The clubhouse was empty the night after the party.
Tank sat in his usual booth, back to the wall, a beer going warm in front of him. The bar light was the only thing on, casting a weak yellow glow over the sticky floor and the chairs still overturned from the night before. The air smelled like stale smoke and spilled whiskey.
He should have been in bed. He'd been up for almost twenty hours, first going over the club's books with Prez, then riding until the sky went dark. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw her.
Max.
The way she'd stood in the middle of the room with her chin up. The way she'd caught Drake's wrist and folded him to his knees like he weighed nothing. The way she'd looked at Tank afterward—not scared, not grateful, just steady.
*You're not going to hurt me. And eve
