Upstairs, the town keeps whispering. Pearly Gates keeps watching. The club keeps adjusting.
But in that basement room, for the first time since the lake, since the blood, since the funeral, it doesn’t feel like survival.
It feels like a choice.
And this time, it’s mine.
Chapter 37
Oaks
The first time I hear someone call her “Mrs. Vice” under their breath, it ain’t meant kindly, and it ain’t even meant as a joke. It’s a warning dressed up as a nickname, the kind folks in Hell like because they can pretend they were just “talking” while they’re sharpening the knife.
Hell has a long memory and short mercy, and the town hasn’t decided what Brittany is yet, not in a clean way it can repeat without lowering its voice.
Survivor. Killer. Curse.
Folks try those labels on like gloves, see which one fits, and when none of them sit right they settle on the only thing they know for sure, which is that she belongs to my orbit now, and anything that gets too close to my patch becomes dangerous by association.
Legend doesn’t call church about it, because he doesn’t have to. Tension in a club moves like a current under still water. You don’t see it until somebody goes under and doesn’t come back up, and by the time you notice it, you’re already counting bodies and pretending you ain’t.
We’re at the clubhouse on a Tuesday night. Royal leans back in his chair with his arms crossed, calm the way a gun is calm when it’s loaded.
Holler’s got his boots up on the table like he’s bored, except the set of his jaw says he’s just trying not to start something he’ll have to finish.
Derby picks at the edge of a beer label until it peels away in thin strips, watching more than he talks, and Legend stands at the head like he always does, forearms braced, eyes hard, like posture alone can hold an entire club together.
“Pearly Gates ain’t done,” Legend says, voice flat with certainty. “Reverend’s been pushing a narrative. Says we poisoned this town. Says we’re taking the girls. Says we protect our own no matter the cost.”
Royal’s eyes flick to me, quick as a blade flash.
“Don’t we?” he asks mildly, like he’s talking about the weather, like he doesn’t already know the answer. “Protect our own?”
I don’t answer. Legend does.
“We protect the club,” he says. “That ain’t the same as protecting mistakes.”
It ain’t an accusation, not technically, but it lands close enough to sting, because the question is sitting there anyway, heavy and unspoken, and everybody in the room can feel its weight. Bethany is dead. Brittany is alive. I’m still standing. Hell likes balance, and when it doesn’t get it, it looks for somebody to shove off the scale.
“They’ve subpoenaed Brittany,” Royal adds, and he says it like a fact, like a forecast. “For questioning about the lake. And about Bethany.”
“She’ll go.”
“Of course she will,” Royal replies, still smooth, still careful. “The question is whether she folds. She can’t say anything about the dirty Bethany had on us.”
“She won’t.”
Derby finally looks up. “You sure? They’ll offer her a clean slate, offer to turn this into a club conspiracy, and all she’s gotta do is say you pressured her. Folks love a story where the girl gets to be innocent again as long as she points at a biker and cries on cue.”
The thought makes my blood run hot, not because it’s true about her, but because it’s true about people. Folks will forgive you for being messy if you confess in the right direction, and Pearly Gates will hand you the script and call it salvation.
“She won’t,” I repeat, and it comes out quieter this time, not stubborn, just certain, because Brittany doesn’t run from fire. She steps into it, even when she’s shaking, even when she’s bleeding, even when she’s terrified, and the world either makes room or gets burned.
Legend studies me for a long moment. “You don’t get to make that choice for her,” he says. “If she cracks, that’s on her.”
“She ain’t gonna crack,” I say, and Holler lets out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t sound so tired.
“Hell,” Holler mutters, eyes half-lidded. “If this town could crack her, it would’ve done it back when the diner still served green beans outta a can and called it Sunday supper.”
