Page 13 of Traitor

Bones leans in slightly, his voice lower now. "But if you ever change your mind... I'd love to take you for a ride. A real one. Dinner, a night out. Whatever you want."

I exhale slowly, my heart pounding too hard. I need time to think. I need to get my head on straight. But God help me, I want to say yes.

I pull in a slow breath, steadying my hands as I approach the bar. The air is thick with stale whiskey, cigarette smoke, and leather, the afternoon sunlight filtering through the cracked blinds. The Iron Vultures clubhouse is quieter now, most of the members either out on club business or passed out from the previous night's bender.

Behind the counter, the man I saw last night is wiping down a glass, his tattooed arms corded with muscle, a leather cut hanging loosely over a black t-shirt. He looks about forty, rough around the edges, his salt-and-pepper beard framing a face that's seen one too many bar fights.

He flicks a glance up at me. Dark brown eyes, sharp, assessing.

"Help you with something?"

I clear my throat. "I, uh—" My fingers tighten around the edge of the counter.Stay calm. Act like you belong."I wanted to ask about a job. Bartending."

The man sets the glass down, one brow lifting. "That so?"

I nod. "Yeah. I've bartended before. I know what I'm doing."

He studies me for a long moment, then jerks his chin toward the rag sitting on the counter. "You wanna work here, you start by cleaning. We'll see how you handle a shift tonight."

I don't hesitate. I grab the rag and get to work.

Because this isn't just about a job. This is about survival.

The clubhouse is packed by the time I step behind the bar that night. The crowd is loud, the scent of alcohol and sweat thick in the air, bodies pressed together in a haze of leather and flashing neon lights.

I don't let myself think about how this feels eerily familiar. How the energy seems to be the same as the Crimson Riders' clubhouse, yet somehow, it’s not nearly as suffocating.

I just focus on the drinks. The customers. The work.

The man who let me clean the bar earlier, his name is Grizz, the club's designated bartender. He watches me carefully from the end of the counter as I start pouring drinks.

Within the first ten minutes, I know I've got this.

By the first hour, the brothers are grinning and nodding their approval.

By the second hour, I'm joking with them, moving like I've always belonged here.

And that's when I meet them. Tank and Joker.

Tank is a mountain of muscle, all broad shoulders and an unreadable expression, his bald head gleaming under the lights. He watches me like he's measuring me, but there's no malice in his gaze.

Joker, on the other hand, is all sharp smirks and trouble, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. They came through the clubhouse doors together about five minutes ago and made a beeline for the bar.

"You new?" Joker asks, leaning an elbow on the counter.

I slide a whiskey glass toward him. "Depends. Am I getting hazed for it?"

Tank chuckles under his breath. Joker grins, tilting the glass in a silent toast. "I like her."

"I'd like you too, if you tipped," I shoot back.

Tank laughs, low and deep. "You're trouble, aren't you?"

And just like that, I feel it. Easy acceptance.

Something warm, unfamiliar. Terrifying.

Because I never had this before.

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