Chapter Two
The broom made a sound like bones scraping as Jolene swept broken glass across the Crooked Porch floor.
Dawn light filtered through the windows, turning the destruction into something almost beautiful—shattered frames catching the pink and gold, splintered wood scattered like kindling waiting for a match.
She'd been at it for two hours now, refusing to stop, refusing to sit down, refusing to do anything except move her body through the familiar motions of cleaning up a mess.
That's all this was. Another mess.
She'd survived worse. The flood of '16 that put three feet of water in the bar.
The condemned-property notice from the county that took her six months and every dollar she had to fight.
The three separate buyout attempts from developers who thought a woman alone would fold if they pushed hard enough.
She hadn't folded then. She wasn't folding now.
Glass crunched under her boots as she worked her way toward the wall where her grandmother's photographs used to hang.
Forty years of blues history, reduced to broken frames and torn paper.
Howlin' Wolf. Muddy Waters. B.B. King before he was B.B.
King, just a young man with a guitar and a dream in a juke joint that smelled like this one.
Gone.
Her throat tightened, but she shoved the grief down where it belonged. Grief was a luxury. Grief was for women who had time to sit and cry and wait for someone else to fix things.
Jolene Mayes fixed things herself.
The rumble of motorcycle engines cut through the morning quiet.
She didn't stop sweeping. Didn't look up. Just kept pushing broken glass into a pile while the engines grew louder, then cut off in the parking lot outside.
Boots on the porch steps. The creak of the screen door.
"You've been here all night."
Cottonmouth's voice rolled through the empty bar like thunder on a distant horizon—low and unhurried, the kind of voice that expected to be listened to without ever having to raise itself.
"Somebody had to clean up." She still didn't look at him. "The mess fairy doesn't come to juke joints."
"Jolene."
"I've got glass to sweep and frames to—"
His hand closed around the broom handle, stopping her mid-stroke.
She looked up then, ready to snap at him, and found him standing closer than she'd realized. Close enough to see the iron-gray threading through his temples, the pale scar running down his forearm, those river-mud eyes that seemed to see straight through every wall she'd ever built.
Two more men stood behind him in the doorway, both wearing the same leather cuts with the Delta Destroyers patch. One was lean and weathered, with the patient look of a man who'd learned to wait. The other was younger, broader, watching her with an assessment that said he was reserving judgment.
"Let go of my broom."
"When's the last time you slept?"
"When's the last time you minded your own business?"
Something flickered across his face—not quite a smile, but close. He released the broom and stepped back, giving her space she hadn't asked for but found herself grateful to have.
"This is Outlaw and Crossroad," he said, nodding toward the two men. "They're going to assess the structural damage, make sure Ruiz's people didn't leave any surprises."
"Surprises?"
"Accelerants. Timed devices. The bars in Leland and Hollandale didn't burn by accident.
" Cottonmouth moved through the room, his boots crunching on glass, his eyes cataloging every broken frame and shattered window.
"Ruiz doesn't do half-measures. If he wanted this place gone, he'd make sure it went. "
Jolene's grip tightened on the broom. "So what—they were just sending a message last night?"
"They were testing you. Seeing how you'd respond, whether you had protection, how hard you'd fight." He stopped in front of the wall where the photographs used to hang, studying the empty spaces like they meant something. "Now they know."
"Now they know what? That some biker I've never met decided to beat the hell out of them in my bar?"
Cottonmouth turned to face her. "Now they know you're not alone."
The words hit harder than she wanted them to. Twelve years she'd been running this place by herself. Twelve years of handling every problem, fighting every battle, shouldering every burden because there was no one else to do it.
And now this man—this stranger with his motorcycle club and his calm authority—was standing in her grandmother's bar telling her she wasn't alone like it was supposed to mean something.
"I didn't ask for your help."
"No, you didn't." He crossed back toward her, that slow deliberate stride that made her want to step back even as something else made her want to stand her ground. "But you're getting it anyway."
"And if I don't want it?"
"Then you're dead inside a week." He said it flat, matter-of-fact, like he was discussing the weather.
"Ruiz has done this a dozen times across three states.
He finds crossroads locations along his distribution route, sends men to make an offer, and when the owner says no, he makes them disappear.
The bars burn. The land gets bought through shell companies.
And six months later, there's a new business on the property that moves product instead of pouring whiskey. "
Jolene felt cold despite the morning heat already building outside.
"The corridor from Memphis to Greenville is half-built," Cottonmouth continued. "Ruiz has been acquiring locations for months—quietly, systematically. The Crooked Porch is the last holdout on this stretch of highway. You sign over or you die, and either way, the corridor gets completed."
"So this isn't about me."
"It was never about you." Something shifted in his expression—not softer exactly, but more intent. "It's about territory. Geography. Moving product from Memphis to the Gulf without interference. You're just in the way."
She should have felt relieved. It wasn't personal. It wasn't about her grandmother's legacy or her twelve years of blood and sweat or any of the things she'd poured into keeping this place alive.
Instead, she felt fury building in her chest like a brushfire.
"So I'm supposed to—what? Hand over forty years of my family's history because some Memphis drug dealer drew a line on a map?"
"No." Cottonmouth stepped closer, and this time she didn't give ground. "You're supposed to let me handle it. Let the club handle it. Because Victor Ruiz has forty armed men and a proven system for grinding down resistance, and you have a baseball bat and a bad attitude."
"That bad attitude has kept this place open for twelve years."
"And it'll get you killed inside twelve days if you try to fight this alone."
They stood there in the wreckage of her grandmother's bar, close enough that she could smell leather and motor oil and something underneath that was just him—warm and dangerous and completely infuriating.
"Why?" The question came out before she could stop it. "Why do you care what happens to some juke joint on a back road?"
"Because this is my territory." His voice dropped lower, rougher.
"Every crossroads between Memphis and Vicksburg is under Destroyer protection.
Every bar, every family, every piece of ground that the state forgot about and the money men want to steal.
We built this club to protect people like you—people nobody else is coming for. "
"I'm not some damsel who needs—"
"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.