Scrubbing my face clean of the tears, I massage on moisturizer, before starting on my makeup. Makeup is the ultimate concealer for life. If only they gave something similar for the bruises people leave on your battered soul.

I’m just finishing up my lips and moving my hair to one side when my phone chimes from a text message.

This weekend. I need you.

My blood boils, but I swing off a text anyway. Sure. I will be there.

Because I have no other fucking choice. And he knows that.

Sweeping up my bag and phone, I make my way out of the house, where my G 63 is parked, with Tony on one side and another soldier on the other.

“You ready?” Tony asks, opening the back door.

“As I’ll ever be.”

He drives us over to central Chicago. I have never been to the Wolf Pack MC headquarters, or whatever it is they called it before, and I never thought I actually would be. Why the hell else would I need to be at some washed-up fucking biker bar where crusty old men lie?

No thanks.

Catch me at a bar downtown before you’d catch me here.

We pull to a tall, wired gate. It doesn’t look run-down, or even neglected. Immediately not what I expected, but it does look private. You can’t see in or out of that thing.

A young guy dressed in a black vest with no patches comes to the driver’s side window. “They’re in the back. Drive straight through to the left, past the clubhouse. You’ll see a small dirt road which will lead you farther down and into a barn.”

A barn—great.

“No problem.” The gate opens and Tony drives us in. The closer I get, the more my breathing feels labored. As if I’m wearing a shirt too tight and I can’t get in enough oxygen. Fuck. I should have taken a Valium.

Directly in front of us is a large building, which I’m guessing is the clubhouse. There’s an iron sign on the front that has the words Wolf Pack embossed into the metal, ahead of a porch with chairs scattered around it. A sliding door opens up to the inside, to what I’m guessing is a really fucking big space, and in front are where bikes line up perfectly. To the left is what looks like a fighting ring, or cage, and to the right is parking for cars.

Tony directs us to the left and around the corner of the clubhouse.

“Jesus fucking Christ—” Tony says, and I shuffle in front to see what he’s seeing. A barn is hidden behind thick shrubs of trees, and cars are parked haphazardly at the front. Limo, black, sleek, and European.

This isn’t good.