Page 13 of Rookie's Shot
I can’t have him in my life again.
There’s one thing that follows my father: chaos.
CHAPTER TWO
Rookie
Coffee doesn't make itself in the clubhouse, and nobody here is going to do it except me.
Barely five in the morning with my boots on.
In my usual everyday getup: jeans, black tee, cut over everything.
The leather is broken in now, three years of wear softening what used to feel stiff and borrowed.
Prospect patch on the back. No bottom rocker. No road name stitched across the chest.
Not yet.
The kitchen is empty. I fill the industrial pot, measure the grounds, and flip the switch.
While it brews, I wipe down the bar from last night, empty ashtrays, sweep the common room floor.
Line up the chairs Maddox knocked sideways at two in the morning when he decided arm wrestling Daemon on a table was a good idea.
There's a system to mornings as a prospect. Coffee first. Clean second.
Don't speak unless spoken to.
Don't sit down before a patched member sits down.
Don't eat until the officers have plates.
Don't complain, don't sigh, don't let your face do anything your mouth wouldn't say out loud.
Three years of this.
A thousand mornings wiping the same bar, brewing the same pot, and absorbing the same casual dismissals from men who earned the right to deliver them.
I pour the first mug and carry it to the chapel hallway, where Ruger's door is already cracked open.
Light spills through the gap.
He's been up for an hour at least, probably longer.
The man runs on four hours of sleep and an engine fueled by stubbornness and Tildie's cooking.
I knock once with my knuckle and hold the mug out without stepping inside.
Ruger takes it without a word.
"Kid." Ruger's voice carries down the hall without effort. "Church at noon. Make sure everyone knows."
I turn back. "Got it, Prez."
He looks at me for half a second. Not long enough to mean anything. Not short enough to mean nothing.
Then the door closes.
