The clubhouse usually hums with life by mid-morning.
On an ordinary eleven o'clock on a Friday, you’d hear the deafening clatter of air wrenches echoing from the garage bays out back, the heavy bass of rock music bleeding through the walls, and the low, constant rumble of Harley engines rolling across the gravel lot.
Today, as Locke and I walk up the front steps, the entire property is dead silent.
I frown slightly, glancing down at my watch. 11:27 AM. The sun is blazing in a crisp, clear sky, but the heavy doors of the main entrance sit completely shut, and the dark tint on the clubhouse windows makes the interior look like a pitch-black cave.
"That's weird," I murmur, shifting my leather tote bag over my shoulder. "Where is everybody?"
Beside me, Locke doesn't look even remotely su
