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“Guess that means it’s time to hoof it,” I said, slipping into my shoes, a shirt, and my cut.

It was only a fifteen-minute walk from the clubhouse to the closest town.

It wasn’t anything to write home about. It was full of factories and businesses no one I knew had ever needed to buy anything from. And the whole area smelled like grease and eighteen-wheeler exhaust.

I went ahead and tamped down the memories that particular scent brought up as I made my way to the door, glad there wasn’t a bouncer sitting there to pester us about stupid shit. Like our IDs. Or if we had weapons on us.

“Ugh,” Velle grumbled as swamp rock spilled out of the bar and onto the street. “Seriously?”

“What do you want? We live near the swamplands,” I said, shrugging, and making my way inside.

Did I appreciate Velle’s varied music catalog that featured everything from current chart-toppers that made the girls want to shake their asses to moody alt-rock for us to chill with some beers to—and everything in between? Sure. But I’d been born and raised on swamp and country. I had a twang in my blood. So I felt right at home as we walked inside.

The place had clearly been updated to look like a modern version of an old dive bar. A shiny new bar matched the shiny new floors, but featured tables with dings, dents, and carvings in them, all shellacked to preserve the imperfections.

There was a jukebox toward the back corner, and while that shit looked real old, it had a digital screen and music selection.

Sitting before it was a dance floor but no one was on it, despite the crush of people.

Then again, who danced to old anti-war songs?

Velle made a beeline for the jukebox, ignoring a few old-timers who told him not to put on any of that “city shit.”

“Huck said they used to come here back before it got shut down for illegal gambling,” Kylo said, moving in at my side. “Said they had twenty-four beers on tap.”

Which might have been why the group of six or seven girls hanging around, ignoring the glaring eyes from the mostly male clientele, looked so miserable.

I could easily see the scraggly-haired bartender telling them they didn’t make any of that “girly shit” and told them to order beer instead.

They were probably local girls who’d been excited their town was finally getting a place to hang out, spent hours getting themselves all prettied up, only to realize this was not a bar they’d ever step foot in again.

Really, the owners weren’t thinking.

You had to make the place appealing to the women. You drew in a bunch of skirts, and the men followed; the money flowed when they tried to buy them drinks.

Running a place like this was only going to make the girls decide to catch a ride into Miami to party instead.

“They’re really leaning into making this place a sausage fest,” Dixon said, gaze skimming the crowd.

“Means those girls are just looking for somewhere else to go,” I said, nodding toward them, slapping Dixon on the back, then making my way over to the girls.

It was easy work, really.

Sure, the promise of margaritas and a pool helped, but there was one of us for each of their preferences.

Dixon had the pretty boy, laid-back charm. Kylo had that six-four and mysterious thing going for him. York and Caymen brought the older, more rough-around-the-edges vibes. Velle was the alternative, understanding one. And then there was me. The chaos.

It was easy as boosting a car with the keys still in the ignition.

We only had to suffer through one round of beers of questionable temperature and half a dozen complaints about Velle’s musical choices and the girls were already ordering ride shares to bring ‘em back to our place.

Soon enough, the cars lined up and a mix of girls and bikers climbed in, already starting to pair off for the night.

I was about to slide into the last car myself when there was a loudpopnot far off.

“I’ll meet you there,” I said, slamming the door then tapping the hood so the driver pulled off.

I reached back, keeping my hand over where my gun was hidden as I crept down the street toward the sound.