Page 39 of Shatter

"Thanks." My voice comes out hoarse.

"Don't thank me." He turns his head and looks at me, and there's no humor in his face at all. "You don't even know her name, Hakon."

"I know." I stare at the opposite wall.

"You put three in a man for a woman who won't tell you her name, and then you wrapped your cut around her in front of Rati." He keeps his voice low. "You know what it means to them? To Tor?"

"I know what it means." I rub my thumb over my raw knuckles. "I didn't know then. I know now."

Gunnar doesn't say anything for a moment.

He's my best friend.

He's also wearing a full patch.

Three months ago, he stood in front of the kirkja table and swore to put the club first, and I believe him, because I watched his face when he said it.

"I'd have done it too." He bumps my shoulder with his. "For the record."

"Tor said you'd have called first." I don't look at him.

"Yeah." One corner of his mouth lifts. "I would've. Right after I shot him."

Ulf comes up the stairs two at a time, a paper bag in one hand and a drink carrier in the other, and he stops when he sees us.

"Oh, good." He lifts the bag. "The murder club's having a meeting."

"Shut up, Ulf." I push off the wall.

"I brought breakfast." He shakes the bag at me. "Biscuits from the place on Monroe. I figured your girlfriend might want something besides ibuprofen."

"She's not my girlfriend." I shove my free hand in my pocket.

"She's wearing your cut, man." Ulf grins, but his eyes don't match it, flicking over my jaw and the dark circles under my eyes. "First girl you ever bring home, and she shows up with fourteen stitches. You've always been an overachiever."

I take the bag from him.

The paper's warm, and it smells like butter and black pepper.

"Thanks." I fold the top of the bag over.

He shrugs, and the grin drops off his face.

"You okay, brother?" His voice goes low.

My throat locks around the answer, and I don't give it.

He nods like I did.

Down the hall, a door opens, and Gorm comes out of the room at the end, pulling a T-shirt over his head.

He sees the three of us standing there with the bag in my hand, and his mouth twists.

"Must be nice." He shoulders past without slowing. "Fuck up that bad and get a girl out of it."

The top of the paper bag crackles in my fist.

Nobody answers him, and his boots thud down the stairs.