Time moves differently when you’re waiting for a bullet to tear your world apart.
It doesn't flow; it drips, agonizingly slow, like cold honey from a spoon.
By two-thirty in the morning, the initial high of tequila and defensive bravado has evaporated, leaving behind a hollow, vibrating ache right in the center of my chest.
Growing up without a mother, and two family members in the Grinning Skulls MC, meant that I learned the unspoken language of this life very early on. I knew it long before Dad ever took over as President.
I knew the specific, suffocating heavy quiet that fell over the house whenever Dad and Mayhem rode out on a high-stakes club run.
I knew what it meant when the living room blinds were drawn before dusk, or when the landline was left off the hook. But back then,
