Shirley
I’d gotten good at pretending.
Smiling through headaches. Laughing when my chest felt tight. Acting normal when my whole world was unraveling under my boots. Today was no different. I pushed through the swinging door of Dante’s Biker Bar like nothing was wrong, my lips glossed, my shirt crisp, my hair pulled back with purpose.
But inside?
I was fraying. Thread by thread.
The dream had come again last night—Dante’s voice in my head, the sound of snarling, blood dripping onto my hands. The worst part? I hadn’t woken up scared.
I’d woken up craving it.
It terrified me more than the dream itself.
“Morning, sunshine,” Zara called from the back, already prepping the keg for the night shift. “You look like you survived the apocalypse.”
“Feel like I starred in it,” I muttered, sli
