Chapter Twenty-Five
Evan
The Twisted Devils’ clubhouse looks different in daylight.
At night, it’s all growl and shadow — bikes lined up like teeth, laughter spilling out of the bar, men who look built out of bad decisions and even worse consequences.
In the morning, it’s just an enormous chunk of timber and attitude sitting on the edge of Ironwood Falls like it owns the damn town.
I kill the engine of my forgettable sedan and sit there for half a second, hands on the wheel.
I hate this car.
It doesn’t rumble. It doesn’t roar. It doesn’t live.
But I didn’t come here to love my transportation.
I came here to work.
And to lie.
I step out and shut the door, grabbing my tool bag from the backseat. The air smells of pine and old smoke. Somewhere behind the building, someone’s already grilling something — because these people treat breakfast like a competition.
A side door opens and a guy wearing a cut with the name ‘Mayhem’ on it strolls out like he woke up this way — boots unlaced, hair a mess, sunglasses on even though it’s overcast.
He points at my car. “Is that your ride?”
“It gets me places,” I say.
Mayhem makes a noise like that answer gave him heartburn. “Don’t you love yourself? You deserve better. There was a garage sale going on near the corner of Elm and Graham Street where they were selling a Power Wheels. A red Jeep. It was a good price, too. They might still have it.”
Before I can respond, another man steps out behind him — taller, calmer, built like an athlete who decided peace was optional. His hair is lighter than most of the Devils I’ve seen, and his eyes are too clear for the world he lives in.
Goldie, according to the patch on his cut.
The VP, also according to the patch.
Molly mentioned him once in passing, as if he were a logistical fact. Not a person. Not someone who could assess a man in three seconds and decide if he belongs.
Goldie looks me over—boots, tool bag, hands, posture.
“Evan,” he says, like it’s already on a list somewhere.
I nod. “Yeah.”
Mayhem claps a hand on my shoulder like we’re buddies. “Welcome to the circus.”
Goldie hooks a thumb toward the garage. “Roof’s this way.”
We walk across the lot. Bikes sit in neat rows, quiet for once, but still watching. A couple of prospects are hauling plywood near the fence. One of them glances up at me too fast, then looks away like he got caught staring.
Goldie doesn’t talk much. Mayhem fills the silence like it’s his job.
“So,” Mayhem says, “you’re a contractor.”
“Yeah.”
“Like, legit? Or ‘I watched three YouTube videos and now I’m dangerous’ contractor?”
I snort. “Legit.”
“Mm.” He nods like he’s disappointed. “I was hoping for the YouTube one. More entertaining. Plus, you can learn a lot from YouTube. I learned about this thing called ‘manifesting’ and once I send this guy some gift cards, he’ll teach me how to do it. Then I’m going to manifest Richard Nixon.”
“Nixon’s dead,” Goldie says.
“That’s why it’s advanced manifesting and why I have to pay for it.”
“Why do you want to manifest Nixon?”
“So I can kick his ass for the War on Drugs.”
“You’re not satisfied by the fact that he’s dead?”
“No, this shit is personal.”
Goldie gives him a look. “You’re not allowed to watch YouTube anyone.”
We cut straight for the stand-alone garage at the edge of the lot.
It’s a hefty building you could crash a tank into and it would probably throw the tank back out again, unimpressed.
Even in daylight the place is hulking, the roof sloped low and wide, a tough old animal sunning itself in the clearing.
Shingles black with weather, patched here and there, but nothing on the verge of collapse.
If anything, the roof’s got years in it before it needs the overhaul Molly’s asked for.
Goldie stands back, arms crossed, scrutinizing the sightline up to the eaves. “We want it redone.”
I tilt my head, letting my eyes travel the length of the structure, counting the nail pops and warped corners. There are a few, sure, but it’s not catastrophic. “It’s not that bad,” I say, more to confirm what I already know.
Mayhem grins. “That’s what I said. Then Molly gave me a look that made my soul leave my body, and suddenly I was like, ‘Yep, the roof’s fucked.’”
Goldie’s mouth twitches, but his eyes stay sharp. “We do preventative. We don’t wait for leaks.”
“Smart,” I say automatically.
It’s not the roof I’m thinking about; it’s the fact that this isn’t about a leak. This is about Molly. A favor. A pull. A string she tugged in a world where strings come attached to knives, but she did it because she believed the lie I sunk into her. The lie that’s going to rip her heart out.
Goldie watches my face, his mouth a neutral line, but his eyes are the kind that could weigh a man’s heart without breaking a sweat. “Is that a problem?”
“No.” I adjust my grip on the tool bag. “Just want to make sure you’re not paying for work you don’t need.”
Mayhem laughs. “Buddy, we pay for lots of things we don’t need. Like bail.”
Goldie crosses his arms. “Do the work. Do it right.”
“I will,” I say. “What’s your timeline?”
“However long it takes,” Goldie replies. “We care about the quality, not the timeline.” Then Goldie steps closer, lowering his voice. “One thing.”
“Yeah?”
His gaze stays locked on mine. “We don’t have strangers up here.
And since you’re up here, literally, you need to make sure you’re keeping to where you belong.
Not to put any bad vibes your way, but keep your business to working on the roof, and if you need anything, you ask someone in a cut, you got it? ”
I nod. “Understood.”
Mayhem claps his hands. “You want company, or you want us to leave you with your thoughts and some unsafe power tools?”
“I’m good alone,” I say. “I don’t trust you.”
“Probably a good call.”
Goldie nods, satisfied. “You’ll have eyes on you. For insurance.”
I sling my tool bag over my shoulder. The ladder’s already leaning against the garage, the kind with the rungs slightly worn smooth in the middle from years of boots.
I take a breath, tasting the old wood smoke and the crispness of morning.
Somewhere nearby, the steady thunk of an axe splits the morning, rhythmic and practiced. I put a boot on the ladder and climb.
Every rung brings me higher, the ground falling away.
My stomach drops with each step, but it’s not the height that does it.
It’s the feeling of being visible, all the way up here where anyone in the lot could take a shot if they wanted.
Or just watch. I scan the windows of the clubhouse, and sure enough, faces move in the glass.
A slow parade of Devils, some with coffee, some with beers, all of them making mental notes.
When I reach the top, I swing a leg over, plant it firmly, and hoist myself onto the roof.
The shingles are warm under my palm. I take a knee and unzip the bag, hands moving automatically: pry bar, measuring tape, nail puller, chalk.
The tools of my temporary trade. I line them up, neat, the way my dad taught me, and exhale through my nose.
Below, Goldie and Mayhem stand with their heads cocked back, faces half in shadow.
Above, the sky is a blank gray lid.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don’t take it out.
I don’t need to.
My whole body recognizes the vibration pattern as if it’s carved into my bones.
Midnight.
I keep my face blank and climb.
I measure the first row, mark it, and start tearing up shingles with slow, careful violence.
The old nails shriek when they come out.
Every inch is a negotiation — force versus leverage, time versus effort.
I work fast, but not so fast that I lose the rhythm.
If you keep your hands busy, your brain can slow down and get its feet under it.
The shingles are warm from the sun. A few pebbles scrape under my palm.
When I reach the halfway mark on the first slope, sweat is running down my back and my fingers are stinging from the pull of the pry bar. I stop, wipe my forehead, and risk a glance at my phone.
Three missed calls.
I close my eyes. Up here, with the sky above me and the Devils below, there's nowhere to go. I put the phone back in my pocket and pick up the pry bar.
This is why I’m here.
This is the part nobody sees.
By the time I strip the first slope, my hands are raw and the muscles in my shoulders ache.
I sit back on my heels and look out over the lot.
The sun is higher now, slicing through the trees and glinting off the bikes in the yard.
A few guys have started a card game on the hood of a car.
Someone else is welding something near the fence, sparks fanning sideways like it’s the Fourth of July.
Yet every so often, there’s a pause, and I feel it — eyes on me.
I count the faces I can see. Mayhem's unsurprisingly wandered off, but Goldie's still down there, arms crossed, talking to another brother.
A woman with dark hair leans out of the clubhouse door and says something that makes the two of them laugh.
Normal. Relaxed. The kind of scene that could lull you into thinking you're safe.
But I'm not safe.
I'm a wolf in sheep's clothing, except the sheep have teeth too, and they know how to use them.
I pull another row of shingles; the nails screaming as they come loose.
The sound covers the pounding in my chest. Below, a guy in a cut I don't recognize walks the perimeter of the lot, slow and deliberate, like he's checking for cracks in the foundation.
His eyes sweep up to the roof, hold for a second, then move on.
They're watching.
They're always watching.
Molly put her name on me. She vouched for me to Claire, to Rabid, to this whole machine of loyalty and violence.
She handed them a piece of herself when she did that, and if I fuck this up, she doesn't just lose face — she loses everything she's built here.
Every drink she's poured, every test she's studied for, every wall she's built to keep herself standing. She'll lose her life.