Chapter 3
Royal
T he Kings turned this old county jail into a clubhouse called the Lockup before I patched in, but the bones are still there. Iron bars rust into the brick, graffiti carves the cinderblock walls, ghosts cling to every shadow.
We call it church, but ain’t a damn thing holy about it.
I’m at the table with Oaks, Rye, Bullet, Derby, and the rest of the brothers, waiting for Legend to bang the gavel. The boys are already cracking jokes over bourbon that costs more than their dues.
“Hell, Royal,” Rye mutters, elbowing me. “You write any more of them spooky-ass poems in your journal, gonna read them on All Hallow’s Eve?”
The table laughs.
I smirk but don’t bite. That’s what they want. A reaction. They never get more than silence.
“Careful,” Oaks says, grinning. “Royal might put a hex on your dick. Never seen a man scowl that hard and not mean it.”
More laughter. Somebody smacks the table. Somebody else mutters about eyeliner.
I sip my coffee. Let it roll off. Silence is a weapon.
They’re onto their next victim. “Where’d Vandal and Lex, get off too,” Derby asks.
“Getting off probably. Together. I swear them boys like sausage for the shape not for the taste,” Oaks says, choking on his own joke as much as the bourbon that went down the wrong pipe.
“Just because they bathe regularly, and don’t come in here smelling like a pussy and ass sandwich,” Bullet starts on him.
Oaks attempts to defend himself, “Man, I just got back from the gym, and yeah, that pretty thing at the desk couldn’t resist me today. Rubbed her pussy all over me. Her yams too.”
The door creaks and Legend walks in. He doesn’t sit, just drops his palms flat on the table.
“Listen up. Valerie from Blow Me went missing last night.”
The room hushes. Even Rye stops grinning.
Blow Me’s the hair salon in Paradise, lotta girls get their roots bleached and tongues sharpened there. Valerie’s loud, always laughing, always flirting.
And now she’s gone?
“Maybe Mama Crowley got her,” Critter pipes up from the corner, one of the new prospects. He snickers. “Ain’t that the ghost story? Sunday school teacher turned whore. Heard she steals girls in the night and…”
He stops when he notices I’m staring.
“And what?” I say, no mistaking the threat in my tone.
He swallows. “Nothin’, man. Just a joke.”
“Don’t joke about that.” My voice cuts sharp.
The table goes quiet again, tension crackling.
Legend lifts his chin. “Royal. Sit down.”
I don’t remember standing, but my fists are on the table, knuckles white. I force myself back into the chair. My pulse is loud enough to drown out the burgoo bubbling in the kitchen.
Legend lets the silence stretch, then continues. “Valerie ain’t the only one missing. Melanie’s gone too.”
“Oh no, Melanie?” Derby says.
“Which one’s Melanie?” Rye asks.
“New bunny,” Oaks mutters. “Red hair.”
Rye shakes his head confused.
Oaks nudges him, “Big bush. Don’t shave down there. Remember her from last weekend. She was dancing on the pool table, and you called her Captain Red Pussy, and she kicked you in the nose.”
Rubbing his nose, Rye nods. “Always hanging on Derby last week.”
“Not mine,” Derby shoots back, holding up his hands.
“Doesn’t matter,” Legend growls. “She’s gone. Two girls in one week, both with ties to Pearly Gates.”
That gets everyone talking. Theories. Bets. Conspiracies. Some say the Reverend’s snatching back strays. Some say it’s a rival club. Some say it’s the same shadows that killed horses a decade ago.
I don’t say shit. I just sit there thinking about Becki.
Her laugh. Her stubbornness. The way she drapes herself in trouble like it’s silk.
She used to belong to Pearly Gates too. Reverend’s girl. Which puts her on the wrong list, the one where women go missing.
“Royal,” Legend calls, snapping me back.
“Yeah?”
He jerks his head toward the hallway. “Walk with me.”
We leave the table buzzing with theories and crude jokes. Out in the hall, the walls feel closer, like the jail still remembers locking men inside. Legend lights a cigarette, takes one drag, then fixes me with those brown eyes that don’t miss a thing.
“I need you to keep an eye on Becki,” he says.
I don’t flinch, but inside something shifts. “You got Oaks, Derby, hell, the whole club. Why me?”
“Because you don’t run your mouth,” Legend says flat. “And because she listens to you. Sometimes.”
I huff a laugh. “You sure about that?”
“She’ll push back, but she won’t run. Not from you.” He takes another drag. “I can’t do it myself. Not with Hannah around.”
“Hannah,” I echo. “That serious?”
He exhales smoke. “Fuck no. She’s company. That’s all. And Becki scares off company.”
I want to call him a liar, but I don’t. I just nod once. “Fine. I’ll watch her.”
But I don’t tell him, I’m planning to watch her anyhow. I’m always watching her.
Legend grips my shoulder, firm. “Keep her safe, Brother. She’s reckless. But she’s still mine, in a way. My problem, anyhow.”
I don’t answer. Can’t.
Because she’s not his. Not really.
But she’ll never be mine either.
I want to say it, but I bite my tongue. Fuck, I was born with blood on my tongue and poetry in my mouth.
That’s the problem.
People mistake silence for absence.
But I’ve never been absent.
Not from her.
Not from anything.
They just never bothered to look .
Later as the night fell, I stand in the shadows beneath the sycamores, face masked, hoodie pulled low, boots planted in the wet Kentucky dirt like a specter she summoned by mistake.
Becki’s out there barefoot in her nightie, flashlight trembling in one hand, a middle finger raised in the other. I smile behind the mask.
That’s my girl.
Even if she don’t know it.
Even if she never will.
I’ve watched her for years.
Since the Reverend dragged us out of Louisville and dumped us in this backwoods spiritual slaughterhouse.
My sister Cider and I were thirteen, maybe twelve.
Met Becki then, the Reverend’s real daughter, all busted lip and switchblade eyes, of two different colors.
They fucking mesmerized me. Me in black jeans and bruises, pretending I didn’t bleed poetry when I slept.
Met Legend then too. The Reverend already saved him. It was like enlisting in the army for a holy war. But we survived.
In the end Legend got the glory. The power. The patch.
He got the girl .
Or so it seemed.
But I got the fire.
And fire she stoked in me. Fire don’t forget. Rebecca Crowley don’t know what it did to me, watching her pine for him.
Watching her unravel herself for scraps.
Watching him let her. Watching her let his father, too, just to make Legend feel something. Anything.
But the man always there to put her back together… “I could never. You’re his oldest friend, Royal, you’re his brother,” she said once and too many times in my head.
It made me a villain before I even had the chance to be anything else. But I never stopped wanting her. Not once.
Tonight, I take what’s mine.
Becki wandered into the woods like a fucking dare. I stalk her from the trees like a curse she tried to outgrow.
When she lifts that flashlight and whispers, “What do you want?” I almost say it.
You.
Always you.
Only you.
But my voice would give me away.
And I want the truth of me to haunt her.
So I wait.
She charges.
I catch her like I’ve been catching her in my dreams since we were fifteen. She hits my chest like a wild thing, and I spin her into the tree with more force than I meant.
She gasps. And I feel it in my cock.
Jesus.
My mask presses against her cheek, and I breathe her in, sweet pumpkin spice and vanilla shampoo, heartbreak and cigarettes. I cage her with my body. Her breath catches.
“You scared me,” she whispers, her voice trembling.
Becki doesn’t even know how much I want that. How I live for that knife-edge between fear and lust. The way it sharpens everything .
But she doesn’t scream. She leans in .
So I grind into her.
Hard.
Mean.
Like punishment and confession wrapped up in one brutal movement.
She moans. Clutches my hoodie like it’s salvation. She kisses me or rather the mask. With hunger. With history. With rage. And for one heartbeat, I think she knows .
I think she knows it’s me .
I leave no space for lies. My chest cracks open, but I slip down, let my mouth escape cover. Kiss her neck.
Her thighs wrap around me, and I grip her hips like a prayer. I growl low in my throat. She arches for more.
But then her fingers trail down my chest, and she gasps against my neck.
Becki whimpers, “Legend.”
If she wants to believe it’s him, so be it.
Let him take the blame.
Let him carry the ghost.
I could take her right here against this tree.
She’d let me. No, she’d let Legend. I could bury myself in her and leave her messed up. But I want her to crave me.
And that takes patience.
I step back into the dark.
Her mouth chases me like she’s starving. Like she’ll die if I don’t touch her again.
Good.
I want her desperate .
I want her burning so bad she doesn’t even care who lit the match.
She grabs the hoodie. I unzip it to slip away. She stumbles forward as I vanish into the brush.
Leaves crunch. Her breath stutters. She swears under it.
I watch Becki drop to her knees to retrieve the flashlight. She looks around wild-eyed, lips swollen, chest heaving.
Like prey.
Like prophecy.
Like she was made for me. Let her chase ghosts tonight. Let her spin stories. Tomorrow, I’ll still be her shadow.
I’ve always been second in this town. Second to Legend. Second to God. Second to whatever the Reverend built his empire on.
But tonight? Tonight I was first . First to scare her. First to hold her like I meant it. First to leave her wanting.
And she’ll never forget it.
No matter who she thinks I am.
Before I make it back to the Lockup, I hide the mask in a bush and put my tongue ring back in.