They’ve turned the clubhouse into a sanctuary. Not just theirs, but ours.
And I didn’t realize it could be that. I didn’t think a place this rough could shift its bones so completely; become soft without losing its edge. A kind of holy chaos. A spell cast to make it suddenly okay to exhale.
My fingers twitch at my sides, restless. They’re chasing the shape of a melody. The ghost of a chorus catches behind my teeth, but I don’t let it out. Not yet.
I stand just inside the threshold, stunned. My boots rooted to the floorboards. One step, and the spell might break.
This place used to belong to the men. To the club. The Outsiders and their leather and their code and their beer-stained loyalty. But tonight, it belongs to the women who’ve carved outspace between the cracks. Somehow, impossibly… it feels safer than anywhere else I’ve ever been.
But I still don’t know what to do with it. My body doesn’t know how to sit in safety without preparing for the sharp turn. I have no idea how to soften without flinching. Because safety has never lasted long in my life. And softness? It’s a luxury I was taught not to trust.
My throat tightens. My thumb taps a nervous, silent beat against my thigh. The same pattern I used to drum against the guitar I pawned to cover rent six months ago. The same rhythm I tapped while waiting in ERs and parking lots and silence.
Ruby’s already got me by the wrist, tugging me toward the storm of music, blankets, and glittered liquor bottles.
“Shot o’clock, Candy Cane!” she yells. “Let’s go! Just tits, tequila, and trash talk!”
I wince at the nickname, but let her drag me anyway. She doesn’t mean anything by it. Ruby’s never needed permission to rename people. She decides you’re hers and that’s that. It’s how we became friends. Or rather, how she decided we were.
And for once, I don’t resist.
I take the damn shot. The glass is warm in my hand, condensation clinging like a second skin.
For a second, I don’t feel out of place at all.
She shoves a glass into my hand before I can protest. “You’re late. That means double.”
“Oh my God,” I mutter, but I toss it back. It burns. Sharp. Cleansing. The tequila hits my throat with the sting of a slap and settles low in my chest, blooming heat through the hollow parts I usually keep locked up tight. For a moment, I don’t feel cracked. Just flushed. Present. Here.
Frankie lounges nearby, her black combat boots kicked up on the edge of the pool table, owning the whole damn world.
The candlelight catches the silver rings on her fingers. They look almost ancient. Rings that seem to remember things we’ve all tried to forget. My gaze lingers on them longer than it should. Something about the way they gleam, mirroring back everything but the living, makes my spine prickle.
“We’re starting with exes and ending in unresolved childhood trauma,” she calls, flipping a bottle cap into a Solo cup with eerie accuracy. “You in?”
I should say no. I should walk away. But something inside me, something tired of always being tired, laughs. Quiet, but real. The sound surprises me. It feels like an exhale I forgot I needed.
Darla struts by in a cherry red skirt and curled hair that could survive a hurricane. She looks every bit the 1950s housewife freshly returned from burying her third husband. She offers me a mimosa in a mason jar with the kind of sharp-smiled confidence that dares me to refuse. The citrus hits my nose before the glass reaches my lips—bright, fizzy, laced with danger.
For a moment, she reminds me of the women people mistake for decoration. Beautiful. Untouchable. But dangerous in all the right ways.
“Take the drink,” she says. “Or I’ll start singing show tunes.”
“She’ll do it,” Frankie warns. “She knows all ofGrease 2.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Darla purrs.
Sloane watches it all from the couch, beer in one hand, the other wrapped around a blanket with the ease of some chill biker-mom sorceress. “You’re already part of the mess. Might as well sit down.”
So I do. Even though my legs are stiff and my instincts scream that this is dangerous because it’s good. Because I want it. And I don’t know what to do with that.
My body doesn’t know how to rest without bracing. But the couch sinks beneath me with the weight of something that’sbeen waiting. The pillow smells of cinnamon, shampoo, and lemon-scented cleaner. A domestic kind of rebellion.
My fingers absently trace the rim of the mason jar, tapping a quiet rhythm only I can hear. The beat settles something in my chest, a metronome ticking in the background of all this chaos.
Frankie slides down beside me, her energy quieter but no less sharp. She doesn’t press. Doesn’t pry. Just watches. After a while, her eyes catch on the silver crescent necklace around my throat. Ruby gave it to me years ago. Her expression shifts. Just slightly.
Then she says, “You dream much, Candy?”
