Layla’s POV
Something felt wrong before I even saw him.
The clubhouse was never this quiet.
Usually the place breathed — music from the jukebox, bottles clinking, someone laughing too loud, Grizz yelling about pool rules nobody followed. Even late at night there was always life.
Tonight it felt like a church after a funeral.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The smell hit first. Beer. Smoke. Motor oil. Same as always.
But nobody looked at me.
Three bikers sat at the bar. They stopped talking when I walked in. One stared at his drink like it suddenly became interesting.
“Hey,” I said softly. “Where’s Jax?”
No answer.
I tried again. “Grizz?”
Grizz came out from the hallway. He usually greeted me with a nod or a joke.
Not tonight.
His eyes flicked to me, then away.
“He
