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I have to get back to the clubhouse before Blackjack and Zane start raising hell.
“Hey,” she stops me as I’m about to rev the engine again. “I’ll tell them I called you this morning. That I stayed at a friend’s place ‘cause I was too tipsy to drive home last night.”
“Appreciate it, Jordyn,” I say, a weight lifting off my shoulders.
The last thing I need is more heat from the club.
“Don’t mention it,” she says, flashing a quick smile. “Just get back there before they notice you’re gone if you can.”
“Will do,” I promise, watching her walk toward the entrance.
Her stride is confident like she’s got the world figured out. Maybe she does.
As she disappears through the door, I can’t help but feel a pang of something—regret, maybe. Or just the cold reality that our worlds only collide in moments like these.
The bike roars back to life beneath me, and I speed off, the wind trying to tear away the thoughts gnawing at my mind.
The city blurs past once more, each mile taking me closer to the clubhouse.
Closer to the questions I’ll have to answer. But for now, all I can think about is how Jordyn jumped to have my back.
She didn’t have to offer up that alibi, but she did, and that means the world to me.
The ride back is a blur of asphalt and wind.
Billings wakes up around me, the early risers and the stragglers blending into one faceless mass.
But I’m not part of their world. My world is danger, leather, and the code we live by—one that doesn’t forgive mistakes easily.
I pull up to the clubhouse, the familiar sight settling the unease in my gut.
Dismounting, I park my bike next to the row of others, each one representing their riders.
I take a deep breath. It’s time to face the music, and hopefully, they don’t have my head.
Inside, the air is thick with smoke and the remnants of last night’s party.
It’s quieter than usual—most of the brothers are probably nursing hangovers or still sprawled out on couches.
I scan the room, looking for my Prez and VP. He’s the one I need to answer to.
No point delaying it. I push further inside, steeling myself for whatever comes next.
Blackjack’s hunched over a newspaper at the scarred wooden table in the corner.
The kind of corner that’s seen deals, threats, and brotherhood.
He doesn’t look up as I approach, just flicks his eyes my way before burying them back in the print.
“Where the hell you been, Bama?” His voice is low, gravelly—the kind that demands answers.
“Jordyn called me this morning,” I say, keeping it brief. “She needed a ride to Tart.”
He lowers the paper slowly, like every second’s a test of my patience.
His eyes, sharp and cutting, finally lock onto mine. “That right?”
“Yeah.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “She was too tipsy to drive last night. Left her car at a friend’s place.”
