The whole club is here.
Not because Ellie asked, but because when one of our own loses something and rebuilds, you show up.
The bar looks nothing like the crime scene it was months ago.
New floors, new windows, new booths along the east wall. The old jukebox survived the fire and sits in the corner like a monument to spite.
Ellie had the countertop custom-built from reclaimed barn wood she found in a guy's shed off Route 19. She haggled him down forty dollars and bought his wife a pie as a thank-you.
Satyr set up his sound system an hour ago. Country rock through the speakers at a volume Ellie considers acceptable, which means you can still hear the person next to you if they lean in.
I'm behind the bar with Saylor when the first bikes pull in.
She's restocking glasses, moving with the efficient rhythm I've watched her develop over the last two weeks.
Hair up, with a black Backroads tee, sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
She looks up when the engines start rumbling through the walls.
"How many people are coming to this?" She sets a pint glass on the shelf, her gaze tracking the window.
I line up bottles on the speed rail. "All of them."
She tilts her head. "All of them meaning...?"
"Every patched member, every prospect, every ol' lady, every kid." I cap the last bottle and straighten the row. "Plus townies, regulars, and anyone who heard Ellie's open again."
Her expression does something complicated. Not fear, more like recalculation.
Ellie comes through the kitchen door with a tray of wings, wearing a Backroads apron and the same unshakeable calm she's had every day since I've known her.
"Saylor, you're on taps tonight." She sets the tray on the pass. "Rookie, you're floating. Glasses, bussing, whatever needs doing. Tildie's got the well drinks when she gets here."
Saylor turns to the taps, squaring her shoulders. "Got it."
I catch Ellie's eye on my way past. She gives me a nod so small it barely qualifies as movement.
The nod means Saylor's doing fine. Coming from Ellie, a nod is a standing ovation.
By nine, Backroads is packed to the brim.
Ruger walks in first, because Ruger always walks in first.
Bald head, thick beard, the physical presence of a man who makes a room rearrange itself without anyone deciding to move.
Tildie beside him, dark waves brushing his shoulder, her amber focus already scanning for Ellie.
They move through the crowd and people part.
Not out of fear. Out of recognition.
Coin and Leah come through next. His arm around her waist, her scar catching the overhead light.
The girls aren't with them tonight. Wrenleigh's babysitting Sadie Jo, which means Coin is out in public without the constant vigilance he wears like a second cut. He looks lighter. Almost relaxed.
Leah's gaze finds Saylor behind the bar and she nods once. Direct, assessing, kind.
Bloodhound arrives alone, Vanna staying home with Waylon.