Chapter Two
“Better pony up now, Prez. ’Cause you’re about to lose your wallet.”
Bending to the pool table, Nash ignored his Sergeant at Arms. Caleb “Crusher” Mathis might be built like a truck, but he was all grin and not a lick of sense. The break snapped hard—three balls dropped, cheers going up from the small crowd. Circling, Nash lined up again and sank two more.
“What was that you said, Crush?” he asked, sighting down his last shot. “Somethin’ ’bout ponyin’ up?”
He drew back the cue and—
The music cut out.
Lights snapped on, bright and merciless.
A crash rang out, followed by shouts.
The pool room went still, patches and prospects turning toward the door like dogs scenting blood.
Then—
“Nathanial Winslow Walker—get your goddamn ass out here!”
The voice hit him square in the gut, knocking the air clean out of him. But no, it couldn’t be…her.
Crusher gave a low whistle. “Uh-oh. Someone’s droppin’ the government name.”
Wade “Sarge” McCrae slipped into the pool room, jaw tight, eyes like loaded guns. Sarge was old guard, ex-military, the Kings’ Vice President back when Nash’s old man had run things. He didn’t need to say much; Nash had grown up reading every flicker of that jaw.
It was her.
“She’s tearin’ up the bar,” Sarge said quietly. “With a bat.”
“Jesus-fuckin’-Christ.” A patch laughed. “Whatcha do, Nash—knock her up and skip town?”
“I got this,” Nash muttered, shoving his cue at Sarge. “Keep everyone else back.”
He moved fast down the hall, noise swelling with every step. When he hit the commons, the crowd split like a tide.
And son of a bitch…there she was.
Cassandra-goddamn-Berry, come out of fucking nowhere, bat in hand, standing on top of his—Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell had she done to his bar?
Her face was leaner now, her body softer in places it hadn’t been before.
Twenty-two the last time he’d seen her. Thirty-something now.
Long black curls gone, chopped short and slick.
Freckles painted over, candy necklaces swapped for thin gold chains.
She looked like a stranger…except for her eyes, still greener than a goddamn holler in springtime.
“Well, hey there, Strawberry. Long time no see.” His voice was slow and steady, even with the panic tearing through him.
Cassie’s mouth twisted, eyes going wild at the sight of him—and then she lunged.
“What happened?” she screamed, bat raised. “What the fuck happened?”
He caught the bat mid-swing, yanked it from her grip, and hurled it aside.
“What the fuck!” he shouted.
She barely flinched. Instead, she tore into her bag, yanked out a crumpled leather, and slapped it hard against his chest.
He caught it with one hand, breath locking in his lungs. Fuck him—he’d feared this day for years. Every late-night phone call, every whisper of a body turning up. But fear was one thing; holding Connor’s colors in his hand, heavy as a death sentence—that was another.
“Where’s Con?” he rasped.
“Where’s Con?” Cassie’s whole body shook, fists balled, eyes wet but refusing to spill. “You tell me, you piece of shit!”
“Aw, hell,” Snake groaned somewhere in the crowd. “She said she knew you, Nash—said her name was Tiffany.”
Jesse “The Snake” Smith was new blood, a Midwest transfer running from heat. He hadn’t been in Clifton long enough to know who’s who—let alone long enough to know Cassie.
“You slack-jawed fool,” Margie snapped, storming forward, salt-and-pepper braids swinging. “That’s Cassie Berry—Con’s little sister. She left ’fore your sorry ass ever got here.”
Murmurs rippled through the clubhouse—
“Holy shit—Cassie’s back?”
“Why’s she tearin’ up the place?”
“Everybody quiet!” Sarge barked, stepping into the commons, and even the rowdiest of youngbloods went still.
Margie’s gaze flicked to the battered cut in Nash’s grip, her expression flinching briefly before quickly smoothing it away.
“Now, Cassie, this ain’t the way,” Margie said, stepping closer. “You don’t come in swingin’ a bat at Nash.”
Cassie didn’t even look her way. Her eyes stayed locked on him, still burning. “Who gives a fuck about Nash?”
Nash’s jaw clenched, voice rough when it finally came. “What happened—where’s Con?”
“You wanna know where Con is, I’ll tell you where the fuck he is!” Cassie shrieked, voice cracking. “He’s lyin’ cold on a goddamn table over in Wierswood, lookin’ like somethin’ somebody threw away!”
The stillness broke—gasps and muttered curses rising among the crowd.
“When?” Nash managed to ask.
Fury fled Cassie’s lungs in broken breaths. “Fuck you—why don’t you know when? Why’d I have to hear it from a goddamn stranger?”
“You don’t understand,” he ground out—every word hurting. “You weren’t here.”
Cassie flinched—just a blink, quick as a breath—and the rage surged back stronger.
“But you were!” she spat, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You were right here.” Another finger jab.
Then she shoved him with both hands.
“You know who found him?” Another shove, tearing at his shirt.
“The fuckin’ law.”
“You know where they found him? The old rail line. The rail line.” Her voice splintered. “You know how long he laid there dyin’? No—no, you don’t know shit, do you?”
He let her hit, let her scream, each word landing like a fist to his fucking kidney. Right up until he couldn’t take another goddamn—
“You think this is on me?” His roar tore loose, shoving her back. “You’re the one who left! You’re the one who never came back—never picked up a goddamn phone!”
“Fuck you,” she screamed, pushing up against him—all five foot nothing and still in his goddamn face. “You had him here—right fuckin’ here—and didn’t do a damn thing to stop it!”
“All right, enough!” Margie shoved between them, one hand gripping Cassie’s arm, the other pressed to Nash’s chest. “That’s enough. Both of you.”
Cassie twisted in Margie’s grip, still fuming.
“He’s gone, Nash—and you were right here drinkin’ and laughin’ and playin’ king of fuckin’ nothin’ while he—while he—” Her voice cracked, stumbling over the words.
“You should’ve been with him, you should’ve stopped it, you should’ve done somethin’, anything—! ”
“Cassie!” Margie caught her wrists and held firm. “Look at me.”
Cassie didn’t even blink. Her whole body strained forward, every ounce of fury fixed solely on Nash. And him—he couldn’t drag his eyes off her if he tried. Two storms colliding, neither backing off, the room around them nothing but blur.
“Nash,” Margie snapped. “Back up.”
“An’ Cassie-girl, I ain’t gonna say it again—look at me.”
At last, Cassie’s eyes cut to Margie, albeit still red-rimmed and wild; her hands trembling in Margie’s grip.
“I know what you’re feelin’,” Margie continued.
“Feels like a fist on your heart, squeezin’ till you can’t breathe.
Stomach churnin’, head spinnin’, like your body’s tryin’ to crawl out of itself.
And you need someone to blame. Someone to spit all that grief back into.
But girl—you been gone a hell of a long time.
And there’s things ’bout Con you don’t know. ”
“Get your hands off me, Margie,” Cassie managed to grit out.
“I surely will not. Not until you stop breathin’ fire and let me speak my piece. Hell, I’d say you owe me that much—seein’ as how I never got so much as a postcard from you all these years.”
Cassie blinked at the older woman, as if only now remembering she was there. Her mouth opened, closed, breath shuddering as some of the fight drained from her.
Margie released one of Cassie’s wrists, slipping an arm around her waist. “Now come with me,” she said, turning toward the hall. “I’ll get you a drink for them nerves and you’ll hear the whole story. After that, you can decide who you’re mad at.”
As Margie and Cassie disappeared, the commons erupted—
“Did Con OD?”
“Why’s she blamin’ Nash?”
“Was it a hit?” someone muttered.
“Black Vultures?” another voice cut in, sharper.
A few heads turned at that—low murmurs stirring before getting swallowed by the noise.
“Everybody out!” Nash barked, his voice cracking like a whip. “If you ain’t got a patch, you ain’t got reason to be here.”
Still gripping Connor’s cut, he ducked behind the ruined bar, finding a half-full bottle of bourbon—one of the few Cassie hadn’t smashed. Sweeping shards of glass off a stool, he dropped onto it.
For a long moment he just stared at the bottle, hand tight on the neck.
Connor was…dead.
Cassie was…back.
And Nash didn’t have the first goddamn clue what to do next.
The clubhouse was quiet, the only light coming from the bar’s overhead sign, flickering blue above the broken liquor shelves.
Nash sat alone, elbows braced, the nearly empty bottle of bourbon beside him. In front of him, spread out across the counter, lay Connor’s colors—frayed and filthy, the stitching coming loose almost everywhere, grime settled into every crease.
His gaze lingered where the name patch above the chest pocket was missing.
Con-Man. The nickname began as a joke—a barb, really, back when Connor was the straightest and most honest of all of them.
Couldn’t lie his way out of a paper bag, and he wouldn’t have tried.
That’s what earned him the name—irony stitched into leather.
Now the patch was gone, and the joke had long since soured. There wasn’t a damn thing honest left in Connor at the end.
Nash twisted the heavy Kings’ ring on his finger—the one every patched brother wore—if only to keep from punching something. He kept turning it, slow and deliberate, like if he stopped, the weight of everything might suddenly crush him.
Turn. Turn. Turn.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
The floor creaked behind him; his hand stilled on the ring.
“You’re still here,” Margie said, stepping out of the dark hall.
“Didn’t feel right goin’ home.” His words came out thick, slurred at the edges.
Margie, glancing around at the mess, began brushing broken glass off a nearby stool.
“That girl always could cause a five-alarm fire just walkin’ into a place, couldn’t she?”
Nash’s nostrils flared. He had enough on his mind without adding any unwanted trips down memory lane.
“Where the fuck is she?”
“Sleepin’ in your office.”
Of course she was. Comes storming in like a bat out of hell, swinging at everything and everyone, and then goes to sleep. In his fucking office, no less. He had half a mind to march up in there, sling her over his shoulder and toss her crazy ass out the door.
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me—she’s sleepin’ in my goddamn—”
“Oh, cool those jets, Walker. I tried talkin’ her down, but she was wound up tighter’n a banjo string. So I gone an’ slipped her one of my nerve pills.”
Nash scrubbed a hand down his face, tamping the growl in his throat. “Jesus, Margie…”
“Don’t be ‘Jesus, Margie-ing’ me. I only gave her enough to sleep is all. That girl was halfway to hurtin’ somebody, probably herself.”
Nash’s jaw worked before finally muttering, “What’d you tell her?”
“The dang truth—she already knew some. How he wrecked a few years back, messed up his back real bad. Didn’t know them docs were pumpin’ him full of painkillers, though. And how the pills just kept comin’—
“Hell. Can’t be easy, learnin’ your kin been lyin’ all these years. Pretendin’ everything was fine when really he was…” She trailed off, shaking her head.
Nash’s thoughts knotted into a mess of curses. Instead of answering, he took a long, burning swallow of bourbon, finishing it. “If she’d been here,” he finally ground out, “maybe he wouldn’t be dead.”
The words tasted like bullshit the second they left his mouth.
“Now, Nash…” Margie started.
“It’s been me,” he snapped. “Me, cleanin’ him up. Me, draggin’ his ass back home. Me, watchin’ him killin’ himself slow—” His voice broke off.
Margie was quiet for a moment, then: “No one’s sayin’ otherwise. Still don’t mean it’s Cassie’s fault.”
He didn’t reply—he just resumed twisting his ring. Margie pushed off from the bar with a weary sigh. “I’ll stay in the office with her—you go home and get some sleep. Ain’t nothin’ gonna feel better in the morning, but it might be clearer.”
Her footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving Nash alone in the flickering blue light.
Turn. Turn. Turn.
Dead. Dead. Dead.