Page 83 of Handful

“He did not,” Colt said, somewhere behind me, joy in it.

“Men do that?” Wren asked Glitch, low, like she wasn’t sure she’d read it right. “I’ve never seen that on a cut before.”

“This one does.” I turned back to Austen. She had a hand pressed flat over her mouth. I’ll take that look to the grave with me.

“You absolute idiot,” she said through her fingers.

“Name, job, you.” I spread my hands. “Three true things about me. You’re wearing mine, I’m wearing yours. I don’t do halfway. Never had the knack.”

Dutch put a hand on my shoulder and turned me a half-step so he could read it again himself, slow, even though he’d cleared it weeks back when I brought my idea to him.

“He came to me with this before he did it, in case any of you think I got ambushed,” he told the room. “I said yes. And I told him what I’ll tell him again now in front of all of you so it’s public record.” Back to me. “It’s on there. In front of everyone. So it’s done. You don’t take it off when she’s mad at you, you don’t take it off when Colt’s still ribbing you in twenty years.” Colt held his fist up in the air. “You wore Property of Austen into my clubhouse on purpose, brother. That’s the rest of your life. Eyes open?”

“Eyes open. Did the math first.” I found her over his shoulder. “Came out the same every time.”

“Then it’s done.” He found a beer in his hand from nowhere and lifted it. “To the both of them. Handful and Austen.”

“TO HANDFUL AND AUSTEN.” The room detonated—everyone hollering at once. I didn’t catch any of it. I’d already pulled Austen in against me, both arms around her, her new cut pressed to mine, and I held on while my whole family lost their minds around us.

She got her mouth up to my ear so I’d hear her over the noise. “So,” she said, low, just for me. “About your text.”

“Which part. The picture or the logistics.”

“The picture.” She turned me around by the cut and looked up, and there was the dare in it. “You sent me a photo of our bed, Tyler. You made a promise. Then you sent me here.” She tipped her head at the noise. “Ceremony’s done. I’m wearing your name. You’ve shown the whole club you’re wearing mine.” Her hand fisted in the leather. “I’d say you’ve dealt with logistics. Take me home and make good.”

“That’s not how it’s done,” I said, grave as I could manage. “You—”

“Now, Handful.”

I caught Dutch’s eye on the way out. He lifted his beer an inch. And then we left the whole loud wreck of my family roaring behind us and walked down the lane to our house.

Jacks was waiting on the porch when we got there, sprawled out like usual. Took me months to get anywhere near that dog—fed him behind Venom Virtues through the worst of the cold, never pushed, never reached. Then one night he started following me down the road, trotting along behind the bike, so I stopped, called Fewin, and had him bring the truck around. Jacks hopped up onto the seat like he’d been waiting on the invitation his whole life. I left the bike parked at the club overnight and rode home with him instead.

He’s got the run of the house now, and a yard big enough to stretch his legs in when he can be bothered. He loves Austen at least as much as he loves me. He thumped his tail once and didn’t bother getting up.

“Your dog’s judging us,” Austen said.

“Our dog.” I got the door open. “And he’s seen worse.”

She had me out of the new cut before we got the door shut. She made me hang it up first, though.

“That’s club property,” she said, hooking it next to hers on the back of the door. “Show some respect.” And then she stopped showing any at all as she dropped to her knees to SMD before I AHP.

Epilogue 2

❧

— Austen —

Six months later

An hour to open, and for once there was nothing left to do.

The Wickham used to make industrial fans. Good bones, hundred-year-old brick, a tin ceiling I’d had stripped back to bare metal, a row of factory windows I’d left exactly as I’d found them. I walked the floor slow, the way I had every night that week, touching things that didn’t need touching. Nudged a stool that was already square to the bar. Ran a cloth down all eight feet of black walnut—cut from a single slab, near-black, more money than I’d strictly had, because I’d fallen in love with it.

The Edison bulbs were already lit and strung low. The cocktail list I’d been writing in my head for eight years sat printed, stacked, and exactly right. I checked the bottles, the garnishes, the glassware, the till—and then I checked all of it again, and a third time after that, not because anything was out of place but because tonight was the only opening night this room would ever get, and I wanted it to be perfect.

On the back shelf, between the good rye and the better gin, sat a row of battered paperback novels about manners—Tyler’s copies from when he sat at Velvet. I’d shelved them there as a private joke. I straightened those, too.