Chapter 8
Royal
I was never chosen. Not by the club. Not by the preacher. Not by you.
But your name lives in my mouth like a blade under the tongue cutting, burning, holy.
And still I kneel in shadows you forget.
I remember the first Halloween I watched her.
The graveyard behind the trailer park never used to scare me.
Not when I was thirteen and sleeping on tombs to avoid the fists of my foster family.
Not when I was fifteen and dragging a stolen Bible across these crooked stones, daring God to strike me down.
And sure as hell not now, now that I’ve become the kind of monster mothers warn their daughters about.
The kind that watches from the shadows.
The kind that leaves poetry and bruises behind like prayer cards.
Tonight, though… tonight the ghosts feel closer.
Maybe because I brought one of my own with me.
I light a cigarette with shaking fingers, crouched behind the wrought-iron fence like I’m still some teenage runaway dodging a patrol. But I’m not hiding from the cops anymore.
I’m hiding from her .
From the truth.
Becki’s voice echoes down the hill, tipsy and laughing, stumbling in the dark with that fake courage girls wear like lipstick when they’re hurting.
She’s alone.
I am the blade between her ribs.
The shadow by the stone.
The secret she kissed in the dark and begged for more.
I step from the trees, slow and silent.
I put the mask on.
She doesn’t see me.
My little troublemaker in a leather jacket and smeared lipstick, trying to look meaner than the world that’s broken her.
She never sees me.
Just like always.
She was my first prayer.
My first sin.
My first girl with blood on her knuckles and grace in her spit.
They always said the Reverend saved us. That he took in broken boys and gave us purpose. What they don’t talk about is how he also broke us again. Tried to mold us into saints with violence and guilt. Tried to erase who we were before we arrived at Pearly Gates.
Legend played along. Too well, sometimes. He was always the favorite, strong, silent, full of that golden promise the Reverend liked to shape into weapons.
Me? I wrote poems in the back pew and picked locks with communion nails.
And Becki…
Becki was the preacher’s daughter . Already too wild. Already too proud. They wanted to save her, but she didn’t want to be saved. She wanted to be seen .
And I saw her.
Still do.
Later, I sit in the Kings’ clubhouse, lights low, mask off, but hoodie still up. No one talks to me. Not unless they need something fixed or destroyed.
That’s the way I like it.
Hell, most don’t even know my real name. Becki does. And even she’s forgotten it. She just calls me Royal now, like it’s the only part of me that’s worth saying out loud.
You say my name like it’s a dare,
and I answer like a ghost scratching from the coffin.
I almost told her last night.
When she slipped her hand beneath the mask, fingers trembling, breath hot against my skin.
I almost pulled it off myself.
Let her see me.
Let her choose me .
But then she said his name… Legend’s name… soft and aching like a prayer.
And I knew I’d lost again.
Second place. Second thought. Second best.
Story of my goddamn life.
I scribble in the journal again, but the words won’t come out clean tonight.
Everything feels like a bruise.
Becki thinks she’s in love with a ghost.
With a man who kissed her in the dark and disappeared like smoke. And maybe that’s all I’m good for.
A Halloween nightmare.
A one-night sin.
But some sick part of me… some romantic part… wants more.
Wants her to love me .
The boy she once defended with a Bible and fury. The man who’s spent years waiting for her to see him again.
I bury the past, but it don’t stay dead.
Not in this town. Not with her.
Every time she breathes, she exhumes me.
And I let her.
The Lockup’s dark as usual but it’s morning. Can tell by the roosters over at Pearly Gates.
Halloween ain’t over yet, not in Hell, Kentucky. Around here, we drag it out like a funeral that don’t want to end. Another party, another round, another morning with half the brothers hung over and still pretending we’re twenty.
I drop into a dented metal chair, head pounding like someone worked me over with a tire iron. Oaks is already at the table, sunglasses on indoors, arms crossed like he’s about to pass out where he sits.
Bullet’s got a towel wrapped around his neck, hair still wet from a shower, trying to look alive. Even Rye looks wrecked, and that bastard usually drinks us all under.
The only one smiling is Critter. Kid’s too young to know hangovers last longer the older you get. He’s perched on the side of the couch like a damn squirrel, jittery, always waiting for scraps.
The door creaks open, and in glides Kandddy, the bunny of the week, wearing nothing but a lace thong and one of Legend’s shirts. She’s got a tray balanced in her hands like she’s auditioning for Hooters, only what she’s carrying ain’t beer. It’s coffee. Real coffee. Fancy-shit coffee.
She sets down mugs, steam curling like it don’t belong here in this dump.
I raise a brow when I see the frothy swirl. “What the fuck is this?” I mutter.
“Cappuccino,” she purrs, bouncing her ass for good measure.
Oaks squints at the foam. “Looks like somebody jerked off in my cup.”
Rye leans in, sniffing. “Nah, brother. If it smelled like bleach, then we’d know it came from you.”
The table bursts out laughing. Even hungover, the boys live for this shit.
Bullet stirs his mug, deadpan. “I don’t care what it is, long as it gets my dick hard enough to piss straight.”
Oaks groans. “What happened to Folgers?”
Rye smirks. “Guess we’re classy now. Kings of Anarchy… now with foam art.”
Bullet leans forward, inspecting the heart shape in his mug. “Cute. I’m drinkin’ this just so I can shit it out in 10 seconds.”
The table erupts with half-dead laughter. Kandddy just winks, refills sugar, then struts off like she’s the queen of the club.
Critter whistles. “Tell you what, I’d drink her any day of the week, those triple Ds.”
Oaks tosses a balled-up napkin at him. “Shut up, pup. You ain’t earned the right to talk about bunnies like that.”
Critter grins, unfazed. “Earned or not, I know which one of y’all was upstairs with her last night. Heard the headboard.”
Bullet flips him the bird. “Careful, prospect. You keep flappin’ that mouth, and we’ll make you clean the john with it.”
That sets Rye off. He slaps the table. “Last night I had a devil girl down at Heck’s. Swear to God, she sucked me so hard I thought my chrome was gonna peel off the pipes.”
Oaks throws his head back. “Shit, I woke up next to some nun costume. Didn’t remember takin’ communion, but my knees are sore. I’m pretty sure she blessed my balls.”
Bullet grins wicked. “Fuck all that. I’m hunting down the slutty scarecrow. Girl bent over, hay pokin’ out of her ass like she was already stuffed for me.”
Rye snorts beer foam out his nose. “Bet she told you to plow the back forty.”
Oaks chimes in, not missing a beat. “Hope you wrapped it, brother. Last thing you need is a corn-fed baby with straw for hair.”
Bluff, always louder than he should be, leans in. “Better than me. I left with a nurse. Bitch pulled out a thermometer, said she needed to check my temp. Next thing I know, she’s sittin’ on my face takin’ my blood pressure.”
“Did you pass?” Rye shoots back.
Bluff grins. “Barely. Think I flatlined twice.”
Derby belts out, “Witch told me she was into spells. Only spell I saw was her makin’ my dick disappear down her throat.”
The room howls. Even Critter, stupid little prospect, is red in the face laughing. He jumps in, puffed up like he belongs here. “Y’all can keep your scarecrows and devil girls. Me? I like my women like my bikes, loud, dirty, and easy to ride.”
Rye fires back instantly. “Funny, I heard your last girl had to kickstart you three times before you even got hard.”
Oaks adds, “Yeah, and once he started, he only ran for two miles before breakin’ down.”
The laughter is ugly, mean, but it rolls like thunder across the Lockup.
Then Legend comes in, and the room goes quiet. He don’t smile. Don’t joke.
Cuts the chatter dead.
He don’t even need to say a word. Just a look, sharp as a blade, and we all straighten up.
Prez mood.
He sets his mug down, black coffee, none of that frothy shit, and leans against the table. “Valerie’s still missing.”
The name lands heavy. Valerie from Blow Me, the salon. Everyone knew her. Loud laugh, big hair, big tits, bigger tips. The kind of woman who made this town feel alive.
“She run off with a customer?” Rye tries, but even he don’t sound like he believes it.
Legend shakes his head. “No. And she ain’t the only one remember. Melanie’s still gone too. Our new bunny.”
The room quiets.
Oaks mutters, “Jesus.”
Bullet asks, “You think it’s connected?”
Legend’s blows out. “Both of ‘em tied to Pearly Gates somehow. Valerie’s cousin still lives on the commune. Melanie’s old man used to run security for the Reverend before he drank himself to death.”
Oaks says what everyone’s thinking, “Someone sell them to the Lamb Society?”
The air turns cold. Nobody jokes now. I’m about to tell them about the man I caught following Becki out at Crooked Creek Hollow. The man I let go because I was in the mask, and he saw me.
But Critter opens his dumb mouth first.
“Maybe it should’ve been Crazy Becki,” he blurts, snorting. “She’s a bigger pain in the ass than both of ‘em put together. That bunny don’t put out for nobody but Prez.”
The words hit me like a switchblade to the ribs.
Before I know it, I’m out of my chair and on him. My fist crashes into his jaw, snapping his head sideways. He scrambles, swinging wild, but I slam him against the wall, forearm across his throat.
“You shut your fucking mouth,” I snarl.
He chokes, clawing at my arm. “I was just…”
Another punch cuts him off. His lip splits, blood spraying. The room don’t move to stop me. He’s a prospect. Prospects don’t get saved.
“You don’t get to say her name,” I growl, spitting on him before I let him drop. He crumples, coughing blood into his hand.
Legend’s voice cuts through. “That’s enough, Royal.” I look at him. His eyes are steel. Not angry. Just final. I shove Critter one last time, hard enough his head smacks the wall, then step back, chest heaving.
Legend jerks his chin. “Office. Now.”
The Lockup’s office used to be a jail cell, bars still welded into the walls. Legend sits behind the old warden’s desk, papers scattered. He don’t look up right away, just taps ash into a tray, thinking.
Finally. “You got a problem with prospects?”
I snort. “I got a problem with him talkin’ about Becki like she’s a fuckin’ joke.”
Legend’s eyes lift. Hard. “She ain’t a joke. She’s family.”
I step closer. “Then act like it.”
He exhales, slow. “You think I don’t care about her?”
“I think you don’t care enough,” I fire back. “You let her run wild. Let her drink herself stupid. You act like she’s someone else’s responsibility when you know damn well she ain’t.”
Legend stands, squaring off. I’m taller than him by a hair, though he’s broader by more, but I don’t back down.
“She is my responsibility,” he snaps. “Because of what we’ve been through. Because of the church. Because of the club. I’ll always look after Becki. Don’t mistake my silence for neglect.”
I grit my teeth. “You sure that’s all it is? Responsibility?”
His mouth twists. “Obligation. Same thing.”
That word makes my stomach burn. Obligation. Like she’s a burden. Like she’s a job.
“And if obligation turns into more?” I push.
He holds my stare. “Then maybe I end up with her. Just like the Reverend always wanted.”
The words make my fists clench. Because I know he believes them. And I know, deep down, that’s the one thing I can’t fight him on.
Because Legend always gets what he wants.