He locks the door behind him.
And I’m left smiling in the dark.
Because Royal wasn’t jealous of Oaks.
He was territorial.
And that’s more dangerous.
But who the fuck is Joey?
Chapter 8
Royal
Heck’s Kitchen isn’t a kitchen at all.
It’s a condemned courthouse turned underground wrestling pit, lit by flickering flood lamps and packed tighter than a church revival.
Fans scream from the rafters, some perched on crates, others clinging to rusted railings.A row of Paradise locals sits ringside with bingo cards because no matter the side of the county, we treat violence like televised sports.
A spotlight swings over the fight ring, four ropes tied to repurposed cattle gates, duct tape holding half of them together.A cowbell hangs crooked over the announcer stand.
The mayor is here, too.
Not a human one.
The real one.
Mayor McCoy, the golden retriever mutt with a bandana that saysRe-Elect Me, I Don’t Bite, sits on a throne made of beer crates the bikers built for him as a joke.The dog wags his tail every time someone gets punched.The crowd cheers harder when he barks.
This fucking town.
I should be focused on the mic in my hand.Derby’s nowhere to be found, so I’m here to announce the next throw down.To keep the club visible while most of my brothers are sniffing around after the standoff at Paradise Falls.I’m here to play politics with a canine and pretend I’m not locked in a war with pieces of myself.
But all I hear in my head is her.
Becki’s voice, sharp, defiant, breathy when I had her pinned against the wall earlier, her pulse racing under my fingers, her throat exposed like she didn’t care whether I kissed her or cut her.
And I left her chained in my room.
The guilt and desire burn like Blantons on an open wound.
“Royal!”Oaks calls from below the platform, waving me down.
I grind my jaw, climbing off the stage.
Brother shouldn’t even be standing near me.He sure as hell shouldn’t be looking at me like he didn’t just have a private conversation with her, my prisoner, my problem, my…
No.
Not mine.
I shove the thought down like a hot coal.
The crowd bellows as the current fighters rip into each other, fists flying, bodies slamming against the ropes.Someone lights a joint near the mayor, and the damn dog sneezes and sneezes until a biker’s ol’ lady named Sally gives him a pulled-pork sandwich.
When I reach Oaks, there’s no warning.I grab him by the collar and slam him into the steel pillar behind the bleachers.Hard enough to rattle loose rust and send two fans in the front row scrambling.
