’s what it feels like when we take root.When the city changes.When we fuckin’ take over.”
Chapter Two
Tempi
The beer lines were sticky again.
I groaned as I yanked the tap handle forward and got a foamy, half-ass pour that hissed like it resented me.The glass went into the rinse bucket with a clunk, and I grabbed the hose to flush the tap for the third damn time this week.
Note to self: call the line guy.Again.
I glanced around the bar and mentally ticked off the list I always kept in my head.Mop the floor.Restock the cooler.Change out the light in the women’s bathroom before someone left a Yelp review about peeing in the dark.Again.
Mornings atThe Badger’s Denweren’t glamorous.They were quiet.Sacred, even.No music.No noise.Just me, the smell of beer, bleach, and a little bit of lemon from the cleaner I used to wipe down the bar top.A few hours of peace before the world came in smelling like cigarettes and bad decisions.
I flipped on the TV mounted in the corner, muted news highlights flashed across the screen, and I stepped back behind the bar.The Badger’s Den wasn’t fancy, but it was mine.Four years since Dad passed, and I was still keeping it alive on a mix of stubbornness and sheer spite.People liked to talk about how bars were a dying breed, but mine wasn’t.Not in Madison.Not on State Street.
We weren’t trendy.We wereWisconsin.
