When seventeen-year-old Cassie pushed open the heavy door of Rusty’s Bar, silence fell. Smoke, leather, and disbelief hit her all at once. The Iron Wolves Motorcycle Club wasn’t used to visitors—especially not a girl barely five feet tall, clutching a notebook instead of a beer.
“Lost, sweetheart?” a bearded man called from the bar.
Cassie’s pulse raced, but she held her ground. “I’m looking for the Iron Wolves. I have a proposal.”
Laughter erupted. Derek, a younger rider tattooed head to toe, smirked. “This oughta be good.”
“I’m a senior at Lincoln High,” Cassie said, shoulders back. “For my final project, I’m documenting American subcultures. I want to ride with you—observe, write, tell your stories.”
The room erupted in more laughter, but Maria, a sharp-eyed woman with silver hair, chuckled softly. “Honey, this ain’t a field trip.”
Before Cassie could respond, a Harley growled outside. Silence replaced the noise. The door opened. A broad-shouldered, bearded man stepped in—gray streaks in his hair, leather jacket adorned with faded patches. Across the back, the Iron Wolves emblem gleamed, with a tag that read Founding Member, 1971.
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