I want him to believe her. I want him to pass her test. I want them to have the kind of life, the kind of love that never would’ve been possible for Hades and me.

“I love you,” Amira whispers so softly I have to strain to hear her. “Please understand why I had to do this.”

There comes another Fairgood silence. The longest one of all.

I hold my breath with my heart quivering inside my chest like a piece of string under tension.

Then Waylon says, “I'm checking the closet.”

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! That’s all I have time to think before Waylon rips open the door.

And looks straight down at me.

CHAPTER 21

DOC

The weekend after Thanksgiving is always hopping at the roadhouse, but it's especially noisy this year.

There are so many guys getting drinks at the bar I'm pretty sure between this weekend and Christmas, I'll make enough money to pay off my student loans. Which means I'll be able to go into my residence as an OB/GYN specialist without having a massive amount of debt hanging over my head.

I’m in a pretty good mood until one of the bikers calls out, “Hey, Bee Sting, need another three beers!”

Aw, Bikers…yes, the money is insanely good at my step uncle’s roadhouse. But there are a lot of things I will not miss about working here—including the many colorful nicknames I get called for daring to be born with small breasts.

And sure enough, the guy under tips after I bring him his round of Michelobs. I swear to God, if I had a bigger rack like Red did, I probably would've met my goal and gotten out of here last year.

But then Uncle Nestor comes behind the bar with some good news. “I need you to push some crates into the meeting room. The Reapers are having an emergency meeting.”

Yes! The Reapers split and moved their club out of Tennessee a few years ago. But they still use the roadhouse as a meet-up place for both chapters once or twice a quarter.

Unlike some of these other assholes, they don’t care how small my tits are. They always leave good tips. And now there’s a whole back room of them needing food and beer.

Forget Christmas. There’s a chance tonight might be my last shift working at this ridiculous place. I would kiss Uncle Nestor on his Botoxed forehead if I wasn’t scared of catching a mustache smear from that black ink he calls hair dye.

I put five crates of beer on the trolley we keep behind the bar for big orders. Then I stuff a memo pad in the waistline of my cut-off shorts and happily sashay into the meeting room to take some orders.

But as soon as I enter the room, I know this isn’t a regular meeting.