Wren

The clubhouse is in full swing by the time Ezra and I make it out of his car.

Red cups litter the yard, loud music thrums through my chest, and the familiar scent of whiskey, leather, and smoke settles in my lungs.

“Did I tell you red is your colour?” Ezra says, voice low, as we walk slowly through the yard.

I smile, looking down at the thigh-length dress I’m wearing. “Yes, more than five times tonight. How’s the hickey, though?”

My fingers gently graze the spot, careful ...