Across town, Nash stood in the yard off the garage, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers.The clubhouse sat in the haze, the roof throwing glare from the sinking sun, sharp enough to make him squint.
It was quiet now.No pipes rumbling.No boys bullshitting.No music rattling the walls.
No ex-wife screaming her goddamn face off.
He’d been drinking all day—ever since Cassie lit the fuse this morning, blurting out in front of his kid that Connor was dead.Christ.Between Junie crying and Addison tearing into him before he could get a word in…
Cursing under his breath, Nash flicked the cigarette into the dirt.
Fuck Cassie.
Acting like he hadn’t fought like hell to save her brother.
His brother, goddammit.
Connor’s slide into addiction didn’t start loud.Just leftover scripts after cracking three vertebrae on a Carolina run…then forty Percs gone in a week…then the brother who rebuilt engines started forgetting his tools, showing up to meetings strung out…then came the mood swings.The lies…the bike he swore was stolen…
And then that night in the clubhouse bathroom.
Connor slumped against the wall, legs sprawled across the tile, a needle still stuck in his arm.Pupils pinpricks, lips tinged blue.Nash dragged him up by his hoodie, shoved his head under the faucet, shook him, yelled until his throat burned.Connor had cried after.Swore it wouldn’t happen again.
But it always did.
Until Nash said the words that gutted them both—That’s it.You’re out.Come back when you’re clean.
And where the hell was Cassie then?Off playing her fancy music in fancy fucking cities Connor couldn’t even spell.Meanwhile it was Nash holding his head over the toilet, wondering if tonight was the night he stopped breathing for good.
Scrubbing a hand down his face, he blew out a hard breath, and stalked into the garage where an ’84 Shovelhead waited, half-stripped on the stand.No rush, no buyer—just something to keep his hands busy when his head got too damn loud.
Grabbing a torque wrench, he leaned over the cradle.The cam plate was off maybe a sixteenth of an inch—enough to throw the whole thing out.Yanking harder than he should’ve, the bolt snapped with a sharp crack.
Glaring at it, he muttered, “Where the hell does she get off comin' here and accusing me of anything?”
“You talkin’ ’bout Con-Man’s little sister?”
Snake strolled into the garage with a cardboard box tucked under one arm, smirk plastered on like always.He dropped the box on a bench with a heavy thud, bills, bundled in rubber bands, spilling against the flaps.
“Gotta run this through Wierswood,” he said, flicking a lighter to his smoke.“Cash won’t clean itself.”
“Still can’t believe the balls on that one,” he went on between drags.“Not many men got the stones to walk into a Kings’ clubhouse and start tearin’ shit up.Let alone a female.And who would’ve thought—girl looks delicate as hell.”
Nash snorted.Delicate?Nobody grew up in Appalachia soft.But Snake wasn’t wrong either.Cassie looked polished now—too much makeup, a sharp little haircut, wearing outfits that probably cost more than a new set of tires.
But then she’d jumped off that bar and swung a bat at him like she’d meant to cave his skull in.Now, that was Cassie Berry in a nutshell.Prettiest thing this side of the Greenbrier and meaner than a bobcat in heat.
He could still see her down by the creek near her house—sixteen, curls long and wild, bow flying over strings while she played some classical shit.Him pretending to watch the water, sneaking looks at her cutoffs riding high on her thighs.Right up until she caught him and grinned.
“What?Never seen Vivaldi played in the mud before?”
“Never seen it played by someone who can gut a deer and shoot a bottle off a fence post,” he shot back.
Her grin widened.“Mamaw always said a woman ought to do three things: make music, make dinner, and make any man who crosses her regret it.”
Her laugh had been reckless and bright…and it made him want to grab her, kiss her hard, and never let go.
“She ain’t never had a problem tearin’ shit up,” Nash said, wiping grease off his hands.“Don’t let her looks fool you.She’s a goddamn Holler Rat through an’ through.”
Snake’s smirk sharpened.“Word is you used to be all up in that Holler Rat.That true, boss?’Cause—goddamn.”
