Epilogue #4
"No, you're not." He cut her off, and there was something in his eyes now that made her breath catch. "You're a woman who's been fighting alone for too long. Who's too stubborn to ask for help even when she's drowning. Who'd rather die on her feet than live on her knees."
He reached out and caught her chin, tilting her face up the same way he had the night before. His thumb brushed the edge of the bruise on her cheekbone, feather-light.
"I know exactly what you are, Jolene. That's why I'm not asking permission."
She should have pulled away. Should have told him to go to hell, should have reminded him that she didn't belong to anyone and her bar didn't either.
Instead, she held his gaze and felt something crack open in her chest.
"I don't trust easy."
"Neither do I." His hand dropped, but the heat of his touch lingered. "But trust doesn't matter right now. What matters is whether you're smart enough to recognize a fight you can't win alone."
Behind him, the two brothers had finished their sweep of the building and were waiting by the door with the particular patience of men who'd learned not to interrupt their president.
Jolene looked at the destruction around her. The broken glass. The shattered frames. The empty spaces on the wall where forty years of blues history used to hang.
She thought about her grandmother, who'd kept this place alive through floods and recessions and the slow death of everything the Delta used to be.
She thought about what it would mean to lose it. To let some Memphis drug dealer erase everything her family had built.
And she thought about the man standing in front of her—dangerous, infuriating, and absolutely certain that he could protect what she couldn't.
"Fine." The word tasted like surrender, even though she knew it wasn't. "MC protection. Whatever that means."
"It means you're not alone anymore." Cottonmouth's voice carried a weight she didn't fully understand.
"It means the Destroyers stand between you and anyone who wants to hurt you.
And it means—" He paused, something flickering in those river-mud eyes.
"It means you're mine to protect now, Jolene. Whether you like it or not."
She should have argued. Should have pushed back against the possessive edge in his voice, the assumption that she was something to be claimed.
But she was tired. Tired of fighting alone. Tired of being the only thing standing between the Crooked Porch and oblivion.
"I don't like it," she said. "Just so we're clear."
That almost-smile crossed his face again. "Noted."
He turned and headed for the door, his brothers falling in behind him. At the threshold, he paused and looked back.
"Get some sleep. I'll have brothers here by noon to start on repairs. And Jolene?"
"What?"
"Next time Ruiz's people come around, you don't face them alone. You call me."
He was gone before she could respond, the screen door banging shut behind him, motorcycle engines roaring to life in the parking lot.
Jolene stood alone in the ruins of her grandmother's bar, broom still clutched in her hands, and tried to convince herself that accepting help wasn't the same as admitting weakness.
She hated that she needed anyone.
But she hated the idea of losing the Crooked Porch even more.
Chapter Three
The chapel smelled like old leather and cigarette smoke, the way it always did when the brothers gathered for church.
Cottonmouth stood at the head of the scarred oak table, watching his men file in and take their seats.
Outlaw on his right, Crossroad on his left.
Hollow settling into his chair with that empty-eyed silence that made prospects nervous.
Levee's massive frame filling the doorway before he squeezed through.
Burial bringing up the rear, closing the heavy doors behind him with a finality that said whatever happened in this room stayed in this room.
Six men. His inner circle. The brothers who'd been with him since the beginning, when the Destroyers were nothing but a handful of hard men with bikes and a refusal to let the world forget they existed.
"We've got a problem," Cottonmouth said.
No preamble. No buildup. His brothers didn't need their hands held.
"Victor Ruiz." He laid a photograph on the table—surveillance shot from six months back, Memphis businessman in a pressed shirt and clean boots.
"Former Gulf cartel middleman, went independent five years ago.
Built a distribution network pushing meth and pills south from Memphis along the Highway 61 corridor. "
Hollow picked up the photo, studied it with the flat assessment of a man calculating how hard someone would be to kill. Passed it to Levee without comment.
"He's been acquiring crossroads locations for months," Cottonmouth continued. "Bars, gas stations, any property that can serve as a waypoint for his product. The ones that won't sell get burned. The owners disappear."
"Leland," Crossroad said. "Hollandale. I heard rumors, but I thought it was insurance fraud."
"It wasn't." Cottonmouth pulled out a map, unfolded it across the table.
Red X marks dotted the highway from Memphis to Greenville—a constellation of dead businesses and missing people.
"The corridor's half-built. He's got everything from Memphis to Clarksdale locked down. Everything south of us is still open."
"And the Crooked Porch?" Outlaw's voice was quiet, thoughtful.
"Last holdout on this stretch of highway.
Ruiz sent two men to make an offer last night.
They broke the place up, put hands on the owner.
" Cottonmouth felt his jaw tighten at the memory—Jolene's split lip, the fury in her eyes, the way she'd stood there with a baseball bat ready to fight men who would have killed her without blinking. "I put them down."
A ripple went around the table. Not surprise—his brothers knew what he was capable of—but recognition. Their president had drawn a line.
"So we're at war," Hollow said. Not a question.
"We're at war the moment Ruiz's people touched Destroyer territory.
" Cottonmouth planted his hands on the table, leaning forward.
"This isn't about one bar or one woman. If we let a Memphis crew set up distribution in our backyard without answering it, every juke joint and one-stoplight town under our protection is next.
Every family that counts on us to keep the vultures away.
Every piece of ground we've spent twenty years defending. "
"How many men does Ruiz have?" Levee asked.
"Forty-plus between Memphis and Greenville.
Ex-cons, street muscle, and a handful of professionals.
" Cottonmouth straightened. "He's got three lieutenants running different pieces of the operation.
The one handling acquisitions down here is named Mace Durkin—six feet of mean muscle who enjoys his work.
He's the face Ruiz sends when he wants fear, not negotiation. "
"Durkin." Burial spoke for the first time, his soft voice cutting through the room. "I've heard that name. Used to bounce clubs in Memphis before he graduated to breaking bones for money."
"That's our primary target. Cut off the head of the acquisition operation, we slow down the whole corridor.
" Cottonmouth looked around the table, meeting each man's eyes in turn.
"But this isn't a quick strike. Ruiz has resources, connections, and a proven system for grinding down resistance.
We go in half-cocked, we lose brothers."
"So what's the play?" Crossroad asked.
"Defense first. I want security rotations at the Crooked Porch around the clock—two brothers minimum, armed and ready.
Ruiz's people come back, they meet resistance they're not expecting.
" Cottonmouth tapped the map. "Meanwhile, I want intelligence.
Outlaw, you've got contacts on the river—find out how Ruiz is moving product.
Crossroad, map every back road between here and Memphis.
When we hit them, we hit them on ground we know better than they do. "
"And the woman?" Hollow's empty eyes found Cottonmouth's. "Jolene Mayes. What's her status?"
The question shouldn't have made his chest tighten. She was a civilian under protection, nothing more. A stubborn, sharp-tongued woman who'd rather fight alone than accept help from anyone.
A woman he couldn't stop thinking about.
"She's under my protection," Cottonmouth said. "Personal protection. Anyone has a problem with that, speak now."
Silence around the table. His brothers knew him well enough to hear what he wasn't saying.
Outlaw's mouth twitched. "Personal protection. That what we're calling it?"
"That's what I'm calling it." Cottonmouth's voice carried an edge that shut down any further commentary.
"The Crooked Porch is Destroyer territory now.
Jolene Mayes is off-limits to anyone who isn't wearing our patch.
And Victor Ruiz is going to learn what happens when you come for something that belongs to us. "
He let that settle. Watched his brothers absorb the weight of what he was committing them to—not just a territorial dispute, but a war against an organization with deeper pockets and more guns than they'd faced in years.
"Vote," he said. "We go to war with Victor Ruiz. Protect the Crooked Porch. Send a message that the Highway 61 corridor ends at Clarksdale."
Outlaw raised his hand first. Then Crossroad. Hollow. Levee. Burial.
Unanimous.
"That's church." Cottonmouth folded the map, tucked it into his cut. "Security rotation starts tonight. Hollow, you and Levee take first shift. Crossroad, I want those back roads mapped by tomorrow. Outlaw, reach out to your river contacts."
"And you?" Outlaw asked.
"I'm going back to the Crooked Porch." Cottonmouth headed for the door. "Someone needs to tell Jolene Mayes that she's got Destroyers in her bar for the foreseeable future."
"She's going to love that," Crossroad muttered.