27
“What the hell is that?” asked Terrance the following morning as Shea walked in and hung her hoodie and prospect cut on the coatrack in the Iron Goddess office.
“What?” Her head ached from the previous night’s drinking. She poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot Terrance had made.
“You know damn well what. That vest. We agreed: no club colors. That includes you.”
“I’m not wearing it. I hung it up.”
Despite her suggestion that the Athenas lay low, Labrys had insisted the sisters—patched and prospect alike—wear their cuts whenever they rode. As if this show of solidarity would intimidate the Thunder.
So for now, she was wearing her prospect cut. Under her hoodie. It might get her booted from the club, but it might also save her life.
Terrance harrumphed as he sipped his coffee
