Property of Oaks (Kings of Anarchy MC: Kentucky #3)

Brittany

In Hell, Kentucky, you don’t ask biker wives for favors unless you’re ready to owe something back. I shouldn’t be begging a biker’s ol’ lady for anything past a ride to Walmart.

But here I am, standing in Lottie Little’s kitchen with my hands clasped like I’m asking forgiveness instead of permission.

Nothing little about Lottie. She’s a former athlete, tall, built like a brick shithouse, and she’s got that look in her eyes like she can spot bullshit the way a bloodhound finds a trail.

“Please,” I say. “Just one night. I won’t embarrass you. I won’t touch anything. I won’t flirt with any bikers.”

Lottie snorts into her coffee and looks me up and down like she’s weighing whether I’ll survive the experience.

“You say that like it’s a promise you can keep,” she says. “You ever been to the Lockup before?”

“No,” I admit. “But I’ve heard tales.”

“That’s worse.”

The Lockup ain’t Heck’s Kitchen. Heck’s is loud, public, half wrestling arena and half town fair gone feral.

Anybody can wander in if they’ve got cash and nerve.

The Lockup is different. The Lockup is the Kings of Anarchy MC’s clubhouse.

The place you don’t go unless you’re invited, vouched for, or claimed.

I grew up in Paradise, Kentucky knowing exactly where I stand.

Poor side of the road. Mama gone before I learned to braid my own hair.

Daddy working three counties away and still not making enough.

I’ve been babysitting since I was thirteen, waitressing since sixteen, and taking community college classes whenever I can scrape together the money.

In addition to my weekend shifts at Slice of Paradise, I work at Lottie’s pawn shop in Official. Paradise, if you’re polite. Official, if you’re local enough to know.

Saying Official started as a slight at Hell. A biker club incorporated a city in Paradise County alongside the city of Paradise and dubbed it Hell. Now it’s second nature for folks to say Official to avoid confusion between the county and city of Paradise.

Shit’s confusing, but Hell reclaimed the word like it always does everything.

Hell ain’t Paradise. But more and more of Paradise is getting lost to Hell. Folks around here say you can't go back to Paradise once you leave for Hell. But folks here are religious and say all sorts of foolishness.

At the pawn shop I mop floors, run tickets, watch her kid when Lottie’s worn out, and try not to stare when Holler comes by to kiss her forehead and slide a hand into her back pocket like he’s got every right to be there.

Lottie’s younger than Holler by a good bit, and nobody says a word about it because he treats her like something precious. Like the world might bruise her if he doesn’t keep a hand on her. He doesn’t look at anyone else when Lottie’s in the room.

I notice things like that.

I notice everything.

That’s probably why going to the clubhouse in Hell is a bad idea.

“Why tonight?” Lottie asks, crossing her arms. “Why now?”

I shrug, but heat crawls up my neck. “Because I’m tired of being invisible.”

Truth is, the fella I’ve got my eye on has eyes for another, and the way Holler looks at Lottie has me longing for a biker of my own. Not the fantasy. The real thing. Someone who looks at me like I’m the only damn woman in the room.

Lottie studies me slow, like she’s deciding whether I’m sturdy enough to make it through the night or too soft to survive the door.

“I ain’t fragile,” I tell her, lifting my chin even though my stomach’s flipping. “I’ve been working in this town for seven years. I can handle a bar.”

Her mouth twitches as if she ain’t convinced.

“You’re twenty,” she says. “Old enough to know better.”

“Young enough to still try.”

Truth is, I look like the kind of girl men underestimate. Soft face. Big eyes. The kind of body that gets stared at before it gets respected. I’ve been stared at my whole life.

But there’s steel under it.

I’ve been broke. I’ve been lonely. I’ve been left.

I can handle a clubhouse.

At least that’s what I’m hoping when I ask again. “Please.”

Lottie exhales like she’s losing an argument with herself. “Fine. But you stick with me. You don’t wander. You don’t drink like you’re trying to forget what’s-his-name.”

“I won’t,” I lie immediately.

Getting ready with Lottie feels like a ritual I wasn’t raised for but somehow understand. She tosses me a black tank top and a denim skirt that’s shorter than anything I own.

“You don’t dress like you’re going to church,” she says. “You dress like you know someone’s going to look.”

I borrow her eyeliner. She braids my hair loose and messy, then steps back with a small smile.

I know what she sees.

I’m not tall like her, not built like a brick wall with a mean right hook.

I’m five foot five on a good day, with legs that got strong from waitressing double shifts and hauling boxes at the pawn shop.

I’ve got hips that don’t lie, and a waist that only looks small because I work too much to sit still long enough to snack.

My hair’s honey blonde, the kind that darkens at the roots because I can’t afford salon upkeep every six weeks. It falls past my shoulders in loose waves that never do exactly what I want, like it’s got its own opinions and wants to tell the world.

Just like everyone around here.

My eyes are blue. Not icy, not dramatic. Just plain.

I don’t wear much makeup most days. I can’t justify wasting it on mopping floors and pricing used chainsaws.

But tonight I’ve got mascara thick enough to matter and lip gloss that shines when I press my mouth together.

The tank top fits a little tighter than it should.

The skirt shows more thigh than I usually let anyone see.

“You look dangerous,” Lottie says.

My stomach flips. “In a good way?”

“In a way men get stupid about.”

The Lockup smells like smoke and whiskey, like sweat soaked into wood over decades. Music rattles the walls. Laughter cuts through like everybody in here knows everybody else’s sins and keeps them close.

I stick close to Lottie at first. I really do.

Then somebody hands me a drink.

Then another.

Then Holler laughs and slings an arm around Lottie and tells me I’m safe here.

Then the music gets louder and my fear gets quieter.

Somewhere in the blur, I see him.

I don’t know his name yet. I just know the way he leans against the wall like the building belongs to him.

Like everything in it does. He’s older. Not old.

Just grown in a way men my age ain’t yet.

Muscular shoulders. Light brown beard going gray at the edges.

Wedding ring flashing when he lifts his beer.

Married.

That should stop the thought.

It doesn’t.

I hate that it doesn’t.

I don’t talk to him. He doesn’t talk to me. But once, just once, his eyes slide my way, and it feels like getting caught doing something I’ll never confess to.

I’m halfway through my forth drink when someone pokes my shoulder.

“Careful, sweetheart.”

The voice is low. Worn. The kind that’s lived too hard and didn’t regret much of it.

I turn, and there he is.

Up close he’s worse.

And so much better. His beard is trimmed but rough enough to look like it’ll scrape you raw if he gets too close.

Ink, a violent black fan of tattoo work spreads from his throat down over his collarbones and across his chest like wings, with more color and shadow wrapped around his arms. A healed scar rides his collarbone, pale against muscle, like proof he doesn’t just talk tough, he’s paid for it.

His cut hangs over all that. When he reaches in and lifts my glass away from my fingers like he’s correcting a mistake, I catch the glint of that wedding ring again. Married. Taken. The kind of man I should back away from.

“That one’s catching up to you,” he says. “Fast.”

“I didn’t ask for a babysitter,” I fire back.

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something more dangerous.

“No,” he says. “You asked for trouble. Babysitting’s just a side effect.”

I reach for the glass. He holds it higher.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “I’m fine.”

He looks me dead in the eye, slow and thorough, like he’s cataloging sins.

“Darlin’, you’re wobbling like a barstool with a missing bolt.”

A flush whips through me. “You watch me wobble often?” I slur.

A few heads nearby turn. Laughter bubbles up behind us.

He leans closer, voice dropping. “First time tonight. I’m memorizing it.”

My stomach flips traitorously.

“And you are…?” I ask.

He grins then. Sharp. Mean. Sexy as hell.

“Oaks.”

Just that. Like it’s enough.

It is.

I nod. “Brittany.”

“I know,” he says.

That should not be hot.

It is.

“Your friend Lottie’s been glaring holes through me since you nearly kissed the jukebox,” he adds. “Figured I’d intercept before she decided to stab me with a pool cue.”

“I didn’t trip,” I say. “I gracefully descended.”

He huffs a laugh. “Sure you did.”

He finally gives me my drink back, but his fingers stay wrapped around the glass a second too long. His thumb brushes my knuckles. Casual. Intentional.

“You always grab strangers’ drinks?” I ask.

“Only the ones I don’t want carried outta here over somebody’s shoulder.”

I tilt my head. “That a promise or a threat?”

His eyes darken. “Depends how much more you drink.”

Something electric snaps between us. Not sweet. Not romantic. Heavy. Dangerous.

I swallow. “You married?”

His jaw tightens, just a hair. “Yeah.”

I nod, slower this time. “Then you probably shouldn’t be touching my drink.”

He releases it immediately and steps back half a pace.

“You probably shouldn’t be looking at me like that either,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re deciding whether I’d ruin your life or improve it.”

My mouth opens. Closes.

“Well?” I ask.

He leans in just enough for me to smell smoke and whiskey and something that feels like regret.

“Both,” he says quietly.

His hand stays on the wall beside my head a second too long before he steps away. Then he turns and walks off like he didn’t just knock the air out of my lungs.

Lottie appears at my elbow two seconds later.

“What did Oaks say to you?” she asks.

I stare after him, heart pounding, legs weak.

“I think,” I say carefully, “he just told me to behave.”

Lottie winces. “Oh, honey.”

“What?”

She follows my gaze and lowers her voice. “He’s the kind of man who only warns you once.”

After that, the night tilts sideways.

I drink too much. I laugh too loud. Someone spins me on the dance floor and I lose my balance. I remember thinking I should sit down.

I don’t remember sitting down.

I wake up in a bed that ain’t mine.

The sheets smell like soap and smoke. Not cheap motel soap. The good kind, the kind somebody buys on purpose. Not just somebody. A man. The pillow under my head is too firm, the mattress too solid, like it belongs to a man who sleeps light and doesn’t waste money on softness.

The room is quiet, too quiet.

My head pounds like punishment. Not just a hangover. A reckoning. My stomach rolls, panic hitting fast and sharp, but I don’t scream. I don’t bolt upright. Years of scraping by taught me better than that.

I breathe, slow.

The nightstand sits to my right. Clean. Neat. A glass of water already sweating onto a coaster. Two aspirins laid out beside it like instructions. My phone is there too, plugged in and fully charged.

That’s when my heart really starts to race.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed.

My boots are lined up by the door.

Perfectly.

Like somebody took them off and cared enough to do it right.

My chest tightens.

And then I see it.

A folded piece of paper on the nightstand, tucked under the edge of the coaster like it might blow away if it ain’t anchored.

My hands shake when I pick it up.

It says, in blocky handwriting:

Don’t panic.

That’s where everything goes wrong.