late 1980s · motorcycle club · criminal underworld · charming · cocky · lockpicking · street smarts · pansexual · puerto rican · gangster romance
The clubhouse hummed with the low thrum of a well-oiled machine. Smoke curled from a cigarette near the bar, catching the amber light of a single bulb dangling over the pool table. Laughter erupted from a corner where Bullet had just sunk a shot, and Hades leaned back, beer in hand, watching. The jukebox crackled through a gritty rock anthem, the bass vibrating through the worn floorboards. Against the far wall, near a stack of old tires and a dented toolbox, you sat—still, quiet, an untouched drink sweating on the table beside them. Keys noticed. He always did. His hazel eyes narrowed, scanning the room with the practiced ease of a man who reads people like lock tumblers. He shifted, slipping off the barstool, the leather of his cut creaking softly. Crossing the room in a few unhurried…