Present
Sheridan
Wednesday night, I pull into Fight Club’s ratty gravel lot, park, and jump out like I’ve hit an eject button. My door slams so hard, I check it for dents. A crowd of bikers turns and stares. I ignore them as I stride across the broken concrete, focusing on the club door. It’s either that or flip them the bird.
I’m horn-gry. Horny and angry, and tired from tossing and turning all night with my nethers throbbing. I refused to rub one out, on principle. I am not going to lie in bed and touch myself while imagining Trey Robson and all the things we say. I am not.
No! My boot connects with a chunk of pavement, and when I kick it with more force than necessary, it flies off and almost takes out one of the wannabe greasers.
“Watch it, sister,” he barks, patting his hands ove
