Chapter Nine
The clubhouse was a wall of noise the next night. Heavy rock music thundered from the speakers, cutting through the dense cloud of cigarette smoke and the roar of brothers laughing over the success of the recent run. I sat alone at a splintered back table, a sweating bottle of beer in my hand, keeping my back to the wall. The fresh Reaper patch on my leather cut felt like a target strapped to my chest, a heavy reminder of the lie I was living.
Then, the heavy front doors swung open, and the room shifted.
Lila “Siren” Reyes walked in. She was a patched rider from one of our main support clubs, tall, sharp-tongued, and radiating the kind of dangerous confidence that kept most prospects from even looking her in the eye. Clad in tight leather pants and a scuffed cut that hugged
