RYDER:
"You free for a drink at the MC?" my dad texted.
I stared at the screen, fingers tapping before I even thought it through.
“Be there in 10.”
I didn’t want to show up looking like I stepped off the cover of GQ. No button-ups. No cufflinks. Not if I didn’t want every patch in the clubhouse staring at me like I didn’t belong.
I traded the dress slacks for dark-washed jeans, slid on a fitted charcoal tee that clung just right to my chest and arms, and shoved my hair back with a rough hand. I still looked like me. Just… less Wall Street, more I actually grew up around motorcycles.
The Corvette rumbled to life and I cruised down streets I’d memorized years ago, the city’s pulse hitting harder as I neared the club. Neon lights bled across the windshield. That old buzzing red Savage S
