Knox
The Grinning Skulls MC clubhouse has never been a place a man walks into without thinking about what it means to be there. Not because of the building itself, which is nothing more than concrete and steel, but because of who sits inside it, who watches from the edges, who remembers every debt and every favor as if they’re written into bone instead of ink.
As I cut my motorcycle engine, I take a moment.
I remind myself that Zara signing those papers means nothing on its own. Not yet… because I haven’t signed jack s**t. And that – that’s where my control still sits.
I swing off the bike, rolling my shoulders once as I take in the men stationed where they always are, watching without appearing to. I don’t rush, don’t push forward like I own the place, because I don’t and pretending
