Garrick kept his hand flat on Corrie's back and walked her out of the bar.
Cutter got in front of them in the hall, close enough that his breath hit her face.
Cutter: Where do you think you're taking her? She doesn't get a fucking escort.
Cutter took her arm above the elbow and squeezed until her skin went white, then red.
Cutter: Noreen's brat. I knew it the first time I looked at that lying face.
Corrie: Let go of me.
Cutter: Shut your mouth, bitch. You don't talk unless the club tells you to.
His grip tightened until something in her arm burned, and she bit down on the sound.
Trixie came around the corner and slapped her open-handed before Garrick could turn.
Corrie's split lip opened again and blood ran warm down her chin.
Trixie: There it is. Same mouth as her mama. Fucking curse on this club.
The men in the bar laughed. It wasn't loud. That was worse than loud.
She stood there with blood on her chin and let them look at her like a bug on a plate.
Cutter: I'd drag her out past the gate myself if the old man let me. Nobody would hear a fucking thing but her crying.
Garrick: That's enough. Back off, Cutter.
Cutter: She's a liar, a killer and a freak. Which one are you protecting?
Kemp: Bring her in here.
Kemp: Garrick, you too. Shut the door on the rest of them.
The office was small. A desk, old panelling and a wall of photos in cheap frames.
Kemp sat down heavy and nodded at the chair across from him.
Kemp: Sit.
Kemp: You said your mother's name was Noreen. What else do you know about her?
Corrie: Nothing.
Corrie: She left when I was little. I got told she was dead, so I stopped asking.
Kemp's jaw worked like he was chewing on something he didn't like the taste of.
He pointed at the biggest photo on the wall. Bikes, a wooden clubhouse, a row of people squinting into the sun.
Kemp: That's the old place. Before the fire. You ever see it?
Corrie: No.
She leaned in to see it better and her fingers brushed the glass.
She should have known better by now. Her skin always knew things before she did.
The room went white.
Then orange. Then a warm evening at the old clubhouse, before any of this hurt.
A younger Kemp stood by a bike with his arm around a thin woman with faded red hair.
The woman laughed and held a red helmet under her arm.
Corrie's chest hurt. She knew that laugh from before she had words for it.
The woman turned, like she could hear Corrie standing there, and the glass went dark.
Corrie came back in the chair, breathing hard, her hand still flat on the frame.
Kemp: Girl. What did you see?
Corrie: That's my mother. That's Noreen, in the picture, standing with you.
Kemp's face went gray. Not angry. Gray, like somebody had pulled the blood out of him.
He put both hands on the desk and stared at her, and his fingers shook.
Kemp: Cutter. Get out. Now.
Cutter got up slow and stopped at the door beside her chair.
Cutter: You think his word keeps you safe, bitch? A patch doesn't stop me.
Cutter: I'll have you screaming in the dirt before this is over, and he'll be the one holding the door.
She believed him. Her mouth went dry, and her hands went cold in her lap.
Garrick came and stood at her shoulder, close enough that his cut brushed her arm.
Kemp: Garrick. She doesn't leave this clubhouse. Not the yard, not the gate, not for a fucking thing.
Garrick: She's with me.
Kemp: She's watched. There's a difference. Learn it.
His hand came down on her shoulder, and his thumb moved once against her collarbone.
She looked up at him and he looked back, and neither of them said anything.
She had protection now. It felt like a rope tied to a man who might not be strong enough to hold it.