One man leaned against the siding, his mouth buried in a woman’s neck.Another paced by the door, phone pressed to his ear.A third watched on as a woman danced barefoot on the hood of a car.
This wasn’t grief.
This was a fucking party.
Parking, Cassie yanked down the visor, swiping on lip balm, blackening her eyes with a quick stroke of a finger.She stripped off her blazer—leaving her in a cropped tank and leggings—and grabbed her bag.
“Shoulders square, kid,” Connor whispered.“You always walk into a place like you own it—even if you’re just borrowin’.”
Squaring her shoulders, she marched up to the bald, tattooed biker in front of the door and plastered on a big, fake smile.“Hi…Snake,” she greeted him, reading his patch.
“Who the fuck are you?”he asked, tucking his phone away.
“Tiffany,” she said, slipping into her old accent.“But everyone calls me Tiff.”
“I don’t give a shit what they call you.This is invite-only.”
Cassie feigned a pout.“But I was invited.Met this guy at Shooter’s a few nights back—Nate or Nick or somethin’?He gave me directions.Said to swing by if I felt like a party.”
“That so?”
“Sure is.”She crossed herself with exaggerated care.“Swear on my mama.”
Snake’s gaze dipped to her chest, his smirk slow.He leaned in close, the booze on his breath sharp and pungent.“Ain’t no gods here, sweetheart.Only devils.”
Cassie bared her teeth.“Sounds perfect.”
Chuckling, he stepped aside, pulling open the door.“Then, Tiff, welcome to hell.”
The clubhouse innards were smoky and low lit, a rock song snarling under the din of voices.For a heartbeat, Cassie stood frozen in the doorway, letting it crash over her, remembering the first time she ever stepped inside.Young and dumb, she’d mistaken their excess for invincibility—the parties, the easy cash, the way the whole town seemed to bend around the Kings like they were something untouchable.
She knew better now.They were just men.As fallible as everyone else.
Pushing through the crowd, she made her way toward the bar ahead—same chipped wood, same chrome trim.A bleach-blonde in a bikini top leaned over the counter.
“What can I get ya, sugar?”
“White whiskey,” Cassie replied, eyes darting to and fro.
“Shooter or glass?”
“Shooter.”
The second the bartender turned her back, Cassie ducked behind the counter, fingers finding the switches.
Flick—the music cut.
Flick—the lights snapped on.
The room jolted.Laughter died mid-breath.Conversations choked off.
“What in the hell?”the bartender shrieked.“Get out from there!”
Ignoring her, Cassie snatched the wooden bat from under the counter and swung.Bottles exploded.Glass rained.Moonshine and whiskey spilled across the floor, sharp fumes rising as it soaked the wood.
The crowd erupted in shouts and laughter, bodies shifting back in shock.
“Nash!”Cassie yelled.“Where the hell are you?”
