Layla’s POV
The clubhouse still smelled like smoke. Even after the windows got replaced and the walls got patched, the scent stayed in the wood. Burnt beer. Burnt wires. Burnt memories.
Vincent didn’t make it out.
His workbench in the garage sat clean now. Too clean. His tools were lined up like he might walk back in any second and yell at someone for touching his stuff.
He wasn’t coming back.
The boys didn’t talk about it much. They just worked harder. Hammering boards. Repainting walls. Fixing the busted jukebox. Life in a biker club doesn’t stop because one of you falls. It just shifts and keeps rolling. I wiped down the bar for the third time that morning. Roxy was beside me, stacking glasses slow.
“You missed a spot,” she said, nodding toward the edge.
I rolled my eyes but wip
