Page 13 of Bram

“First dates are always awkward,” he said, chuckling until the pain made him stop.

“We’re not on a first date,” I reprimanded.

“Did I lose count?”

I scoffed at the thought he would consider this anything but a clusterfuck. “You and I are like oil and water, Bram.”

“Which are you?” he asked.

“Just stop talking.”

Inside the clubhouse, everything was familiar and not. The floors, the scuffed linoleum, the cracked drywall, the thick, meaty air that never quite left. I knew this routine, no matter how much I tried to deny it.

No one spoke. There were glances, a couple of nods, and then someone shouted for Doc.

He met us in the kitchen. Doc was what you got if you asked a biker to draw a nurse: thick arms, neck the size of my thigh, hands that could have bent rebar. He wore a wife-beater, jeans, and an apron that said KISS THE COOK, but from the stains on it, nobody had dared in years.

“What the fuck, boss,” he said. “Who cut him?”

A bigger guy, Kodiak, I would later find out, entered the room. He looked at me and then Bram. “Desert Scorpions?”

I nodded. “Same place your prospects are picking up his bike.”

“Let's go, boss,” Doc said.

He got Bram onto a chair at the scarred wooden table, under a humming fluorescent tube that made everyone look like they were already halfway embalmed. He didn’t say a word to me, just pointed at the wall. I backed up, arms crossed, shoulder to the frame. I watched.

Doc cut away the shirt, the blade so sharp I didn’t even see it move. Bram’s torso was a disaster: fresh knife wound on top of a scattershot of old scars, a history of violence mapped across skin the color of unbleached linen. The new cut was still seeping, a little pink around the edges, not quite ready to clot.

Doc laid out his tools on a clean dish towel: curved needle, surgical thread, forceps, a bottle of something clear, a shot glass, and a half-empty Maker’s Mark. He poured the bourbon, handed it to Bram, and then went to work.

I watched every pull of the needle, every whisper of thread through flesh. Bram never so much as twitched. He held the glass steady in his right hand, took a sip after every pass, and looked past me, at nothing, at everything, as though the kitchen was just another checkpoint on a list of things to outlast.

Once, between stitches, he looked at me. Really looked, like he was trying to figure out if I belonged on the list of things to keep or things to let die. I stared back, unblinking.

“You’re gonna be fine,” I said and held his hand.

Bram looked at my hand and then directly into my eyes, owning me with his stare. “Second date?”

“Such an insufferable man,” I said. “You should have stayed inside the bar.”

“You needed help.”

“I had everything under control,” I lied.

I never believed in insta-love or love at first sight. Maybe it was because of the men I seemed to attract. Suits and polos. It wasn’t like Barstow was an ocean of choices. Suits, assholes, drug dealers, or bikers. I let a little smile slip from my lips, and Bram caught it like an outfielder robbing a home run. I could see him trying to process exactly what the smile meant. Hell, I was trying to figure it out. I looked away, sort of.

Doc finished the last stitch and told Bram to sleep. It was an order, not a suggestion. Then Doc topped off Bram’s glass and left the room, brushing past me with a look that said: God help you if he doesn’t kill you first. The kitchen felt different with Doc gone, like someone had taken the air out and left the walls to close in. Bram stared at the wood grain of the table. I stared at the back of his head. No one spoke. There was nothing left that could make this situation worse, so I said, “I want to thank you.”

He didn’t look up. “For what?”

“The parking lot. For stepping in.”

He drained the bourbon, poured another. “I wasn’t doing it for you.”

“I know.” I uncrossed my arms. “Doesn’t matter. I’m still saying thank you.”

He just looked at me, eyes unreadable. “You’re welcome,” he said, eventually. Then he poured himself another shot, and I got the message: conversation closed.