Knox:
The clubhouse still smells like oil, smoke, and stale sin. Some things never change.
It’s been maybe fifteen minutes since Riot dropped me off and peeled off again, said he had to handle “a thing” — whatever that meant. Probably code for either getting laid or beating the s**t out of someone. With Riot, it’s a coin toss.
I cross through the front doors like a man stepping into his own grave and lighting a cigarette on the way down. The place is loud, humid with summer sweat, and dim like always — neon bar signs, haze in the air, laughter that sounds more like barking. There’s some new faces, sure, but the bones of the Phantoms are still here. Still breathing.
A few of the guys nod when they see me. A couple don’t. I clock both.
I head for the bar and grab a beer from the mini fr
