The roar of engines served as a constant, growling background noise, a reminder that the world I have fallen into does not purr but snarls. It is the thrumming heartbeat of the motorcycle club life, a sound that reverberates in my chest and echoes the tumultuous rhythm of my own heart.
My hands clench at my sides as I feel their gazes rake over me, the new meat, the fresh claim. I can barely hear myself think over the noise of guttural exhausts and bawdy laughter.
They say red is the color of danger, or so I’d heard whispered behind my back more times than I care to count. Maybe it is true. My hair is as red as fresh blood, a stark contrast to the leather and denim sea surrounding me. It falls like fiery silk just past my shoulders, framing a face that never quite mastered the art of masking fear. My stature may be small, but I learned early on to fill a room with a presence far larger than the life handed me.
“Damn, Cherry…” a voice slurs from the shadows. “You sure do stand out like a sore thumb.”
I bristle at the nickname, the new label thrust upon me by those who think they own me. The name Cheree seems a lifetime away now, something delicate and forgotten, like a dress I once wore but can no longer fit into.
“Maybe that’s the point,” I shoot back, letting a smirk play on my lips. It is an armor, thin as it is, against the gritty world I find myself unwillingly tethered to.
This is no place for weakness, I remind myself. The world of motorcycle clubs isn’t kind to hesitance or softness. It demands toughness, a willingness to get your hands dirty, and an acceptance of the looming shadow of violence that hangs over us all like a storm cloud waiting to break. These men, and yes, they are mostly men, live by codes that society at large will never understand. Brotherhood. Loyalty. Retribution. They wear these words etched into their skin, stitched onto their cuts, and carry them in their hearts.
“Sticking out could get you hurt around here,” another voice chimes in, rough as gravel, seasoned with the smoke that fills the air and coats everyone in a fine layer of vice.
I turn toward the source, my eyes narrowing as I size him up. He’s just another member of this brotherhood, his warning laced with an edge that isn’t entirely unfriendly but isn’t protective either.
“Or maybe…” I reply, pushing down the tremor in my voice, “… it means I’m not afraid.”
But that is a lie I tell myself as much as I tell them. Fear is a constant companion, whispering doubts and weaving nightmares that often come true in this world.
The club’s atmosphere is one of eternal dusk, no matter what the clock says—dark corners where deals are made, alliances formed, and sometimes, lives ended. It is a place where trust is as rare as daylight and twice as dangerous to rely upon.
“Cherry’s got guts, I’ll give her that,” someone else adds to the mix of voices, a note of amusement threading through their words.
“Or she’s just got nothing left to lose,” I counter, my voice carrying a hint of bitterness I can’t quite swallow. One thing is clear—I must be cunning, resilient, and, above all, cautious in a world where power is the only currency. Trust is a luxury I can ill afford, and love is a fool’s dream.
But deep down, beneath the layers of survival instinct and hardened exterior, a flicker of hope remains—a stubborn ember that refuses to be snuffed out, clinging to the notion that even in the darkest of worlds, there could be a glimmer of something more.
Something stable.
Something like love.
“Nothing left to lose?” The man who’d offered the earlier caution laughs a low rumble that holds no real mirth. “That’s when you’re most dangerous, darlin’.”
This is the world of the Defiant Men MC, their kingdom of asphalt and steel, where they reign supreme. Once probably vibrant, the walls are now stained with the sheen of countless smoky nights and brawls that have etched their history into every surface.
“Darlin’, you know how this works.” I hear my mother’s voice, laced with a honeyed poison, slicing through the noise of the bar.
My eyes narrow as I watch her weave through the crowd, her survival instincts as sharp as the blade she keeps strapped to her thigh. I know that look, a predator sizing up her prey. And tonight, her prey is Tank, the man who seems more myth than flesh to some. He sits there, a leviathan amongst men, his presence enough to command silence from the rowdiest drunkard or the most hot-headed prospect.
“Tank, baby,” she coos, leaning against the bar next to where he sits, her fingers trailing over the scarred wood. “I’ve got something that might interest you.”
My heart thuds in my chest. I can guess what—or rather, who—she is peddling. It isn’t the first time, but each instance feels like a fresh wound, a new betrayal.
“Interesting don’t mean valuable,” Tank grunts, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the murmur of conversations. “You’ve wasted my time before, Tessa.”
“Never with something like this.” My mother’s voice is slick, assured. “Remember that redhead you noticed last time? Cherry?” The nickname my mother insists on calling me.
“Cheree,” I correct under my breath, the familiar sting of disgust at her casual dismissal of my name burning in my throat. But out here, you are who they call you, and names are just another commodity to trade.
“Cherry,” Tank muses, his gaze not leaving his glass of bourbon as he swirls the amber liquid contemplatively. “Yeah, I remember.”
“Virgin,” she purrs, the word hanging between them like a dare. “Untouched and fiery. Just ripe for plucking.”
“Untouched?” Tank’s brow raises, and even in the dim light, I can see the interest flicker in his eyes. “You’re selling your daughter’s virtue, Tessa? That’s a new low.”
“Times are tough,” she retorts, a shrug rippling through her shoulders as if she is haggling over the price of a used bike part and not her flesh and blood. “And Cherry… she’s special. Isn’t that right, darling?”
Their eyes turn to me, a spotlight that leaves no shadows to hide in. I swallow the bile rising in my throat, my mind racing. This is a transaction that will seal my fate.
“Special, huh?” Tank stands, his frame eclipsing the neon lights that buzz faintly overhead. He steps toward me, and I feel the gravity shift, the entire room’s attention pulling in our direction. “Let’s see how special.”
“Tank,” I start, my voice steady despite the tremor of fear that threatens to betray me. “I’m not—”
“Shut it, Cherry,” he snaps, cutting me off with a glare that warns me to choose my next words carefully.
“Fifty grand,” my mother interrupts, her tone all business now. “Non-negotiable.”
“Twenty,” Tank counters without missing a beat.
“Thirty,” she shoots back, a glint of greed flashing in her eyes.
