His chest rose and fell, deep and even, but the hand at my back tensed. “You regret this?” he asked, not like he wanted an answer but like he was taking my measure for a coffin.
“No.” I surprised myself by meaning it. “If anything, I regret not doing it sooner.”
He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he rolled us both to our sides, pulling me tight against him, pressing my face into the sweaty tangle of his neck and beard. I could smell the last tracesof his cologne, cheap and peppery, and beneath it, something that was just him—raw, electric, alive.
“You ever done that before?” he asked, softer now. “With someone like me?”
“With a convict biker who fucks like he’s angry at the world?” I shrugged. “Not exactly. With anybody? Not really, either. I mean, I’ve hooked up, but not—” I struggled for the word, couldn’t find it. “Not like this.”
He grunted, satisfied or not, and let the silence stretch again. The only noise was the distant rumble of motorcycles on the strip, and the thump of boots somewhere below. Somebody yelled, “Shut the fuck up!” but it sounded like a joke, or maybe a prayer.
I closed my eyes, felt the weight of his arm around me, the prickle of his chest hair under my palm, the steady thud of his heart. For once, I didn’t want to run. I didn’t want to erase myself or invent a new version that would be easier to explain. I just wanted to stay there, pinned under his arm, until the sun rose or the cops knocked down the door—whichever came first.
“I’m going to see you again,” I said, more threat than promise.
Axel snorted, a laugh like gravel under boots. “Wasn’t planning on hiding. You want to run, you better do it now.”
“I’m tired of running,” I said, and meant that, too.
He looked at me for a long time, maybe trying to figure out where the lie was, or maybe just looking for the first crack in the story. When he didn’t find it, he leaned in and kissed me, soft this time, barely more than a brush of lips.
Then we listened to the night together, tangled and ruined and weirdly whole, letting the world keep spinning while we caught our breath.
12
Reverend
The air in Fable Christian Church at night was the same as any old Kentucky coffin—polished wood, must, and whatever bourbon aftershave Bart slathered on to hide the rot of his conscience. Stained glass glared over my shoulder, Saints shot through with golds and reds, every last one of them painted with an expression of cosmic disappointment. I let them watch.
The “conference room” had once been the small chapel, before I tripled the congregation and sold out to expansion. Now it was all drywall and water-stained ceiling tiles, a war room for the Lord’s work. The folding table bore the scars of a hundred covered-dish fundraisers and at least as many late-night tactical sessions, each more heretical than the last.
I dropped the photos hard. Glossy paper snapped against the fake oak, scattering images like tarot cards, him on a motorcycle, him drinking in the Pink Beaver, him standing outside the bankwith a Royal Bastards cut and the smile of a man who’d never once considered God’s judgment. Axel, they called him.
Silas grunted. Bart kept his hands in his lap and his posture military, his back straight, eyes just above mine, not making the mistake of staring at the evidence too long.
I watched the blood spider through Silas’s knuckles as he reached for a picture. “He looks soft,” he muttered.
I snorted. “That’s the problem, Sarge. All muscle, no brains, but somehow he’s turned two of our best prospects into liabilities in a week. Tell me how that adds up.”
Bart reached over and lined the photos in a neat row, like mugshots on a police blotter. “He’s a slick asshole, sir,” Bart said. “Probably had some kind of training.”
Silas shook his head. “Fuckin’ let me at him.”
“Now, now,” I said, steepling my fingers and letting the Father-Voice roll out. “Jesus made a habit of eating with sinners. Doesn’t mean we give them a seat at the Last Supper.” I reached for the map, a laminated Google printout I’d annotated with a rainbow of Sharpie scars. “This is what matters.” I jabbed the crosshairs at the Pink Beaver, then circled a half-mile radius, lapping up Main Street like a spreading oil slick. “The Royal Bastards haven’t pushed past Third in two years. Suddenly, they’re running credit lines to every pawnshop and payday loan from here to the freeway. That’s not ambition. That’s a declaration of war.”
Bart grinned, a cold pull at the corners of his mouth. “Wouldn’t be the first time, Reverend. Want me to rattle some cages?”
I raised a palm. “Not yet. We’re not savages, gentlemen. We’re missionaries.” I smiled, letting the edge show. “And missionaries know you win souls by seduction, not brute force. At least until you get them on their knees.”
Silas rolled his eyes, but he knew better than to mouth off. “You want intel or a message sent?”
I stood, savoring the way both men instinctively straightened when I did. “I want leverage,” I said. “I want him compromised. Find out what he wants—nobody just picks a fight for free. Not even a dumb bastard like this.” I paced the length of the table, letting my fingers drag across the map, smearing the lines with sweat. “Heather says he’s sweet on Darla.” I waited for the reaction. There was a little twitch at Bart’s jaw, and Silas’s nostrils flared.
Bart said, “That’s a liability.”
I laughed—a short, mirthless bark. “We’re all someone’s liability, son. But she’s not the target. He is.”
Silas finally leaned in, both elbows crushing the edge of the table. “You want us to take her? Or him?”
