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Patrick rolled his eyes. “Who d’you think?”

“Notyou, you pouty bastard.”

I suppressed a laugh. “It’s Nina.”

Donny grinned rather suspiciously and pulled a chair out with too much grandeur. Gunner stared at me in a way that told me I was not welcome at his table.

This wasn’t a revelation. I hadn’t been oblivious to Gunner’s quiet contempt.

I sat in Donny’s offered chair and stared straight at the oldest Colson brother. When the silence stretched, I gathered myself and said, “Is there something you wish to say to me?”

In my periphery, I saw Patrick lean back in his chair with a smirk. “Good luck, brother,” he said.

Gunner waved me away, a vein pulsing in his neck. “Why don’t you go on up to your room. I ain’t in the mood for any swank bullshit tonight.”

I sniffed. “That’s a shame. I’d written a poem just for you.”

Donny smirked and shifted to the edge of his seat.

“Yeah?” Gunner chuckled darkly. “Then you can recite it to your pillow, darlin’.”

“I want to hear it,” Donny said immediately, and Gunner kicked him.

“Fuck.Ouch!”

I cleared my throat exuberantly.

“In old town Kenton, come quick,

While Gunner boy swings his dick.

And the ladies will sigh,

For his balls have gone dry,

And his cock is the size of a prick.”

What followed was a ripple of shocked silence, first broken by Patrick, who laughed around the rim of his glass and watched Gunner closely. Then Donny slapped the table and hooted, startling the patrons nearby. Gunner, for all he was worth, did his best to remain stoic. But seconds passed, and I refused to look away. Donny almost slid off his chair in hysterics, and eventually, Gunner’s lips twitched upward despite himself. His eyes brightened. “She’s got some bullocks on her, Pat, I’ll give you that,” he said, finally lifting his stare from me. He shook his head and lit a cigarette.

I turned to see Patrick quietly chuckling, watching me.

“Bet they didn’t teach you that at your fancy school,” Gunner continued. He had turned his body just slightly, now including me in the fold. This was how brink men often were—hard and calloused, but simply won over if you showed them your mettle.

“Not quite,” I allowed.

“Then you learned it from some dirty Craftsman,” he tsked. “What would your ma and pa say?”

“My father was a miner,” I said, and watched Gunner’s eyes pop. “He taught me that poem when I was four.”

“Nina’s from Scurry,” Patrick offered.

“Scurry?” Gunner replied, his interest seemingly piqued. “What do they dig for over there?”

“Terranium.”

“Ach,” Gunner grumbled. “Nasty fuckin’ work. All that rock and dynamite.”

I shrugged. “Soot isn’t much better.”