Prologue
Country Boy’s office door sticks like it’s got opinions. I shoulder it open anyway, because I’m not in the habit of asking wood for permission to enter. The small room was maybe a kid’s bedroom once upon a time that was transitioned into an office when the place was turned into a bar. The common area of the clubhouse is loud behind me—pool balls cracking, someone laughing too hard, the low thrum of bikes outside like a heartbeat—but in here, behind this door, it’s quieter. He keeps it that way which is why the door sticking doesn’t bother him. Keeps the noise out so he can hear his own thoughts, at least that’s what he says.
Country Boy looks up from behind the desk, jaw already set like he’s been expecting a problem. “Say it,” he tells me.
I shut the door and lean back against it, arms crossing over my chest. Ink covering down both arms in full sleeves, disappearing under my shirt. Never hidden, though, is the art over the tops of my hands, I won’t ever hide who I am. People see the tattoos first. They judge without even knowing a person.
My attitude. Let them.
Underestimate me. Go ahead.
“I’ve got a meet to take,” I explain. “Bella Vista, Arkansas. Saint’s Outlaws.”
The air shifts. Country Boy’s eyes narrow. “Arkansas.”
“Yeah.”
He pushes up from his chair slow, like he’s giving himself time not to explode. Country Boy’s not the kind of president who yells to hear himself. When he’s mad, the whole room feels it anyway. Like pressure building before a storm. It’s an air about him. And his problem isn’t about Saint’s Outlaws, Wrath, or any ally club.
It’s with me. Because he knows what I want and I’m pretty sure he’s going to deny my request.
“You don’t ride out alone,” he states. Because my need to escape feeling tied down absolutely drives the man insane. I have learned to stop taking off without a head’s up because he takes brotherhood seriously. Me leaving without a word crawls under his skin to no end.
“I’m not planning to.”
Country Boy’s gaze flicks to the spot, the reminder. The mark, a small one under my left ear where the scar never quite fades. Like he’s tallying old damage. Like he’s weighing the cost of me leaving and the cost of me staying. I live with the visible reminder of what happened and what it almost cost me every day.
“Every time you get an idea,” he mutters, “it comes with a divide in the highway and a choose your path question.”
I shrug. “Highways don’t lie. People do. Bad choices lead to lessons learned. We all manage to get back on track eventually.”
His mouth tightens. “Why’s this meet on your shoulders?”
“Because it’s money.” I tap two fingers against my chest to my officer’s patch. “And because Wrath asked for me. Cleared it with Tripp before he even dialed my number.”
That name lands heavy. Talon “Tripp” Crews is the Haywood’s Landing Hellions President and our lead chapter of all of the Hellions in the Carolina’s. He has the power to make Country Boy stand down if he was to try to stop me from taking the meet.
Wrath runs with the Saints—an ally club with reach and reputation, not the kind you ignore if you want to keep business moving smooth. We’ve worked with them before. Not often, but enough to know what to expect. Saints don’t play games. Saints don’t waste time. And out of all the Hellions chapters he prefers to work with Salemburg.
Country Boy drags a hand over his beard, eyes hard. “I don’t like it.”
“That’s not new,” I state the obvious.
He points at me, warning in the gesture. “I mean I don’t like it because you like riding alone. I need to know you got a plan and it isn’t one where you have no man at your back. You get that nomad itch and you start thinking you’re untouchable.”
I push off the door and step closer. “I don’t think I’m untouchable.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” He studies me, “you got a plan. I see it in your eyes Miles. And that I don’t like.”
I run my hand through my hair. Damn fucker always reads people quick. “Smoke will be with me for most of the ride,” I give him the truth. “We split in Tennessee. He heads back after the state line and I keep going. Less attention that way.”
Country Boy’s stare stays locked on mine. He’s reading me, like he always does—trying to find the angle I’m not saying out loud.
“You plan to be in and out?” he asks.
“Meet. Verify terms, grab a key to the drop facility. Confirm transport details, times and shit. Collect half. Leave,” I state. “I’m not staying for drinks or a welcome party.”
Country Boy exhales slow, like he’s swallowing down whatever instincts are clawing at him. “You always were built wrong,” he says finally. “Like you came out already halfway gone. I know you got every brother’s back without fail, but damn you can’t stay in one place longer than two weeks without finding a way to hit the pavement.”
