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“Cheers,” I say, clinking my glass against hers.
The cool liquid slides down my throat, refreshing and sweet.
For a moment, I allow myself to relax, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the company of my best friend.
But the reprieve is short-lived.
My mind starts to wander, picking apart every detail of my life.
How do I balance my feelings for Spark with the complications of being involved with someone in the club?
And what about Mandy?
Our friendship is already complicated enough without adding more layers to it.
“You’re quiet again,” Mandy observes, sipping her drink. “What’s really on your mind?”
“Just... everything,” I admit, stirring my mojito absently. “Work, relationships, family. It’s a lot.”
“Hey, you’re strong. There’s nothing you can’t handle,” she says, placing a comforting hand on mine. “You’ll figure it out. And remember, I’m here for you. Always.”
“Thanks, Mandy,” I say, squeezing her hand. Her support means the world to me, but it also adds another layer of complexity to our relationship. She knows about Spark, but not the whole truth. And keeping secrets from her feels wrong.
“Why don’t we plan a shoot for next week?” Mandy suggests, changing the subject. “Something fun and different. It might help take your mind off things.”
I agree, grateful for the distraction. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Planning shoots always gives me a sense of control, something solid to hold onto amidst the chaos.
“Great! We’ll brainstorm ideas later,” she says with a grin. “For now, let’s enjoy our drinks and this beautiful view.”
“Deal,” I say, taking another sip of my mojito.
CHAPTER THREE
Spark
Taco seasoning wafts through the clubhouse.
The ladies must be doing something Mexican inspired for dinner tonight.
I'm lounging on one of the worn leather couches, my boots propped up on a coffee table that’s seen better days, eyes half-closed as I nurse a beer.
Damon’s roar jostles me. “Fuck!”
His roar fills the room just before the sound of shattering glass does.
I jerk upright, my heart pounding in my chest as I watch his whiskey glass explode against the far wall in a million glittering pieces.
The whole place goes dead silent.
All eyes turn to Damon, the Prez, who stands there with fury etched across his face, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles are white.
Damon’s a big guy, built like an ox, and right now, he looks like he’s ready to tear someone apart.
The veins in his neck bulge, and his gaze sweeps over us like a storm looking for a place to land.
“Motherfucker,” he curses, quieter this time, but the edge in his voice is sharp enough to cut through steel.
