The bar was loud, packed shoulder to shoulder with bikers and locals. The air smelled of beer, smoke, and sweat. Riley kept close to the counter, her hands wrapped tightly around a glass of soda.
She didn’t usually come here, but Marcus had insisted she show up for the night’s gathering.
“Club loyalty,” he had said. She felt the weight of eyes on her even before trouble started.
“Hey, Dawson,” a man slurred from the corner, his voice cutting above the noise. He staggered toward her, the Vipers patch stitched to the back of his vest.
“Why so quiet tonight? Afraid your hockey boy might see you with the wrong crowd?
The jab sparked laughter from a few tables. Riley’s jaw clenched, but she stayed silent.
The man slammed his hand against the bar, making her drink jump.
“C’mon, answer me
