Chapter Four
Cassie idled at the last stoplight in town; the brick storefronts of Main crowded the rearview. Ahead, a pair of gas stations marked the outskirts—the last before the road gave way to trees and the hills took over.
When the light turned green, she eased onto Sycamore Run, the pavement narrowing as the hollow closed in around her. The creek kept pace alongside, flashing silver where sunlight broke through the canopy. Daddy used to say the Holler held you like a cupped hand—safe and stuck all at once.
The blacktop eventually gave out to dirt; this deep in the run, the sun barely touched the road. The hills rose like walls, oak and sycamore so thick she could only glimpse sky straight overhead.
The road narrowed further, barely wide enough for one car.
Her stomach clenched with each familiar curve—past the dip where the creek bed had chewed away more of the asphalt, past a trailer perched on cinder blocks where the Mitchells’ house used to be.
Behind it, the old place was nothing but a blackened skeleton.
Then the Bartlett place, a washing machine rusting in the yard.
The Farley’s house, half the roof caved in and abandoned.
Each landmark ticking past like notes on a scale, marking her way home.
Then the last bend came and went…and there it was.
Mouth agape, Cassie pulled onto what was left of the driveway—gravel long since surrendered to nature. She killed the engine and stepped out, boot heels sinking into the crabgrass and plantain.
The siding wasn’t yellow anymore. It had dulled to a sickly gray, streaked black where water had run down from clogged gutters.
Mold crept up from the foundation; windows boarded with plywood.
And the yard her daddy once fought to keep neat?
Saplings crowded the porch, blackberry vines climbing the propane tank.
The smell hit her halfway up the steps—mildew and something sweet-sick, like fruit left to rot. Empty bottles littered the porch boards, cigarette butts packed into the cracks, a Styrofoam cup crushed flat beneath her heel.
Her eyes caught on the bright yellow Notice of Tax Lien and Pending Sale nailed to the doorframe. Above it, a new deadbolt glinted against the weathered wood.
Off to the side, the swing hung from one chain, the other torn loose, the seat listing at a drunken angle. She used to sit there at dusk, feet tucked beneath her, watching lightning bugs rise from the creek bottom.
Her hand moved without permission, reaching for the doorknob. Rust flaked beneath her grip, the knob rattling hollow against the frame, but the deadbolt held fast.
Jaw aching with effort, she stepped to the nearest window, peering through a gap in the plywood.
The living room was empty save for a sofa she didn’t recognize.
Above it, a dark outline marked where her great-mamaw’s cuckoo clock had hung for generations.
She used to spin with the dancers when they popped free—twirling, twirling across the living room floor.
Her chest felt suddenly too tight, her skin too hot. How long had it been like this? The bottles, the butts, the overgrowth swallowing the yard—all proof Connor had lived here right up until the house was taken. He’d held on as long as he could, until…he hadn’t.
Her heel snagged a loose board, and she lurched, grabbing for the railing. The wood splintered under her palm, tilting her sideways before she caught herself.
“Fuck!” she cried, sinking onto the steps, slumping forward. “Fuck,” she whispered, ragged, eyes burning.
Connor was dead. The house was dead. Everything she’d left behind had withered and rotted while she was gone, and now there was nothing—and no one—to come back to.
A pitiful sound tore loose, unrecognizable even to her own ears. She pressed her face into her hands in a piss-poor attempt to shut herself up. The sobs came anyway, tearing through her.
Down the holler, a truck engine rattled, slow and dragging. She barely registered it until tires crunched into the drive. Glancing up, she found Margie’s old pickup wheezing to a stop behind her rental.
“Goddammit, Cassie,” Margie called out, slamming her door. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I’m fine,” Cassie muttered, throwing a hand up, trying to wave her off, to hold herself together.
“Oh, sure ya are.” Margie planted her hands on her hips. “Sittin’ there bawlin’ your eyes out—that’s passin’ for fine now, huh?”
Cassie swiped at her wet face, though the tears only fell faster. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, half sob, half accusation. She flung a hand toward the house, the boarded windows, the goddamn deadbolt.
“Girl, I was gonna—” Margie sighed, shifting onto the steps beside her. “You was already buckling last night. No use kickin’ your legs out.”
“No,” she bit out. “Why didn’t you tell me before it got this bad? Why didn’t you call me? God, why didn’t anyone call me? Why—”
Her words collapsed, her body folding in on itself. She pressed her forehead to her knees as new sobs tore through her, stealing her breath. Guilt. Grief. Feelings and memories she’d bottled up for years all bursting loose at once.
After a while, Margie’s hand came down on her back, rubbing slow, soothing circles.
“Like I done told ya,” she said low, “it got bad ’fore anyone knew what hit us.
And by then…hell, Cassie, you’d gone and changed your number an' Con wasn't about to give it.” Another weary sigh slipped out—longer, harsher.
“The two of you—locked up tighter’n a drum.
“Now, c’mon,” Margie continued, tugging at her arm. “Get yourself on up.”
But Cassie couldn’t move. She couldn’t even lift her head. Her body had gone slack, muscles trembling with the aftershocks of sobbing, every limb leaden, like she’d been running for hours.
“You’re gonna be all right,” Margie said, sliding her hands under Cassie’s arms, pulling her upright. “Ain’t never met a Berry warn’t tougher than a pine knot in January.”
Cassie sputtered out a sound—half laugh, half sob. “That’s not true."
Margie’s tone only hardened. “It damn well is. Your daddy was sick. Your mama was sad. And your brother…he just got lost.” She cupped Cassie’s chin, forcing her to meet her gaze. “But you, Cassie-girl—you got all their fight and none of their quit, you hear me?”
What else could Cassie do but nod, even as a fresh wave of tears spilled forth.
“All right,” Margie echoed. “Now let’s get you on up in the truck.”
As the engine coughed to life and the truck lurched into reverse, Cassie watched her ruined home sink into shadow.
Then the road curved, and it was gone.
Across town, Nash stood in the yard off the garage, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. The clubhouse sat in the haze, the roof throwing glare from the sinking sun, sharp enough to make him squint.
It was quiet now. No pipes rumbling. No boys bullshitting. No music rattling the walls.
No ex-wife screaming her goddamn face off.
He’d been drinking all day—ever since Cassie lit the fuse this morning, blurting out in front of his kid that Connor was dead. Christ. Between Junie crying and Addison tearing into him before he could get a word in…
Cursing under his breath, Nash flicked the cigarette into the dirt.
Fuck Cassie.
Acting like he hadn’t fought like hell to save her brother.
His brother, goddammit.
Connor’s slide into addiction didn’t start loud.
Just leftover scripts after cracking three vertebrae on a Carolina run…
then forty Percs gone in a week…then the brother who rebuilt engines started forgetting his tools, showing up to meetings strung out…
then came the mood swings. The lies…the bike he swore was stolen…
And then that night in the clubhouse bathroom.
Connor slumped against the wall, legs sprawled across the tile, a needle still stuck in his arm.
Pupils pinpricks, lips tinged blue. Nash dragged him up by his hoodie, shoved his head under the faucet, shook him, yelled until his throat burned.
Connor had cried after. Swore it wouldn’t happen again.
But it always did.
Until Nash said the words that gutted them both—That’s it. You’re out. Come back when you’re clean.
And where the hell was Cassie then? Off playing her fancy music in fancy fucking cities Connor couldn’t even spell. Meanwhile it was Nash holding his head over the toilet, wondering if tonight was the night he stopped breathing for good.
Scrubbing a hand down his face, he blew out a hard breath, and stalked into the garage where an ’84 Shovelhead waited, half-stripped on the stand. No rush, no buyer—just something to keep his hands busy when his head got too damn loud.
Grabbing a torque wrench, he leaned over the cradle. The cam plate was off maybe a sixteenth of an inch—enough to throw the whole thing out. Yanking harder than he should’ve, the bolt snapped with a sharp crack.
Glaring at it, he muttered, “Where the hell does she get off comin' here and accusing me of anything?”
“You talkin’ ’bout Con-Man’s little sister?”
Snake strolled into the garage with a cardboard box tucked under one arm, smirk plastered on like always. He dropped the box on a bench with a heavy thud, bills, bundled in rubber bands, spilling against the flaps.
“Gotta run this through Wierswood,” he said, flicking a lighter to his smoke. “Cash won’t clean itself.”
“Still can’t believe the balls on that one,” he went on between drags. “Not many men got the stones to walk into a Kings’ clubhouse and start tearin’ shit up. Let alone a female. And who would’ve thought—girl looks delicate as hell.”
Nash snorted. Delicate? Nobody grew up in Appalachia soft. But Snake wasn’t wrong either. Cassie looked polished now—too much makeup, a sharp little haircut, wearing outfits that probably cost more than a new set of tires.
But then she’d jumped off that bar and swung a bat at him like she’d meant to cave his skull in. Now, that was Cassie Berry in a nutshell. Prettiest thing this side of the Greenbrier and meaner than a bobcat in heat.
He could still see her down by the creek near her house—sixteen, curls long and wild, bow flying over strings while she played some classical shit. Him pretending to watch the water, sneaking looks at her cutoffs riding high on her thighs. Right up until she caught him and grinned.
“What? Never seen Vivaldi played in the mud before?”
“Never seen it played by someone who can gut a deer and shoot a bottle off a fence post,” he shot back.
Her grin widened. “Mamaw always said a woman ought to do three things: make music, make dinner, and make any man who crosses her regret it.”
Her laugh had been reckless and bright…and it made him want to grab her, kiss her hard, and never let go.
“She ain’t never had a problem tearin’ shit up,” Nash said, wiping grease off his hands. “Don’t let her looks fool you. She’s a goddamn Holler Rat through an’ through.”
Snake’s smirk sharpened. “Word is you used to be all up in that Holler Rat. That true, boss? ’Cause—goddamn.”
Nash’s face went hard, his voice dropping low. “Take the cash and go, Snake.”
The man’s smirk twitched, then died. Snake had heard that tone before—right before Nash put someone through a wall.
“Touchy,” he muttered, grabbing the box and backing off. “All right. I’m goin’. Text if you need me.”
As the door banged shut behind him, Nash cracked a beer and drank deep, leaving him no better off. His head still buzzed with Cassie, with Connor, with all the shit he’d fucked up and couldn’t fix.
“Nash?” Boone’s deep voice echoed across the garage.
“What.” Nash didn’t turn, just stared at the busted bolt.
“Got that package comin’ in tonight. You want me to—”
Jesus Christ. In the middle of this mess with Connor, he’d completely forgotten about business.
“Fuck. Yeah, yeah, grab a crew, keep it small. Take it to Charleston. Break it down and get rid of it quick. I don’t want nothin’ stickin’ to Clifton right now.”
Boone grunted. “You want ’em sorted first or just scattered?”
“Sorted,” Nash muttered, rubbing his temple. “Cracked, cleaned, serials gone. Split the load into thirds—move one east, one north, keep the last close. If the law comes sniffin’ after Con’s bullshit, I don’t want ‘em findin’ ours.”
Boone lingered, boots scuffing on the concrete.
Nash’s shoulders tensed. “Spit it out.”
“Some of us were wonderin’ if we’re doin’ somethin’ for Con. You know…club-side.”
Nash kept his eyes on the bolt. He hadn’t thought that far yet.
Hell, he hadn’t even wrapped his head around Connor being gone for good—not just sleeping it off somewhere.
But Boone was right. The club needed a sendoff, and Connor—as fucked up as these past few years had been—deserved his final ride.
Problem was, Nash didn’t have his colors. Cassie had taken them when she’d cut and run this morning. One second the leather was on the bar, the next—gone.
Just like her.
Nash let out a slow breath and finally looked at him—Macon “Boone” Saylor.
Born and bred in Clifton, same as Nash, they’d grown up side by side.
Boone’s old man had ridden with the Kings until the day he died, barely a year after Nash’s own father went into the ground.
Out here, old age was a luxury most men never got.
“We’ll do somethin’,” Nash promised.
Boone nodded. “Want me to start makin’ calls? Get the word out?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Boone stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him. Quiet again. Nash drained the can, crushed it in his fist, and tossed it in the trash.
“Goddamn you, Con,” he muttered, staring at the empty space where Connor should’ve been—the burn marks singed into the bench from all the smokes he’d dropped while working.
He could see him now, half-crouched over that old Sportster he’d been forever upgrading, cigarette dangling from his mouth, wrench set laid out backward—biggest to smallest—driving Nash batshit every time he looked at it.
“What the fuck am I s’posed to do?”
Memory hit hard—Connor’s rough, barking laugh. And right on its heels, his voice: quit your bitchin’ and figure it the fuck out—you always do.
Nash shut his eyes, jaw tightening. Yeah, he was gonna get it figured. But if he wanted to do it right…he’d have to talk to Cassie.
Cracking another beer, Nash muttered, “Just need to get it figured without your sister tryin’ to knock my fuckin’ face off.”