Whatever the reason, I already knew my answer.
Lily: What time?
The reply came immediately. As though he’d expected it.
Hector: Three.
Then another message.
Hector: And Lily?
Lily: Yes?
A brief pause. Then he replied.
Hector: Don’t wear heels.
I stared at that for a moment, then laughed, then spent the rest of the afternoon wondering what exactly waited for me inside the Black Saints clubhouse.
By Two-Thirty I had changed outfits three times.
Not because I cared what Hector thought.
But because I had absolutely no idea what someone was supposed to wear to a motorcycle clubhouse. Every image my brain supplied looked ridiculous. Leather jackets. Chain wallets. Men with names like Razor. The sort of people news anchors referred to as dangerous individuals while speaking in grave c
