Page 28 of Sinful
"Need anything, just call down to the bar," Bodul says. "Or if you want food, or anything else."
"I'm good. Thanks." He leaves, closing the door behind him.
I'm alone with the settling silence.
I drop my bag on the bed, checking the room automatically.
Window locks—good.
Door locks—solid.
Sight lines—could be better, but acceptable.
No cameras that I can see, but I check anyway.
Nothing obvious.
Either they're respecting privacy or they're very good at hiding surveillance.
I unpack minimal—spare clothes in the dresser, toiletries in the bathroom.
Weapons stay with me. Glock on my hip, backup on my ankle, knife in my boot.
The rifle case goes under the bed, accessible but hidden.
Old habits.
Always be ready to leave. Always be ready to fight.
The shower calls to me, but I resist.
I'm too restless to settle, too wired from the road.
Ten hours of riding, and my body still thinks it's moving.
I need to walk, to move, to do something other than sit in this room thinking about tomorrow's meeting.
The connecting door to Bubba's is on the first floor, tucked in a hallway marked PRIVATE.
The keycard works smoothly, lock clicking open with a green light.
Beyond is another hallway—shorter, cleaner, transitioning from club space to civilian space.
You can feel the difference.
The air changes, becoming less cigarette smoke and leather, more beer and fried food.
Bubba's is busier than I expected for early evening on a Friday.
Maybe forty people scattered around—mostly civilians at tables, a few obvious club members at the bar and pool tables.
The space is what you'd expect from an MC bar.
Dark wood, neon signs, a jukebox playing southern rock that's just loud enough to hear but not intrusive.
Pool tables in the back, dart boards on the wall, TVs showing sports.
The bar itself is solid oak, worn smooth from years of elbows and spilled drinks.
