Page 11

I'm so fucked.

TATUM

Making my way back into the main room of the clubhouse, I sink onto a bar stool and let out a slow breath.

They agreed to take me in, thank fuck. I know I’ll never earn the patch the way they think I want to, but I will be patched one day.

Lennox could've pulled rank and forced the issue, but I don't want to spend my life hiding behind men who think women need protecting. That's what drew me to Nicholas at first—the promise of being equals.

Funny how that shit turned out.

Nicholas wasn't the kind of man who'd beat you bloody in an alley. He was worse. The kind who would smile while setting the trap, then convince everyone else you'd built it yourself. That's how he'd amassed the following in our club. It’s also how he’d kept me for so long.

The rumble of the last few bikes pulling into the lot jolts me from my thoughts. I wander to the window just in time to catch a couple older members eyeing my lime-green Ninja parked outside, with my kitten-ear helmet perched on the seat.

Pointing and snickering, they make their way inside talking shit about the “pussy” bike out front.

Real fucking mature, dickheads. Forgive a girl for wanting to have fun every once in a while.

With everyone finally locked away in church, I allow myself to take a good look around the common room. The clubhouse barely resembles the place where I grew up. The bright lighting Dad preferred is gone, replaced with dim fixtures that leave shadows in every corner. New leather furniture sits where battered couches used to sag. Fresh paint covers years of cigarette stains. It's cleaner. More modern, even.

The ghosts of Lennox and me tearing through these halls as kids feel buried beneath the renovations. Still, I feel proud. Lennox rebuilt this place.

I just hope it never consumes him the way it consumed Dad.

It's a sobering thought that pushes through the chaos of my head.

The second church lets out, women start appearing from seemingly nowhere. Their eyes skim over me like they're checking for a patch, a ring, or a reason to worry. No one introduces themselves. No one says hello.

How thoughtful.

My clothes should give it away, but of course, not everyone knows how to rub their last two brain cells together to read the room.

A blonde in a skirt that barely qualifies as clothing strides over, her chest looking more expensive than natural. She picks up a strand of my hair between two fingers before dropping it in disgust. “Thought new bunnies were told that the men around here prefer more natural-looking women. Guess you missed that memo.”

The brunette beside her snickers.

I bite back a sigh. I've spent four years around women who would smile while plotting how to ruin your life over a man who didn’t care to remember their name the next morning. Club bunnies don’t intimidate me anymore. They’re just territorial. And right now, I’m an unfamiliar woman inside their space.

I move to walk around them, but she grabs me by the arm. Not enough to hurt but enough to make a point. “Stay away from Lennox—he’s mine.”

I roll my eyes, not really wanting to hear about who my brother is fucking.

Pulling free, I mutter, “Sure thing, Barbie.”

She huffs but doesn’t push it.

The place starts to fill with members, and the clubhouse comes alive. Conversations overlap. Drinks start flowing. Prospects mingle with patched members, while officers keep to themselves, watching everything without looking like they're watching anything.

Across the room, Barbie has claimed a spot in Lennox's lap, desperately trying to monopolize his attention. It doesn’t look like that’s going too well for her. Switch looks equally unimpressed by the brunette who's draped herself across him. His magnetic green eyes lock onto mine as if he heard my inner thoughts. His short blonde hair looks so soft, and I want to run my fingers through it.

Damn, he’s hot.

Breaking the trance, I look down at my boots when a prospect strolls over to me like he’s got all the confidence in the world, giving me a cocky grin.

“You waiting for somebody?” he asks. Tall. Dark hair. Ball cap backward. He’s already irritating me.

I raise an eyebrow. “You always walk up to random women like you’re starring in a low-budget biker porno? Plus, you’re not patched. So, what makes you think you have the right?”