The clubhouse is a nondescript building set back from the main road, with a large, fenced in area to the side and a parking lot in front. Rows of bikes line the portion of the lot next to the fence.

Angel parks his Harley at the end of one of the rows, and walks over to me just as I’m unbuckling Noah from his car seat. I hand my son to his uncle, who awkwardly gets him into a piggyback position, and together we enter the club through a heavy, windowless front door.

What the hell am I doing? I ask myself as Angel swings the door open. I open my mouth to tell him I’ve changed my mind. But by the time I get my voice to work, he’s already through the door and inside the clubhouse with Noah.

It takes a couple of seconds for my eyes to adjust to the light difference, but when I do I see we’ve entered a large, open room. There are about a dozen large, tattooed men of various shapes and ages, all wearing leather cuts emblazoned with the Lords of Carnage rockers. The men are scattered around the room, standing or sitting, laughing or playing pool. A few women are there, too, which surprises me even though Angel told me there might be. Most of them are dressed in clothes so tight I wonder how they can even breathe, and some of them are wearing makeup more dramatic than I would ever wear even to go out to a club. If I went to clubs, that is.

“Hey, y’all, this is my sister, Jenna,” Angel yells. “And her kid, Noah. You treat them with respect.”

It occurs to me to wonder what kind of welcome I’d be getting if I wasn’t the VP’s sister. But before I can go too far down that rabbit hole, an enormous — like unbelievably enormous — man with a large beard comes up and claps Angel on the shoulder.

“So this is your family, brother,” he rumbles, in a voice just as deep as I would have expected. Then he raises his huge, tattooed arm and extends his hand toward Noah.

“Hey there, little man,” he says. “I’m Tank.”

Noah’s eyes are so big I can’t tell if he’s terrified or just fascinated. “Hi,” he says in a small voice, putting his tiny paw in Tank’s larger one. They shake solemnly, and damned if it isn’t somehow about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

It’s surreal. I think this place is already starting to mess with my head.

“Ma’am,” Tank then says respectfully, turning to me and nodding his head once.

“Uh, pleased to meet you… Tank,” I stammer.

I have to resist a sudden urge to burst into hysterical laughter. I’m exchanging polite pleasantries with a tattooed, leather-clad human mountain who could break me in half with two fingers.

Yup. Seriously starting to mess with my head.

Then, from over to one side, one of the women squeals and comes over to us, tottering in thigh-length boots.

“Oh, my gosh, he is just the cutest little thing!” she croons. “I just love kids, and he is just adorable. A real future lady-killer.” She winks at Noah and then turns to me. “Hi, I’m Jewel,” she says. She starts to lift up a hand for me to shake, but then lowers it quickly. I look down and see it’s covered in a thick bandage. “Sorry, I keep forgetting about this thing,” she pouts ruefully.

Angel speaks up. “Jewel’s the bartender I told you about. She’s out of commission for at least a few weeks.”

She’s pretty, with wheat-colored hair and a wide, toothy smile. Her revealing clothes notwithstanding, there’s kind of an innocence about her attitude and demeanor that feels a little strange in an MC clubhouse — well, like I know what an MC clubhouse should even feel like. But she’s not exactly the “rode hard and put away wet” woman I would have imagined.

“What’s your name, kiddo?” she’s asking Noah now. Normally, it overwhelms him when lots of adults start paying attention to him, and I expect him to shrink back from her. Instead, he gives her a shy smile.

“Noah,” he tells her.

“That’s such a good name for a handsome boy like you,” she grins at him. “How old are you?”

“I’m four,” he tells her proudly, holding up his hand to show her how many. “Almost five. I can read already!”

“Wow. That’s great. You must be really smart, then.”

Noah nods. “I am.” We all laugh.

“Your little boy reminds me of my little brother, back in Indiana.” Jewel says, looking at me. “He’s ten. Going on about thirty.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, Noah gives me a run for my money.”

“Hey, Jewel,” Angel says. “You wanna take Noah for a few minutes? We’ve got some business to discuss.”

“Sure thing!” she says enthusiastically. “Come on, Noah. You want me to teach you a card trick?”

Noah bobs his head up and down, and slides off Angel’s back. Jewel immediately offers him her non-bandaged hand and leads him over to one of the couches to play with him.

Angel leads me over to the bar. “And that fucker there, pardon my French, is the reason we need to get you behind the bar,” he says, pointing. A handsome but nervous-looking young guy behind the bar gives me a slight wave.

Prospect,” he calls to him. “You think you can pour my sister a decent drink without killing her?”

I almost say no to the drink, but the fact is, my nerves are kind of jangled at the moment. I ask for a beer, which is cold and soothing and ends up settling me down a bit. A few more of the MC members come over to see what’s going on, and I start to realize I know quite a few of them. Angel makes more introductions, and I let myself relax a little bit. The men aren’t nearly as intimidating as I expected them to be, although I’m guessing that’s because Angel’s my brother. They are, almost to a man, freaking massive, though. The smallest of them has almost a foot on me. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a room with such a sea of testosterone before.

It’s… freaky, I admit. I mean, most of these guys are objectively hot. But thankfully, they seem to be dialing it back with me, and I’m thankful for that. Far from feeling in danger, I actually start to have fun bantering with the men.

About half an hour later, I take a deep breath and turn to Angel.

“I can’t believe I’m going to do this,” I tell him, “but I accept your offer. Just until I can get on my feet, and Jewel can start tending again,” I add hastily.

Angel grins at me. “Good deal. Now, get behind the bar and mix me your fanciest drink.”

I snort. “Will do. Where do you keep the paper umbrellas?”

I slip behind the bar and root around to see what they have. I end up mixing him an Irish Car Bomb, which I adorn with a makeshift umbrella that I’ve made out of a toothpick and a paper coaster. I bring it my brother in the back, where he’s started a game of pool with a few of the other men, who laugh and give him shit about the umbrella.

From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Jewel and Noah. They’re playing some sort of card game where they’re both slapping the cards on the table as hard as they can. He’s laughing and screaming in glee — the happiest I’ve seen him since we moved to Tanner Springs. I push down my feelings of guilt and allow myself a rare moment of optimism.

Maybe things are going to be okay, I think for the first time in days.

And then, just as I’m walking back to the bar, the front door opens and Cas Watkins strolls in.