ASHLEY’S POV
Then we take off.
The world dissolves into motion as the bike surges forward, wind crashing over us, tugging at my clothes, my hair, my thoughts.
A startled breath slips from me, but this time, I don’t pull away.
I hold on.
Slowly, the tension in my body begins to melt into something else, something warmer.
My cheek brushes lightly against his back—just for a second—and my breath catches.
I still, but I don’t move away.
I stay there, pressed against him, breathing him in.
And that simple closeness sends a shiver down my spine, settling low and deep between my thighs.
About twenty minutes into the rough ride, we finally pull into a large compound.
Ripper hits the brakes, and I hop down from the bike, stepping aside as my eyes dart around the surroundings.
A couple of bikes are parked outside, but there is no noise.
Everywhere is eerily silent.
Ripper adjusts his jacket, then pulls the key from the ignition.
He takes off his cowboy hat and turns to me.
“Here…” he says, handing it over.
“Take that off and put this on.”
”A face cap isn’t part of our culture.
If you want to be an old lady, then you’ll need to start acting like one.”
I nod obediently.
Taking the hat from him, I remove my face cap and toss it onto the bike seat before placing the hat on my head.
Ripper moves immediately, and I quietly trail behind him.
We walk through a short hallway, and that is when the bass of the music, along with laughter and shouts, hits me.
It is the SOC club.
The moment we step in, the music lowers, and every eye flicks toward us.
It feels like ants are crawling beneath my skin.
Some of the men raise their hands in respect to Ripper, but he doesn’t acknowledge them.
My gaze darts around until it lands on a familiar pair of eyes—Brandon.
What the hell is he doing here?
I think, before remembering that outsiders come here for drinks too.
I don’t have much time to dwell on it.
Ripper is already heading up the stairs.
I hurry after him.
Within seconds, he shoves a door open, and we walk into a room full of bikers.
I freeze the moment I see Matt—and some of the other bikers I saw at the funeral.
My pulse hammers, heat creeping up my face.
“Come on,” Ripper urges.
I step in slowly, my heart racing under the weight of their cold stares.
“Sit there,” he says, pointing to the chair Matt has been sitting in.
My gaze follows.
Matt leans back in the scarred wooden chair, his eyes shifting from me to Ripper.
Then he lets out a deep sigh before standing and moving aside for me.
Wasting no time, I settle into the chair and exhale slowly.
I look around.
Another twelve men sit at the table—patched brothers.
Every single one of them either holds a post or has been in the club long enough to earn respect.
Not outsiders. This story is hosted at novelping.com.
Not prospects.
The real core.
The man to my right—Havoc, according to the name stitched onto his cut,hits the gavel three times.
“Church’s in session.
We have one issue tonight… and it’s about the… old lady in front of us.”
”Old lady?” Matt repeats with a scoff.
“She’s no old lady, but go on.”
”We’re in church, Matt.
Watch your manners,” Ripper shoots back.
Havoc continues, unfazed.
“So, Ripper… a lot of the patches here disagree that Ashley should be brought in as the Prez’s old lady.
She wasn’t introduced to the church or the club.
None of us have seen her with the Prez before in our lives.
I’m not sure she qualifies.”
”Good point, Havoc,” Ripper says, sitting up straighter.
“But I’m not asking that she be installed as head of the club or president, am I?”
”All I’m saying is Warrick told me about her.
He wants to make it official before those assholes gunned him down.”
A brief silence falls over the room.
“Now he’s gone, it’s necessary we follow club rules and give her a seat at the table for the next three months—until we pick a new president of SOC MC.
That’s all I’m asking, dear brothers.
Nothing much.”
His gaze snaps to me.
“After three months, she can choose to leave or stay.
It’s her call.
But right now, we have no choice but to install her as the old lady.”
”Bullshit,” Matt snickers.
“All bullshit, Rip.
Stop using culture to cover up and push your crow-eater to be our old lady.”
”Manners, Matt!” Havoc slams the gavel sharply.
“One more outburst and you’ll be muted for the rest of the session.”
I watch in stunned silence as Matt’s lips part, then press together.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters.