Layla’s POV
My room in the clubhouse used to feel strange. Now it felt like mine. Boots by the door. My denim jacket hanging on the hook. A small lamp on the desk where I did the books for The Last Call. The walls were still rough wood, still smelled like oil and smoke, but I had put clean sheets on the bed and a small plant on the window ledge.
I sat cross-legged on the bed with my laptop open and a notebook beside me. Receipts were spread out in a messy pile. Beer orders. Liquor invoices. Repair bills for the bar freezer. I chewed on the end of my pen.
“Come on,” I muttered to myself. “You’re better at math than this.”
Music thumped faint from downstairs. Someone laughed loud. A bottle broke. Normal clubhouse noise.
Then my door swung open without a knock.
Chloe walked in like she
