I didn't bother to tell my brother I was coming.

I simply told Ren he was right, that I needed to go home for the funeral. I didn't tell him that, in fact, I didn't even know if there would be a funeral, but I doubted the club would pass on the opportunity to throw a good ole Irish wake. He offered to come, of course, to support me. But I told him no, promised I'd be fine and told him he could stay at my place if he really didn't have any food at home.

Then, that afternoon, I stuffed a backpack full with clothing and toiletries, gassed up my car in cash, and drove the forty-some odd minutes to Plymouth with only the sound of classic rock playing over the radio.

I had no idea what I was walking into, but I had a pretty good idea where to start.

While The Nomad was a collage bar masquerading as a seedy biker bar, Inferno was the real deal. Founded and operated by the Descendants, it fell somewhere between being a sketchy truck stop and semi-illegal strip joint. The sign above the door had been hand painted on a sheet of plywood, complete with a flaming devil character. The windows were full of neon signs that only added to the ambience the dozen or so shiny motorcycles out front created.

Thankfully, there was also a couple of cars parked at the far end of the gravel lot, and I was able to inconspicuously park my Corolla right between them.

Now came the fun part— could I get inside without being recognized?

I didn't exactly have some big plan in mind, but I did know I had been out of the game for too long to expect the club to be just how it had been when I left. I wanted to see them with my own eyes, before they saw me. And since I couldn't very well go sneaking around the clubhouse, Inferno seemed to be the next best thing.

My outfit had been chosen thoughtfully, like camouflage, to ensure I could blend in. There was an odd sort of comfort to the ripped black skinny jeans and faded Jack Daniels tank top, and I'd taken care to hide my tattoos under an ordinary leather jacket I'd picked up at a thrift store. It was the only nod to my past I'd allowed for myself in Boston, and it had never left my closet until now.

With a quick check of my eyeliner in the mirror, I climbed out of the car and double checked the lock before making my way to the door. I could already hear the music as clearly as if there wasn't a concrete wall between the parking lot and speakers.

A couple of stragglers hung around their bikes, but they didn't look twice when I sidled past them up to the front door. I didn't recognize them either, making them newcomers or transplants.

Inside, my senses were assaulted by the stench of cigarette smoke, alcohol and leather-clad bodies. The place wasn't by any means packed, but there was enough of a crowd that a new face shouldn't draw much attention. My eyes, however, were immediately drawn to the handful of familiar faces of men and woman I grew up seeing every day. I didn't need to see their patches to know their names and places in the club hierarchy.

Scout and his wife, Courtney, who used to babysit my brothers and I when our dad would go out of town.

Whip and Lucky, the best mechanics in the club who both taught me more than anyone about taking the best care of bikes.

Cliff, the Vice President, who my brothers and I had grown up calling "Uncle Cliff".

None of them looked my way, and I huffed a sigh of relief as I made my way over to the bar. Behind it was a rail-thin young woman, barely old enough to drink herself. Her curly platinum hair was piled on her head in a messy bun, and streaked black to match the lipstick and eyeliner she wore. I vaguely recognized her as someone I'd seen around growing up, but for the life of me I could not put a name to her. To be fair, I highly doubted that had alway been what she looked like.

I waved to her, catching her attention, and watched as she looked me up and down. Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I leaned my elbows on the scuffed up bar and opted to skip the pleasantries. "I'll have a beer, whatever you've got in a bottle."

The bartender looked me over again, brown eyes flicking from my tank top and leather jacket to my plain brown hair hanging around my shoulders. "I haven't seen you around here before," she commented as she grabbed a bottle from the fridge, popped the cap off and set it down in front of me.

I handed her a bill and she pulled change from her pocket. "I don't live around here," I told her, being as vaguely honest as I dared. No need to mention I was, in fact, from here, and not some tourist passing through.

She looked pointedly around the room, as if I hadn't realized the kind of patrons the Inferno attracted. "Just to let you know, sweetheart," she crooned, leaning towards me with the kind of smile you'd give a lost puppy. "There's a nice pub down on the main drag, a more family friendly kind of establishment. It may be more your kind of scene, know what I mean?"

I picked up my beer, a shitty brand more akin to piss water than alcohol, and lifted it in a mock salute. "Thanks for the tip, sweetheart, but you've got no idea what my scene is."

Taking a swig of the sad excuse for a beer in my hand, I turned on my heel and made my way over to a standing table to begin my recognizance .

I fidgeted with the bottle, peeling at the label while I looked out around the room. The music pounded loudly from the speakers, and a fair amount of people had taken up residence on the dance floor in front of an empty stage. I knew a handful of the younger ones by name, and avoided eye contact as I shifted my focus back to the older crew sitting towards the back of the place. Their cuts were achingly familiar, and even from afar I could almost smell the mix of leather, smoke and gasoline that always clung to them.

Dad had always smelled like that.

There was no need to get close enough to hear any conversations. The Inferno might have been a frequent hangout for Descendants, but nobody would talk about club business where any person off the street could overhear. That kind of talk would be reserved for the clubhouse, or for the sanctity of Church.

It was the atmosphere I wanted to get a feel for before I dared approach any of the members directly. While I didn't necessarily have any bad blood between them, I knew that I was not exactly in good standing in their eyes. My father and brothers had been clear about that in the year after I had taken off for college with no imminent return date.

It had been five years since I'd seen the faces of the people who had been my family all of my life. Five years, and now all I could do was watch them knocking back drinks and talking from afar as my heart squeezed tightly in my chest.

By the time my beer was almost gone— and much too warm to consume— the bar had become fairly crowded. It was almost midnight, and the dance floor had stilled in favor of the entertainment that would soon be taking the stage.

While not necessarily a strip club, the bar was known to have a handful of dancers in tiny outfits that left little to the imagination. As far as paperwork was concerned, they were waitresses. Most of them were friends or girlfriends of club members, which meant there wasn't really any back-of-house business going on, but if anyone did want to use any of the conveniently located rooms in the back... well, they must have gotten lost on their way to the bathroom.

The already low lights dimmed, and a strobe began flashing as the curtain parted and a short girl with pink and black hair slipped onto the stage. Plenty of the men hollered and catcalled, but she only smiled and flipped them two hot pink tipped middle fingers as she started dancing to the music.

And damn if I didn't recognize that saccharine smile the moment I saw it.

Brigid Sullivan and I had been joined at the hip since we were in diapers. Our parents had been best friends, and our mothers had even been pregnant together. Brigid and I grew up in the club, learned to ride our bikes together, and even got our first drunk and disorderly charges together. We were the first girls to be patched in at the young age of seventeen, much to the dismay of my brothers.

She was one of the only people I hadn't entirely disassociated from when I went away to college. We were closer than best friends, after all. We were more like sisters, bound by matching tattoos and maybe some weird blood pact she'd found in an obscure banned book during our more rebellious thirteen-year-old goth phase. I didn't talk to her as much as I would've liked to be able to, but that was because there was only so far I was willing to push her loyalty— to the club, not me. It had been a few months now, and for a moment, I realized I should have told her I was coming. It would have been nice to have someone to go to, no expectations.

I watched her dance on stage, showing off like one of the girls in those music videos we used to watch on MTV. The happy memories that stirred brought a small smile to my face, one I hid behind the neck of my beer bottle. People cheered her on— no catcalling now, just friendly, good-natured encouragement. Surely her reputation for breaking guys jaws for whistling at her crossing the street also helped keep the perverts at bay.

When she was finished, she sketched a graceful bow and hopped down off of the stage despite the five inch heels on her boots. I had the urge to shoulder my way through the crowd around her and give her the biggest hug to make up for all the years of hell-raising we had missed out on. But I couldn't, and wouldn't, instead holding the neck of my beer bottle tightly in my fist until my knuckles turned white and the glass threatened to shatter. I would see my oldest friend soon enough, I reminded myself. Until then, I had work to do.

It was nearly one in the morning before I called it quits, making my way for the door. I had paid for the two piss-poor beers I had forced myself to drink, and hadn't bothered tipping the bartender for her shitty judgements and advice. It was poor form, especially seeing as I knew how much bartenders relied on tips to pay their way, but the girl had done nothing but annoy me tonight.

My time at Inferno had not been fruitless, despite the poor service and lack of company. I'd been able to take note of how the hierarchy of the club hadn't changed much in the past five years, aside from a handful of new members and the odd retirement. Miles and Cliff still ran the show as President and VP, as they had for as long as I could remember. While I only saw Cliff tonight, I'd overheard a couple of members I recognized as Legacies harping about how "old school the old-timers were", and I'd had to bite my tongue and resist punching their lights out when they went on about how glad they were to see some young blood move up in the ranks after Shea's death.

I knew my father's title as Sergeant at Arms would be up for grabs after he died, but it still left a crack in my heart thinking about his old weathered patch being sewed onto someone else's cut. While the idiots hadn't named his successor, I couldn't picture a single face I felt was deserving of the title. Ennis' Enforcer patch had still been stitched on when I'd seen him in Boston, and since that left my younger brother Fitzy as the one idiot behind bars, neither of my brothers could have inherited it.

I was so in my head as I left the bar, I didn't notice the figures hovering by my car in the lot, not until a familiar voice rang out in the night.

"You sneaky fucking bitch!"

Despite the insult, an elated smile stretched my face as I took in the pink and black hair that rushed toward me.

The wind was knocked out of me as I spread my arms wide and caught my best friend in a long-overdue hug.

"I knew it was you," she squealed in my ear, hugging me tight. "How fucking dare you not text me when you got here."

I laughed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing."

Brigid pulled back, gripping my biceps tight and refusing to let me go just yet. Her grin melted away, replaced by a sorrowful look as she realized why I was here. "I'm so sorry about your dad, Killian. I wanted to come and see you as soon as I heard, but Ennis was being a jackass. He wouldn't let anyone leave town, convinced Miles to put us on lockdown while he went to see you."

Looking over her shoulder, I realized "us" most likely applied to her and the guy leaning against my car with a shit-eating grin.

Trevor McMahon was the only person who ever managed to weasel his was into the madness of mine and Brigid's friendship. While the two of us girls had been a nightmare together, Trevor managed to balance us out with his perfect prep-school looks and enough manners to make up for our lack of. He was a smooth talker and a charmer, getting us out of more trouble than I could count. What he ever saw in us was a mystery to me, but I wasn't looking a gift horse in the mouth.

"Hey, Killer," he mused, sidling over to us and hooking an arm around my neck. He was only a year older and a few inches taller than me, but he still found some weird entertainment in treating me like a kid sister.

I rolled my eyes at the use of my road name, but let it slide. It was more a term of endearment coming from Brigid and Trevor than a reminder of my past.

"I missed you guys," I sighed, letting their embraces warm my heart just a smidge. This was probably the best part about coming home, and I was going to enjoy it for a hot minute before getting wrapped up in club politics and revenge plots.

Brigid smiled, sad news pushed to the back burner. "We missed the shit out of you too. We have a lot of catching up to do, so what do you say you come back to the apartment with us?"

Relief washed over me when she mentioned her apartment, rather than the clubhouse. It would be safe there, someplace I could ask the questions burning in my chest, without having to worry about anyone overhearing things they shouldn't.

With a nod, I disentangled from my friends and made my way over to my car Brigid while climbed onto her bike. I let out a bark of laughter as Trevor climbed on behind her; not because I was surprised, but because I had so much missed the quirky dynamic of these people I loved with all of my hardened heart.

Brigid took off out of the parking lot, and I reversed out of my spot, following close enough behind her that I could make out the Descendents patch on the back of Trevor's jacket. In the back of my mind, that wild girl longed to jump out of my car and trade places with him. Just so I could feel the cool night air on my face and the wind whipping all around me in that comforting vortex.

The day I left for college had been the last time I'd been on a motorcycle. At this point, I didn't even know what had happened to my bike after that. I'd built the machine from pieces of my Dad's old bikes when I was sixteen, and it had been my pride and joy. My heart squeezed at the thought, and I swept it out of my mind.

I'd been back for only a few hours, and already the nostalgia of a life long since passed was overwhelming. I needed to bury my father, finish my business and get the hell out of dodge.

Before that life could drag me back into it.