New Jersey.My home state.
Only, I don’t feel as happy or settled as I thought I would.
What can I say?I’ve just never really found my thing.
I’ve tried a bunch—bartending, hair school, photography, even a brief and disastrous stint selling essential oils (fun fact: peppermint oil does not fix a hangover, no matter what the pamphlet says)—but nothing sticks.
I keep waiting for that lightning bolt moment where it all makes sense.
So far?Crickets.
Still, I was trying.
Trying to find myself.
Trying to start over.
Trying not to be a total train wreck.
Then came tonight.
Just a regular night out with Kristie—my bestie and cousin—going to the local biker bar for some greasy food, cold drinks, and maybe a little live music.
It sounded like exactly what I needed: a little chaos, a lot of noise, and zero pressure.
Except, of course, the universe decided that would be too easy.
Because what I didn’t need was some asshat in a leather cut, deciding that because I danced near him once, he suddenly owned me.
Newsflash, stud muffin—no means no.
I shoved him off, hard, but apparently, his ego was allergic to rejection because next thing I know, he’s grabbing my arm again and growling something about me being “his old lady.”
Yeah.Nope.
Cue the shouting match.
Someone threw a drink.
And then, like some twisted magic trick, the music cut out, and the crowd parted just enough for me to see a familiar face storming through the chaos.
Rooster.
Kristie’s Rooster.
The one she still didn’t talk about, but whose name she never quite stopped saying under her breath.
The look on her face said everything.
Mine probably said, Oh shit.
Before I could even catch my breath, the guy was barking orders like he ran the place—and maybe he did.
Bikers started moving, fast, efficient, like they’d done this a hundred times before.
One second I was hashing it out with Kristie about whether and how we should leave.
The next, I was being hustled out the back door by a wall of leather and muscle.
