Chapter One
Cherry
He stood there, boots planted firm on the worn hardwood of his Baton Rouge bedroom, staring down his reflection in the full-length mirror like it was an adversary he could intimidate into submission. One last long look, dragging his gaze over every detail. He had his sleeves rolled just so, creased crisp over thick forearms, the riot of ink spilling across his skin in a story told in color and shadow.
Cherry was Tom Palant to the government, but that name hadn’t fit him comfortably in years, not since leaving the Corps. He tilted his head, catching sight of the wild thump of his pulse jumping under the taut skin of his throat. Too fast, too loud, like a war drum in his ears. He sucked in a breath, slow and deliberate, boxing it in his chest. Four in, hold, four out. Just like they’d drilled into him at Parris Island, boxing it in his chest until the roar dulled to a growl.
There’s still time to back out.
The thought slithered through his skull, slick and sly, and he blew out a rough sigh, fogging the mirror’s edge. He didn’t like it, even thinking it felt like quitting, but it was true enough. Not a single soul would blink if he didn’t show tonight. All the way over to downtown Baton Rouge, in that club, withthatcrowd? Not a soul in his orbit had more than a passing clue he’d even consider it.
He’d buried that part of himself deep long ago, locked it behind a wall of muscle and menace, because the world he had served in, and now rode through, mostly didn’t take kindly to shades of gray. They were leather and steel and lived by the Incoherent MC code that didn’t bend.
But the club, and his crew inside those ranks, the tight circle he’d carved out? Busk, Rook, Diesel, hell any of those men, all of his brothers, were different. Open minds, with exposure to relationships that didn’t follow the rules of the norm. So, they’d be at least open enough if he could screw up the courage. There had been too many decades of hiding, and now he’d finally found the ones who wouldn’t flinch. At least, not too hard. If he ever let the truth slip.
Walking past, he gave his vest a reverent pat, fingers lingering on the patches before leaving it hanging off the back of the chair. These colors were his lifeblood, stitched into his soul as sure as the ink on his skin. Too precious to risk tonight, though, no way he’d drag the IMC’s story into a place where it might get twisted up in questions he wasn’t ready to answer.
The patch for his road name “Cherry” sat proud under the bold “Enforcer” nameplate, a warning in black and white that said “don’t fuck with me.” Inside the club or out, he was the steady hand, the iron fist using words first, posture second, and when that failed, knuckles did the talking. Below that patch was “Semper Fi 1775” which was a nod to the Corps, to the creed etched into his bones. The belief once a Marine, always a Marine.
The back told the rest of the tale in fractured but sharp pieces: “Incoherent MC” arcing across the top, the blue-winged eagle glaring fierce in the center, and “Baton Rouge” anchoring it all below. The IMC owned the Gulf coast, a sprawling empire from Florida’s Big Bend to beyond the Texas line, every mile between claimed and held, by violence if needed. The Mother chapter was housed over in Hammond, just a spit from New Orleans, where the big dogs ran the show. Cherry didn’t need to be there to feel the weight of it. The club was in his veins, every patch a scar he wore proudly.
Mid-prep, Cherry paused, a memory flickering.
Parris Island, his bunkmate Tommy’s laugh cut through the humid dark, shirtless and careless, leaving Cherry’s gut twisting with a want he’d choked down faster than a thought.
“Never again,” he’d sworn, but here he was, breaking that vow.
He rolled his shoulders, forcing the tension down and away, glaring into the mirror as if he could bully himself into courage. The eyes staring back were hard, storm-gray, and pissed; his lips twisted into a silent snarl. “If not now, then when? Then when?” he rasped out, voice low and raw, the sound swallowed by the empty room. His hand dipped to the pockets of his skintight jeans, verifying the presence of keys, wallet, and yeah, a condom and lube, because hope was a stubborn bastard. “Been waiting my whole damn life for this.” One last glare, a dare to the man in the glass. “Time to fucking own it.”
Twenty minutes later, he stepped out of the rideshare, boots hitting pavement with a thud that echoed in his chest. The line snaked ahead, men jostling and laughing, all waiting for the bouncer’s nodded invitation into the pulsing heart of Baton Rouge’s hottest queer club. Cherry squared his shoulders and fell in, the night air sharp against his skin, carrying the faint tang of sweat and promise.
?Chapter Two
Denis
The bassline thumped through the walls, chasing a couple into the bathroom as Denis Chapin gave himself a quick once-over in the smudged mirror, and approved of what he saw. His hair was still sharp, the shirt crisp enough. He grinned at the muffled grunts and moans already leaking from the big stall.Good for them.He shoved his tie into his jacket pocket, slipping back into the club.
