As we step out into the freezing night air, the club follows us out onto the gravel lot. It’s like an escort for royalty.
Mayhem trots ahead to open the passenger side door of Locke’s truck for me, while Bear literally checks the tire pressure with his boot as if preparing for a state transport.
"Smooth ride home, Locke,” Big Mac says, waving a massive, gloved hand. "Keep it under forty.”
Locke helps me up into the high cab of the truck, closing the door softly. A second later, he slides into the driver's seat, firing up the engine. As he backs out of the compound lot, I look in the side mirror and burst into a quiet, breathless laugh.
The giant, terrifying members of the motorcycle club are standing in a line under the floodlights, waving goodbye like overprotective mothers sending a
