Claimed By The Biker King
Sable
Christmas Eve settled over the clubhouse louder than any holiday had a right to.
Someone had dragged in a cedar that looked like it had been bullied out of the desert and forced into seasonal participation, and now it stood in the corner of the common room sagging beneath mismatched ornaments, colored lights, and enough tinsel to qualify as a fire hazard. Bryce had declared the crooked angel on top “punk rock,” which earned him a threat from Hannah involving a serving spoon and his kneecaps. Charlie laughed so hard she nearly dropped a tray of cookies, and half the men in the room pretended they weren’t enjoying the whole thing as much as they were.