My gaze drifts down to the shoes on the floor.
Heels.
Or my black Doc Martens.
I stare at the heels, contemplating for a moment before kicking them aside.
“Absolutely not,” I mutter, shaking my head.
Instead, I lace up my Docs, which somehow ground the outfit while still keeping it sexy.
I grab my favorite perfume and layer it lightly across my neck and wrists, letting the scent settle softly around me.
Okay.
I can do this.
I grab my keys and head out the door.
---
The clubhouse is only about fifteen minutes away. Close enough that I’ve passed the road before, but I’ve never actually driven down it.
As my Beetle hums along the quiet road, my nerves start to creep in.
The closer I get, the tighter my stomach feels.
I suddenly become acutely aware that I’m walking into a place full of bikers who have probably known each other for years.
Meanwhile, I’m just… me.
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter.
Okay.
I definitely need a drink when I get there. Maybe two.
The road curves, and the trees thin out.
Then the compound appears.
My eyes widen.
The place resembles a fortress.
Tall fencing surrounds the entire property, and a massive gate blocks the entrance, flanked by a small security building. Two men stand near the gate, watching incoming vehicles with vigilant eyes.
This is… way more serious than I expected.
I roll up slowly and lower my window.
One of the guys steps forward, and then he grins.
“Hey, Em.”
I recognize him instantly. He’s one of the guys who rotates security shifts watching my house sometimes—young, maybe early twenties, always polite when he waves from his truck.
“Hi,” I respond with a smile. “Sorry I didn’t bring trays today.”
