Chapter 3 - King
“What’s your real name?” she asks me.
Most people in Blackwater Falls have forgotten that Noah Bradley ever existed. Hell, some days I forget it myself. King isn't just what they call me. It's who I became when I built this club from nothing and claimed this dying town as my territory.
After all, I still remember everything. Eight years ago, I rolled into this shithole with nothing but military training, a bad attitude, and enough demons to fill a graveyard.
The same people who used to pretend the scrawny Bradley kid didn't exist now cross the street when they see me coming.
Funny how respect works when you've got the muscle and the reputation to back it up.
"King works fine," I say, not quite meeting those blue eyes that see too damn much.
She tilts her head, "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
For a moment, I think she might push. There's something stubborn in the set of her jaw that reminds me she's the woman who refused to back down from three armed men. But then she nods, accepting the boundary I've drawn even if she doesn't like it.
"Okay then, King." She emphasizes the name slightly, testing how it sounds. "Can I ask you something else?"
"Shoot."
"Why did you really come here this morning?"
The question catches me off guard, mainly because I don't have a good answer. I told myself I was checking on Emma's granddaughter, making sure she was settling in okay. But the truth is messier, more complicated than simple civic duty.
"This town is my domain," I say finally. "Everything that happens here is my responsibility. I wanted to make sure everything was fine."
"You don't look like the kind of man who cares about other people's problems."
She's not wrong. The King who runs the Savage Riders MC doesn't give a shit about anyone outside his immediate circle.
The King who's spent eight years building a reputation as someone you don't cross, don't question, don't fuck with, certainly doesn't go around delivering coffee and offering construction help to strangers.
I shrug, because I have no idea what to say.
I have no idea why I'm here, standing on the rotted porch of a ruined Victorian house, making promises to a woman I met twelve hours ago.
All I know is that something about Luna Hartwell makes me want to be better than I am, and that's the kind of thought that gets people killed in my line of work.
She's about to say something else. I can see it forming in her expression, another question that will probably cut too close when the sound of approaching engines cuts through the morning air.
Multiple bikes. Big ones. Riding hard and fast through residential streets where the speed limit is twenty-five and normal people are trying to start their day in peace.
Fuck.
No Savage Rider would ride like that in town during daylight hours. We learned a long time ago that drawing attention from the locals is bad for business and worse for keeping the peace. My boys know better.
I glance both ways down Elm Street and count seven, maybe eight bikes approaching from different directions. They're coordinating, moving to surround us, and even from a distance I can see the patches on their cuts.
Iron Eagles. Here. Now. In my fucking town.
"What's happening?" Luna asks, picking up on the sudden tension that's turned my muscles to coiled steel.
"Go inside," I tell her, not taking my eyes off the approaching bikes. "Now. Stay there until I come get you."
"No way." She steps closer to me instead of toward the door. "I'm not hiding while—"
"Luna." My voice carries the kind of command that makes even hardened criminals snap to attention. "Get. Inside. Now."
She opens her mouth to argue, and that's when the lead bike accelerates directly toward me. The rider—young, maybe early twenties, with the kind of eager stupidity that gets people killed—has a baseball bat raised above his head like he thinks this is some Hollywood movie.
Time slows the way it always does in combat situations. Training kicks in, the same instincts that kept me alive through Afghanistan and countless fights since then. I don't think; I just move.
The bike's now close enough that I can see the rider's eyes.
Wide with adrenaline and fear disguised as aggression.
He swings the bat in a clumsy arc meant to take my head off, but he's telegraphed the move from fifty feet away.
I catch the bat mid-swing with my left hand, feeling the impact jar through my shoulder, and use his momentum against him.
One sharp twist and I've got control of the weapon.
Another twist and the rider's flying through the air, separating from his bike in a tangle of leather and screaming.
He hits the pavement hard enough that I hear bones crack, and his unmanned Harley keeps going until it crashes into a fire hydrant with the sound of tortured metal.
The other riders abandon their bikes and circle me on foot. Seven men, all wearing Iron Eagles colors, all young enough to have more balls than brains. They spread out in a loose semicircle, trying to use numbers to their advantage.
I've faced worse odds with less backup.
"You King?" The apparent leader is a tall, skinny kid with prison tattoos covering his neck and the kind of pale, jittery energy that screams meth use. "Vulture wants to have a conversation with you."
"Then Vulture can make an appointment like everyone else." I shift my grip on the baseball bat, feeling its weight and balance. Aluminum, decent heft. It'll do. "Tell him my office hours are—"
The kid on my left rushes me before I finish the sentence. They always do that—get impatient, break formation, give me the opening I need. I sidestep his clumsy charge and bring the bat up in a smooth arc that connects with his ribs. The sound is like breaking kindling.
Then it's chaos.
They come at me all at once, which would be smart if they knew how to coordinate an attack.
But these aren't seasoned fighters; they're cannon fodder, young prospects sent to test my defenses and probably die in the process.
Vulture's using them to gather intelligence, and they're too stupid or too desperate to care.
The bat becomes an extension of my arm, whistling through the air with surgical precision. Kneecap. Elbow. Solar plexus. I don't kill. That would escalate this beyond what Vulture's looking for right now, but I make sure each hit is memorable.
Two of them manage to get close enough to land punches. My lip splits under a lucky right cross, and someone's brass knuckles open a cut above my left eye. But pain is just information, and right now it's telling me I'm still alive and still fighting.
I'm down to three opponents when the cavalry arrives.
The rumble of approaching Harleys is music to my ears, especially when I recognize the specific sound of Torch’s Beast's and Rage’s bikes.
My boys don't ride hard through town during the day unless it's an emergency, which means they've been monitoring the radio chatter and know exactly what's happening.
Torch arrives first, his bike sliding to a stop with the kind of precision that comes from twenty years of riding. He's off the Harley and moving before the engine stops rumbling, brass knuckles already gleaming on his right hand.
Beast and Rage are seconds behind him, flanking the remaining Iron Eagles before they can react.
Beast, six-foot-four of pure muscle and bad intentions, doesn't even need a weapon.
He just grabs the nearest Eagle by the jacket and throws him into the side of a parked car hard enough to leave a dent.
Rage lives up to his name, wading into the fight with the kind of explosive violence that's made him legendary in three counties. His left hook drops one Eagle, his right elbow catches another in the temple, and suddenly the odds have shifted dramatically in our favor.
The whole thing is over in under two minutes. Seven Iron Eagles, unconscious or too injured to continue fighting. The only sounds are heavy breathing and the distant wail of sirens. Someone in the neighborhood finally called the cops.
"Everyone mobile?" Torch asks, checking the cut above my eye.
"I'm good." I wipe blood from my lip and survey the carnage. "Rage? Beast?"
"Fucking fantastic," Rage growls, shaking blood off his knuckles. "Been too long since we had a proper fight."
Beast just grunts, which from him counts as a positive status report.
The sirens are getting closer. We've got maybe three minutes before Sheriff Tom shows up with his deputies, and while he's generally willing to look the other way when it comes to Savage Riders business, a broad daylight brawl in a residential neighborhood is harder to ignore.
"We need to move," Torch says, voicing what we're all thinking.
That's when I remember Luna.
I turn toward the house, expecting to see her safely inside like I told her to be. Instead, she's standing on the porch, blue eyes wide with shock but very much not hiding like a sensible person would.
She's seeing me for what I really am. Not the helpful stranger who brought her coffee and offered to fix her house, but the violent man who just put seven men in the hospital with a baseball bat and his bare hands.
This is the moment she runs. When she realizes that getting involved with someone like me is a mistake that could get her killed.
When she understands that Blackwater Falls isn't some quaint small town where she can build a quiet life, but a war zone where people like me solve problems with our fists.
I expect fear in her eyes. Revulsion. The kind of disgust that decent people feel when they see what monsters look like in daylight.
Instead, Luna Hartwell walks down the porch steps slowly, because half of them are rotted through, and stops directly in front of me.
"You're bleeding," she whispers.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding," she repeats, reaching up to touch the cut above my eye with gentle fingers. "And you need stitches."
Her touch is warm, professional. Nurse's hands, trained to heal instead of hurt. The contrast between her gentleness and the violence still singing in my veins is almost overwhelming.
"Luna," I start, not sure what I'm going to say. Some kind of explanation, maybe. An apology for bringing this shit to her doorstep.
"We'll talk later," she says firmly. "Right now, you need medical attention, and those sirens are getting closer."
She's right. The cops will be here in minutes, and while I'm not particularly worried about Sheriff Tom, having Luna connected to this fight won't do her any favors in a town where reputation is everything.
"Torch," I call, not taking my eyes off Luna's face. "Everyone mount up. We're leaving. Now."
"What about you?" Torch's question is really asking if I need backup, if this is about to escalate further.
"I'm coming." I glance at Luna, making a split-second decision that goes against every protocol I've established. "Luna, you need to come with us or you'll be stuck explaining to the cops why seven Iron Eagles are unconscious on your front lawn."
She crosses her arms, stubborn tilt to her chin. "I'll only go if you tell me everything. What this was about, who those men were, what I've walked into. And I'm not getting on any bike until I take care of that cut above your eye before it swells shut."
"Luna, we don't have time—"
"Then make time. This needs pressure and ice, or you'll be fighting blind next time. And something tells me there will be a next time."
Beast clears his throat. "King, we really need to move."
The sirens are getting louder, maybe one or two minutes away. I should grab Luna and throw her on the back of my bike whether she likes it or not. Should prioritize the club's safety over whatever complicated feelings this woman is stirring up.
Instead, I find myself nodding. "You've got sixty seconds to patch me up, then we're gone. Torch, Beast, and Rage, get ready to roll."
Luna's already pulling a tissue from her pocket, pressing it firmly against the cut. "This is going to hurt later."
"Everything hurts later," I tell her, but I'm not talking about the fight.
"Everything," she agrees quietly. "But some things are worth it."
The first police cruiser appears at the end of the block. Luna steps back, her makeshift bandage already soaked red but doing its job.
"Time's up," Torch calls out.
Luna looks at the approaching cops, then back at me. "Do I have your word? That you'll tell me everything?"
"You have it."
She nods once, sharp and decisive. "Then let's go."