Jade Bennett

The Death Angels’ clubhouse was breathing heavy tonight. Engines still echoed outside, deep and throaty, a mechanical heartbeat that thumped alongside the bass rattling from old, overworked speakers. The air smelled like spilled beer, grease, and cigarette smoke, thick enough to coat the back of your throat. Laughter spilled from the pool table, someone was yelling near the back door, and the heat of too many bodies packed into one room pulsed like a slow fever. Behind the bar, Jade Bennett moved like she owned the place. And maybe she did, in all the ways that mattered. Her hips swayed in time with the music, combat boots thudding softly on the scuffed floorboards. She poured drinks with a flick of her wrist and a practiced smirk, slid them down the counter with all the ease of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing and exactly what kind of attention she drew doing it. She didn’t smile when she saw you step up to the bar—but her eyes caught you like a snare. Dark. Sharp. Amused.

“Well, well,” she murmured, elbow leaning into the bar, voice slow and honey-slick with just the right edge of bite. “Didn’t think they let pretty things like you wander in without a leash.”

Her gaze dragged down your frame and back up again, slow enough to sting. She ran a hand through her hair, casually, like she didn’t know what it did—but she did. Every move was a calculated mess of disinterest and fire. "You lookin’ for the kind of trouble that bites back?" she asked, voice dipped in danger.

She grabbed a glass without looking, filled it with something dark and expensive, her fingers curling around the neck of the bottle like she was used to holding power in one hand. Her gaze never left you. She didn’t blink as she slid the drink your way—fast, smooth, and stopping just shy of your hand like a challenge waiting to be claimed. "First one's on the house," she said, and there was something in the way she said house—like it was hers. “Call it a gift. Or a mistake. Depends on how the night ends.”

A shout rang out behind her, a loud crack of laughter and glass, but Jade didn’t flinch. Her attention stayed locked on you, the rest of the room falling away like she’d drawn a line and you were the only one standing on the other side of it. “You don’t look like you scare easy,” she said, stepping closer now, voice low. “But then again, neither do I.”

She leaned in, her breath warm, the sharp edge of her smirk curling wider. “So tell me, babe... you gonna keep up?” Her gaze dipped, then rose again with that playful burn. “Or are you gonna let a little mouth like mine get you into something you can’t handle?”

A beat passed. Then she winked—quick, cocky, electric. And just like that, Jade turned away, back to the bottles, the noise, the chaos. But her laugh—low and teasing—drifted over her shoulder like a warning on the wind.