The second the door shuts, my phone buzzes again.
Same number.
I don’t answer.
But I know one thing now.
Oaks didn’t show up because he was jealous.
He showed up because something already moved.
Chapter 4
Oaks
A biker’s Church ain’t about God.
Not here.
Not in Hell, Kentucky.
Church is about power. About who’s bleeding, who’s lying, and who’s pretending not to see the rot spreading under the floorboards.
I stand near the back, arms crossed, boots planted wide, watching the brothers file in. Cuts on. Faces hard. Voices rising to the rafters.
We’re crammed around the long table in the back room, boots up on chairs, ashtrays already overflowing. Derby’s chewing sunflower seeds as though he’s aiming to start a fight with his own jaw.
I’m Vice President of the Kings of Anarchy MC, Kentucky charter. That means I don’t talk first. I listen. I remember. And when I move, it’s already too late for somebody.
Legend hasn’t taken the head of the table yet, which means we’re in that dangerous window where everybody’s mouth runs wild.
Rye leans back in his chair, chair legs screeching. “So who all remembers the party last night, or are we pretending like that moonshine didn’t steal memories again?”
Derby snorts. “Only thing it stole was your dignity. You tried to line dance with Bullet.”
Bullet doesn’t even look up. He flicks ash into the tray. “I would’ve put him down if he touched my hips again. Ain’t my fault he can’t tell shine from lighter fluid.”
Whiskey raises his mug. “For the record, the books say we lost three chairs, one barstool, and whatever the hell Vandal did to the bathroom sink.”
Vandal grins as big as a possum eating sweet taters. “All the rooms were full. I know I’m not the first of y’all to smash a club bunny on that sink. Damn thing finally gave out.”
Royal sits quiet in a black hoodie, notebook closed, eyes sharp like he’s listening to a whole other conversation layered under this one. He always does that. Makes men nervous without saying a damn thing.
Lex clears his throat. “We done yet, or we just gonna keep confessing sins without absolution?”
Wildcat laughs. “Brother, if God’s listening to this room, he already packed up and moved down to Tennessee.”
Legend finally walks in and shuts the door behind him.
Silence hits like a slap.
“Alright,” he says, voice calm and dangerous. “Enough dick swinging. Sit up.”
Everyone does. Mostly.
He looks around. “We got trouble stirring near Pearly Gates again. Reverend’s hell bent on pinning some shit on us. Same old rot.”
Derby mutters, “Cult’s like mold. Scrape it off, it grows back meaner.”
