I followed. I had no choice. The backpack sat against my spine like a hand on my neck.
The inside of the clubhouse was a kind of organized chaos. The front room opened into a wide space with high ceilings and industrial beams. Someone had welded old bike frames into overhead fixtures and hung lights through them. A long bar stretched along one wall. Behind it, shelves of liquor glowed in colored light. Music throbbed from speakers tucked into the corners just loud enough to fill the air.
There were couches and tables scattered around, all of them showing signs of hard use. A pool table with carved snake heads for the legs. A corner with a couple of punching bags. Along the back wall, bookshelves stood crammed full. Real books. Spinesworn, some stacked sideways because there was no more room.
Painted across the far wall in big letters: TAKE WHAT HURT YOU, HANG IT.
Photographs hung beneath it. Women on bikes. Women in bars. Women on stages, middle fingers up. Women with bruises fading around their eyes, smiling tight, a Viper cut over their shoulders.
Conversations hushed as I moved through the room. Eyes followed. A stranger. A man. A different patch.
“Sit him,” someone said.
The wolf tattoo woman gestured at a stool near the middle of the bar. I sat. No point in making this into a pissing contest.
Behind the bar stood a young woman with black hair with red tips. A prospect patch on her cut. CALIFORNIA on another. She eyed me like she was deciding whether to serve me booze or poison.
“What’s your poison, Devil?” she asked.
“Whiskey,” I said. “If Liberty allows it.”
“Liberty said treat you like a guest,” California replied. “Guests drink. You start acting like a prisoner though, that list changes.”
She poured. Neat. Good brand. I took it and let the burn settle my nerves.
On my right, a woman with long brown hair and soft features leaned her elbows on the bar, chin in hand. The patch on her chest read RAVEN. She wore a flower tuckedbehind one ear.
“You guys really look like this?” she asked, studying my jaw. “I thought comic books made you up.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I said.
“Oh, I’m not disappointed,” she replied. “I just thought the universe was exaggerating when hunky bikers showed up. Guess not.”
“Cute,” another voice chimed in. “Smooth face though. He’d be even hotter with a beard.”
That came from Diamondback, the mechanic. She had grease under her fingernails, hair in a messy bun, and the kind of grin that suggested she had been in more fistfights than dates. She had a wrench sticking out of her back pocket which gave her role away.
“What do you think Medusa?” California asked.
“Yeah,” Medusa added from a nearby table, boots up, chair tipped back. “Give him a beard, some road dirt, and he could pass for halfway feral. That would sell.”
I took another sip, letting them talk. This was how MCs worked. New blood got picked at. Tested. I could handle it.
From across the room, where Liberty and Valkyrie were talking near the bookshelves, I heard a quieter voice cut in.
“No,” Valkyrie said. “He wouldn’t.”
The room’s attention shifted. You could feel it, a subtle tilt.
She didn’t look at me when she said it. Just crossed her arms, eyes still on Liberty, who was speaking low and serious.
“Clean shaven is better. Less mess,” I thought I heard her add.
Raven’s brows shot up. She glanced at me, then at Valkyrie, then hid a smile behind her glass.
Diamondback leaned closer to Raven. “Well, well.”
California smirked outright. “Somebody has opinions.”
