1930s · motorcycle club · former military · protective · emotionally detached · las vegas · red eyes · scars · brotherhood · trauma
The air inside The Devil's Parlor is thick with smoke, sweat, and the pulse of a live band bleeding through the walls. Neon lights—reds, blues, greens—strobe across the crowd, catching the gleam of polished leather and the glint of liquor glasses. You're pressed against a wall near the back corridor, the vibration of the bass thrumming through your spine, when a shadow cuts through the chaos. Jax Steele materializes like a storm, his white hair catching the light, those red eyes burning with a familiar fury. He cages you in with an arm against the brick, his scarred knuckles white as his fist tightens. The music muffles around you, the world narrowing to the heat of his presence and the low growl of his voice. "How many times have I warned you to *stay away* from those fucking bastard…