Page 57 of Misery
If something goes down tonight, I'll be ready.
Emil watches from the doorway, says nothing about the excessive firepower.
"She needs this," he observes quietly.
"I know."
"Doesn't mean it's smart."
"Since when do we do smart?" I check the Glock's magazine again. Full. Ready. "We do what’s necessary."
"And this is necessary?"
"For her sanity? Yeah." I meet his eyes. "She's drowning, Emil. Has been since the incident. If working a shift gives her something to hold onto, then that's what we do."
He nods, understanding. We've both seen trauma. Both know how important the small victories are.
The drive to Bubba's feels like heading into battle.
Elfe's arms around my waist, her body pressed against mine, but she's tense now.
The closer we get, the more rigid she becomes.
Her fingers dig into my cut, holding on like I might evaporate.
"You don't have to do this," I tell her at a red light, turning my head slightly.
"Yes, I do." Her helmet bumps my shoulder. "I do, or they win."
"They've already won if you get hurt proving a point."
"Then don't let me get hurt." Simple. Like she trusts me completely. The weight of that trust is heavier than any weapon.
Bubba's is already busy when we arrive.
The Friday night crowd started early.
Bikes lined up like soldiers.
I scan the parking lot automatically.
Memorize vehicles and look for anything out of place.
Blue sedan that doesn't belong. White van with tinted windows.
Inside, it’s just like normal.
Pool tables cracking.
Jukebox playing classic rock—AC/DC bleeding into Skynyrd.
Members scattered around their usual spots.
I spot Magnus in the corner, already watching the door.
He nods—he's on alert too.
Elfe heads behind the bar, ties an apron around her waist.
