Kian
The clubhouse was nothing more than a rundown shack surrounded by herringbone fencing. An ocean of motorcycles littered the parking lot guarded by a couple of prospects. They were mean-looking guys who were itching to make their colors as a respectable part of the crew. They eyed Throttle as the second coming of Christ and were all about ready to bow down and kiss his dusty boots. As I walked by, I found myself dragged into a headlock and a set of knuckles rubbed against the top of my scalp.
"I knew you'd come around," Ace, one of the prospects, cited, blowing his blond, jaw-length hair out of his face, his blue eyes dancing with glee.
He was a year older than me, having joined the club to follow in his father's footsteps. The guy standing next to him was called Blade: dark-haired,
