“I’ll do my best.”
We started toward the entrance.
The closer we got, the more obvious it became that this wasn’t just a local bar donating space for a benefit. The place looked like it belonged to the kind of people who handled their own problems and didn’t bother calling anyone for help unless there was blood involved.
A low pulse of unease moved through me.
Not fear.
Just awareness.
The kind you felt when you stepped into a place that had its own rules.
The front door opened before we could reach it, and two men came out laughing hard enough that one of them nearly missed the step. Both wore leather vests over black shirts, tattoos covering their arms, heavy boots striking the wood porch with solid thuds.
My eyes caught on the cuts immediately.
Big back patches.
Rockers above and below.
Something about the design made it obvious those weren’t just decorative.
Maya leaned closer to me as we stepped aside for them to pass. “That’s a no for me.”
“What?”
She kept her smile fixed in place. “Those are real bikers.”
I murmured, “As opposed to fake ones?”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
The two men barely looked at us as they passed, still talking to each other, but their presence lingered anyway. Big. Loud. Unapologetic.
Maya exhaled under her breath. “I suddenly feel underdressed.”
I glanced at her tiny tank top and fitted jeans. “You are physically incapable of being underdressed.”
“That’s true.”
Inside, the noise hit like a wall.
Conversation.
Laughter.
Music from overhead speakers.
The clink of bottles and glasses.
The entire front bar area was shoulder to shoulder with people. Not rowdy exactly, but packed enough that the air already felt warm from body heat and spilled alcohol. Neon beer signs glowed against dark walls. A long wooden bar ran along one side of the room, three deep with people waiting to order.
I stopped just inside the doorway and took it all in.
There were more people here than I’d expected by a mile.
