Zara
By the time the night settles properly into itself, the Grinning Skulls clubhouse has become the kind of living thing that it always does after midnight, and when another MC is here partying as in-house guests.
The massive room is hot and loud and heaving around me, the music is vibrating through old floorboards while whiskey and smoke fumes cling thickly to the air, and bodies are packed close enough that strangers brush together without apology.
Usually, a room like this leaves me tired. Tonight, somehow, it doesn’t, maybe because for the first time in years, I’m standing in one without feeling owned by it.
I’m not Knox’s wife smiling politely beside him while men measure my worth by the patch on his back or the ring on my finger. Tonight I’m just here, leaning against the bar b
