Still smiling.
Still calm.
Like none of this bothers her at all.
Lady drags me down the hallway where the bass becomes a dull vibration instead of a physical force pounding through my bones. The air is cooler here, smelling faintly of ink and cleaning chemicals instead of tequila and sweat.
The moment we’re alone she spins to face me.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she demands.
Her voice is sharp, but worry sits right under it.
“You told me you were done with bikers. Done with Diablo. Done with this entire circus.”
I swallow. My brain wraps around the last time I saw her. I probably did say that.
“I didn’t come here on purpose.”
Lady snorts.
“You never do. Somehow you always end up getting dragged back.”
The truth of it tightens my throat.
Her expression softens a little. She cups my face gently with both hands, thumbs brushing under my eyes like she’s checking for tears I refuse to shed.
“Girl,” she says quietly, “I’ve already seen it. He looks at you like you’re his.”
A bitter laugh slips out before I can stop it.
“Then why is he still engaged?”
Lady glances back toward the main room where Carmen’s voice drifts faintly over the music, smooth and sharp.
“Because he’s trapped,” she says. “Or because he likes having his cake and eating it too.”
The words hit harder than they should.
I press my lips together, trying to swallow the ugly mix of anger and humiliation crawling up my chest.
“I won’t be someone’s secret,” I say.
My voice trembles slightly but I force it steady.
Lady studies me for a long moment.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Then we get you out of here.”
Before I can answer, a roar erupts from the main room. The kind of roar that spreads through a crowd like gasoline hitting flame.
Lady’s hand clamps tighter around mine.
“Come on.”
We step back into the chaos and I immediately see why the room exploded.
Carmen stands at the center of the floor now, slightly elevated on the platform near the bar. Someone has handed her a microphone like she’s hosting the event. Saints crowd around her with bright eyes and flushed faces, already drunk on liquor and spectacle. A few patched men stand back with arms crossed, watching the room like they’re counting exits, not applause.
