Chapter 1
Brittany
In Hell, Kentucky, you don’t ask biker wives for favors unless you’re ready to owe something back. I shouldn’t be begging a biker’s ol’ lady for anything past a ride to Walmart.
But here I am, standing in Lottie Little’s kitchen with my hands clasped like I’m asking forgiveness instead of permission. Nothing little about Lottie. She’s a former athlete, tall, built like a brick shithouse, and she’s got that look in her eyes like she can spot bullshit the way a bloodhound finds a trail.
“Please,” I say. “Just one night. I won’t embarrass you. I won’t touch anything. I won’t flirt with any bikers.”
Lottie snorts into her coffee and looks me up and down like she’s weighing whether I’ll survive the experience.
“You say that like it’s a promise you can keep,” she says. “You ever been to the Lockup before?”
“No,” I admit. “But I’ve heard tales.”
“That’s worse.”
The Lockup ain’t Heck’s Kitchen. Heck’s is loud, public, half wrestling arena and half town fair gone feral. Anybody can wander in if they’ve got cash and nerve. The Lockup is different. The Lockup is the Kings of Anarchy MC’s clubhouse. The place you don’t go unless you’re invited, vouched for, or claimed.
I grew up in Paradise, Kentucky knowing exactly where I stand. Poor side of the road. Mama gone before I learned to braid my own hair. Daddy working three counties away and still not making enough. I’ve been babysitting since I was thirteen, waitressing since sixteen, and taking community college classes whenever I can scrape together the money.
In addition to my weekend shifts at Slice of Paradise, I work at Lottie’s pawn shop in Official. Paradise, if you’re polite. Official, if you’re local enough to know.
Saying Official started as a slight at Hell. A biker club incorporated a city in Paradise County alongside the city of Paradise and dubbed it Hell. Now it’s second nature for folks to say Official to avoid confusion between the county and city of Paradise.
Shit’s confusing, but Hell reclaimed the word like it always does everything.
Hell ain’t Paradise. But more and more of Paradise is getting lost to Hell. Folks around here say you can't go back to Paradise once you leave for Hell. But folks here are religious and say all sorts of foolishness.
At the pawn shop I mop floors, run tickets, watch her kid when Lottie’s worn out, and try not to stare when Holler comes by to kiss her forehead and slide a hand into her back pocket like he’s got every right to be there.
Lottie’s younger than Holler by a good bit, and nobody says a word about it because he treats her like something precious. Like the world might bruise her if he doesn’t keep a hand on her. He doesn’t look at anyone else when Lottie’s in the room.
I notice things like that.
I notice everything.
That’s probably why going to the clubhouse in Hell is a bad idea.
“Why tonight?” Lottie asks, crossing her arms. “Why now?”
I shrug, but heat crawls up my neck. “Because I’m tired of being invisible.”
Truth is, the fella I’ve got my eye on has eyes for another, and the way Holler looks at Lottie has me longing for a biker of my own. Not the fantasy. The real thing. Someone who looks at me like I’m the only damn woman in the room.
Lottie studies me slow, like she’s deciding whether I’m sturdy enough to make it through the night or too soft to survive the door.
“I ain’t fragile,” I tell her, lifting my chin even though my stomach’s flipping. “I’ve been working in this town for seven years. I can handle a bar.”
Her mouth twitches as if she ain’t convinced.
“You’re twenty,” she says. “Old enough to know better.”
“Young enough to still try.”
Truth is, I look like the kind of girl men underestimate. Soft face. Big eyes. The kind of body that gets stared at before it gets respected. I’ve been stared at my whole life.
But there’s steel under it.
