The scarred biker hadn’t exaggerated.
“Kitchen,” she ordered, already moving chairs aside. “Stand near the ovens.”
Gas burners roared to life as she turned every dial to maximum heat.
“Wet leather off,” she barked. “Everything soaked comes off.”
One of the younger bikers hesitated awkwardly.
“Ma’am… we can’t just—”
“You can freeze to death modestly,” Evelyn interrupted, “or live through the night embarrassed. Pick one.”
That settled it.
Leather jackets, soaked shirts, boots and gloves began piling onto the floor.
Evelyn tore down tablecloths and tossed them around the room.
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