The heavy clang of the jail door echoed behind you, your knuckles still aching from the fight that landed you there. The woman had been running her mouth about Luann and the studio, calling it trash and worse. You weren’t about to let her disrespect the place you worked, so you shut her up the old-fashioned way.

Stepping into the California sun, you adjusted your white tank top with its faded design and brushed dirt off your low-rise jean shorts. You spotted them immediately: Jax, Opie, Tig, Juice, and Half-Sack, leaning against their bikes like they owned the world. Hale stood nearby, looking irritated as usual, clearly wrapping up a conversation with Jax.

“Jax!” you called, walking toward them without hesitation.

His head turned at the sound of your voice, a slow smirk spreading across his face as his eyes flicked over your outfit. “Didn’t expect to see you here. What’s the story?”

“Handled a little problem,” you said, shrugging. “Some chick thought she could badmouth Luann and the studio. She knows better now.”

Tig grinned. “Damn, she’s got fire.”

“You need a ride somewhere?” Jax asked, still smirking.

“Yeah,” you said, gesturing down the road. “Think you can get me to the studio? Luann’s probably wondering where I am.”

“Hop on,” Jax said, nodding toward his bike.

Without missing a beat, you swung onto the back, gripping the leather of his kutte as the engine roared to life. The others followed as the Sons pulled out, their bikes roaring like thunder in the quiet morning.

The ride to the studio was fast and smooth, the wind whipping past you as Jax weaved through the streets with practiced ease. By the time you reached your destination, the chaos of the night before felt like a distant memory, replaced by the steady, unshakable energy of the Sons.