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what if I don’t have a support system holding me up? That’s not going to stop me from stepping out onto the high wire any longer...no matter how risky and downright insane that might be.
    With steely determination, I sit myself down in front of my laptop and compose a new email to Elliot Simmons.
     
    Hi Elliot,
     
    It was really wonderful meeting you this afternoon. I’m so thrilled that you called me in to discuss a position at
FootSoldier
. I know I told you that I’d like the day to think about your offer, but a few hours have been plenty. I’d be happy to accept my first assignment—the story we discussed this morning—and will begin working on it immediately. Thank you again for giving me this incredible opportunity. You won’t regret it, I promise you.
     
    Sincerely,
     
    Logan Farrah
     
    I’ve only just hit send and stood up from my desk when a response from Elliot comes whizzing into my inbox.
     
    Logan,
     
    Fantastic news. Glad to have you with us. Go ahead and start your preliminary research at once. You’ll have all the resources you need from
FootSoldier
along the way, that I can assure you. You’re going to do a great job—let me know if you have any questions.
     
    Cheers,
     
    E.S.
     
    You’re going to do a great job. I read those words over and over again. Encouragement is such an unfamiliar concept to me that it almost feels like a foreign language. But no more moping about that. I’ve got work to do.
    I spend the rest of the evening combing through my classmates’ social media pages, university forums, and obscure chatrooms, searching for ways into The Club. It’s surprisingly easy to figure out which of my college acquaintances have been there before. In no time, I stumble upon a Facebook exchange between a few well-off girls who lived in my freshman year dorm. Their ringleader, a girl named Kari, seems hell-bent on visiting The Club, and is trying to talk her friends Ani and Brie into coming along.
    Sounds like just the ticket to me.
     

Chapter Five

    Devlin
    The Circle of Death Clubhouse
    Coastal Maine
     
     
    Bracing myself against the solid oak bar, I draw a huge breath into my lungs. The smells of whiskey and woodsmoke fill me with ease and satisfaction as I drink them in. Goddamn, it feels good to be home.
    My every muscle aches as I lift the cool bottle of beer to my mouth. It’s a good ache, though—the ache of a long, hard job well done. My brothers and I have been on the road for a solid week, tightening up our operations along the coast. There were a few heads that needed knocking together, a little roughing up to be done, but all told the Circle of Death MC is stronger than ever. And I don’t mind taking a hell of a lot of pride in that.
    “What’re you drinking, Dev?” someone asks from over my shoulder.
    “What else?” I reply, lifting my bottle as I turn to see my right hand man, Packer, standing right behind me. Even now, in the safety of our own clubhouse, he’s got my back. That’s what I call loyalty.
    “Looks like you could use another. And that makes two of us,” Packer says, striding around the bar and snatching a couple of cold ones from the beat up but well-stocked fridge. He pops open the bottles and slides one across the bar to me. “To another successful run,” he says, clinking his bottle against mine and taking a long swig.
    “Fuck yes,” I grin, savoring a deep gulp of ice cold beer. “We’re unstoppable these days, my friend.”
    “Thanks to you,” he says, pride shining through his gruff voice.
    These days, Packer is just shy of six feet tall and strong as an ox. He’s got shaggy sandy hair and a couple dozen tattoos etched all over his body. But when I first met him, he was nothing but a scrawny, eager kid from Vermont with a knack for fixing motorcycles. That must have been a decade ago, by now.
    We met when we were both still prospects for the Circle of Death—trial recruits, trying to prove ourselves worthy of becoming