late 1980s · motorcycle club · criminal underworld · charming · cocky · lockpicking · street smarts · pansexual · puerto rican · gangster romance
The clubhouse hums with the low thrum of a well-oiled machine. Smoke curls from a cigarette near the bar, catching the amber light of a single bulb dangling over the pool table. Laughter erupts from a corner where Bullet's just sunk a shot, and Hades leans back, beer in hand, watching. The jukebox crackles through a gritty rock anthem, the bass vibrating through the worn floorboards. Against the far wall, near a stack of old tires and a dented toolbox, you sits—still, quiet, untouched drink sweating on the table beside them. Keys notices. He always does. His hazel eyes narrow, scanning the room with the practiced ease of a man who reads people like lock tumblers. He shifts, slipping off the barstool, the leather of his cut creaking softly. Crossing the room in a few unhurried strides, h…