“Well,” she says, voice carrying like she wants it to. “Look at this.”
Oaks’ voice goes low and controlled. “Beth. You need to calm down.”
She doesn’t. Her gaze drags over the bed like she’s memorizing the scene for later, like she’s already rewriting it into a story that makes her the victim and me the punchline.
“Didn’t even make it twenty-four hours,” she says, and then her eyes turn to me with that freezing stare. “Floatel whore must’ve gotten lonely.”
My throat tightens. The words hit harder because the door is open, because I can already hear movement outside, because this ain’t private cruelty. This is a performance.
Bethany turns and walks straight back out onto the porch and she doesn’t stop.
“Oh, y’all!” she calls, loud enough to wake the dead. “Come see this. VP’s got himself a new charity case.”
Oaks mutters something that sounds like a curse and swings his legs off the bed. I sit there frozen for half a beat, the quilt clutched to my chest like it can shield me from what’s coming. Then the anger hits, hot and sharp, because if I hide I become what she says I am, and I refuse. I straighten my shorts with shaking hands and follow Oaks outside.
The camp is awake now. Cabins line the treeline and smoke rises from a fire pit near the water. A few tents sit farther out, lights still glowing inside, and bikers stand in clusters like they were waiting for something to happen. Women step onto porches. Prospects freeze mid-step like they’re watching a wreck in slow motion. Bethany is planted in the center of it, chin lifted, the queen of a court built out of gossip and bitterness.
She turns when she sees me and there’s triumph in her eyes. “Speak of the devil,” she says sweet. “You proud of yourself, honey?”
My throat wants to close but I force air through it. I glance around without meaning to and my stomach drops again because this ain’t just random faces. I know them all now, kind of, even if I’m not part of their world.
Legend stands near the fire with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. Sophie is beside him, gaze sharp and assessing like she’s already counting consequences. Royal leans against a post, eyes cool, watching like he’s measuring how this story will spread. Beckie leans into him, and he kisses her forehead. Lottie steps out of her cabin with Mason on her hip and Holler right behind her, and the look on Lottie’s face tells me she wants to rip somebody’s throat out.
This ain’t gossip anymore. This is a spectacle.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say, and I’m proud of how steady my voice sounds.
Bethany laughs. “You didn’t do anything? You crawled into my husband’s bed.”
“I didn’t crawl anywhere,” I shoot back, because I’m done playing quiet.
The camp shifts at that. A few murmurs. A few tightened faces. Bethany steps closer, lowering her voice like that makes it more poisonous. “You think you’re special?” she asks. “You think he don’t fuck half the women in this club?”
The humiliation burns because she’s right about part of it, and she knows exactly how to use it. Oaks moves then, stepping between us without touching either of us, just a wall of muscle and control.
“Enough,” he says.
Bethany shoves him. Not hard enough to hurt him. Hard enough to show she can. “You don’t get to ‘enough’ me,” she snaps. “You embarrassed me.”
“I didn’t touch him,” I say louder now, because I’m done being the quiet one. “You’re mad because I didn’t.”
A murmur ripples through the camp, low and sharp. Bethany’s eyes flash and her smile tightens into something ugly. “That’s the problem,” she hisses. “You think you matter to him. You don’t.”
She shoves me. It ain’t a slap. It ain’t a punch. It’s a push to the shoulder, but it’s enough to make me stumble, enough to humiliate, enough to cross a line. Oaks catches my arm before I fall and his grip is firm and protective and visible, and I feel the entire camp register it.
Bethany sees it too.
Something changes in her face. Fury turns into calculation, like she just found the lever that moves him.
“You choosing her?” she demands.
Silence drops like a curtain. Legend’s gaze sharpens. Royal goes still. Sophie doesn’t blink. Lottie’s mouth presses into a thin line.
Oaks doesn’t let go of my arm. He doesn’t look at me. He looks at Bethany and his voice goes quiet, dangerous in a way that makes my skin prickle.
“And you made this public,” he says. “That’s on you.”
It ain’t a declaration, not exactly, but it ain’t a denial either. It’s enough.
