The clubhouse smelled like smoke, oil, and a hint of whiskey soaked into the wood. It was home, in the way a battlefield is home to a soldier. I pushed through the door and felt the noise wrap around me: voices, laughter, the rattle of a pool cue against a ball. Every man in the room looked up when I walked in, because that’s what they did now. I wasn’t just Rouger anymore. I was President.
Ryder raised his glass. “You good, boss?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice yet. My hands still ached from gripping the handlebars too tight. The ride from the bar hadn’t cooled the storm in my chest; it had just spread it wider.
Colt leaned against the wall, cigarette between his fingers. “Crow hit you with one of his sermons again?”
“Something like that,” I said.
Tuck laughed. “Man’s got a sermon f
