Oaks
A biker’s Church ain’t about God.
Not here.
Not in Hell, Kentucky.
Church is about power. About who’s bleeding, who’s lying, and who’s pretending not to see the rot spreading under the floorboards.
I stand near the back, arms crossed, boots planted wide, watching the brothers file in. Cuts on. Faces hard. Voices rising to the rafters.
We’re crammed around the long table in the back room, boots up on chairs, ashtrays already overflowing. Derby’s chewing sunflower seeds as though he’s aiming to start a fight with his own jaw.
I’m Vice President of the Kings of Anarchy MC, Kentucky charter. That means I don’t talk first. I listen. I remember. And when I move, it’s already too late for somebody.
Legend hasn’t taken the head of the table yet, which means we’re in that dangerous window where everybody’s mouth runs wild.
Rye leans back in his chair, chair legs screeching. “So who all remembers the party last night, or are we pretending like that moonshine didn’t steal memories again?”
Derby snorts. “Only thing it stole was your dignity. You tried to line dance with Bullet.”
Bullet doesn’t even look up. He flicks ash into the tray. “I would’ve put him down if he touched my hips again. Ain’t my fault he can’t tell shine from lighter fluid.”
Whiskey raises his mug. “For the record, the books say we lost three chairs, one barstool, and whatever the hell Vandal did to the bathroom sink.”
Vandal grins as big as a possum eating sweet taters. “All the rooms were full. I know I’m not the first of y’all to smash a club bunny on that sink. Damn thing finally gave out.”
Royal sits quiet in a black hoodie, notebook closed, eyes sharp like he’s listening to a whole other conversation layered under this one. He always does that. Makes men nervous without saying a damn thing.
Lex clears his throat. “We done yet, or we just gonna keep confessing sins without absolution?”
Wildcat laughs. “Brother, if God’s listening to this room, he already packed up and moved down to Tennessee.”
Legend finally walks in and shuts the door behind him.
Silence hits like a slap.
“Alright,” he says, voice calm and dangerous. “Enough dick swinging. Sit up.”
Everyone does. Mostly.
He looks around. “We got trouble stirring near Pearly Gates again. Reverend’s hell bent on pinning some shit on us. Same old rot.”
Derby mutters, “Cult’s like mold. Scrape it off, it grows back meaner.”
Legend nods, then his eyes flick to me. Just a second too long.
Rye catches it immediately. Of course he does.
“Well hell,” Rye drawls. “While we’re confessing sins, somebody wanna tell me why Oaks was playing guardian angel to that little blonde girl last night?”
Every head turns.
I don’t rise to it. I lean back and cross my arms. “Because you idiots drink like you’re trying to die young, and somebody’s gotta keep the Lockup from turning into a damn crime scene.”
Derby grins. “That her name? Somebody?”
Laughter rolls.
Whiskey smirks. “Pretty sure her name’s Brittany. Heard it at least six times between Rye trying to impress her and Holler telling everyone to behave like they ain’t just seen some jailbait.”
Holler shoots him a look. “I warned y’all to behave. She’s young enough to be my daughter.”
“Your daughter?” Rye laughs. “Maybe if you married someone your own age. She’s old enough to be your ol’ lady’s little sister.”
Lex rubs his temples like he’s already got a headache.
“She’s twenty,” Vandal says. “Twenty-one if you believe that fake ID she flashed.”
Legend’s mouth twitches, but he keeps his tone flat. “Then she ain’t club business.”
Royal’s eyes cut to me, sharp and measuring.
Rye doesn’t let it go. “Didn’t say she was. Just curious. You don’t usually play bouncer for college girls.”
I shrug. “I was on the door. That’s it.”
“On the door,” Bullet echoes. “You were all up on her.”
Rye grins. “You held her drink like she was your woman, VP.”
Bullet adds, “Looked like you were whipped.”
Whiskey laughs. “Hell, man, you tucked her in. That’s practically courtship in this town.”
“Watch it,” I say, finally looking at him.
Legend has the last laugh. “You run your mouth like that, Bethany might hear.”
The room goes dead quiet for half a beat.
Then Derby whistles low. “Ooooh. Prez brought his wife into it. That’s like pulling a knife at Thanksgiving.”
Legend lifts a brow at me. “Everything squared at home?”
I don’t answer right away. I don’t need to. The couch burns into my back even when I ain’t sitting on it.
Royal speaks then, voice smooth and dangerous. “Girl was drunk. Oaks made sure nobody got hurt. End of story.”
I glance at him and give a brief nod.
Rye grins wider. “Secretary vouching now? Hell must be freezing over.”
I don’t look at him. “You keep talking about her, you’re gonna end up freezing over personally.”
Lex sighs. “Can we get back to the cult before this turns into whatever the hell this is?”
Rye throws his hands up. “Royal’s got a savior complex. Wants to be God while dressing like the damn devil.”
Legend taps the table once. “Back to Pearly Gates.”
Derby spits a seed into the ashtray. “Another one?”
Legend nods. “Girl went missing Sunday. Family says she ran. Sheriff Dix says she left town. Pearly Gates says she’s finding herself.”
Derby snorts. “That cult finds a lot of girls.”
Royal’s voice drops. “And buries the ones that don’t cooperate.”
The room goes quiet.
Lex folds his hands. “We ain’t in the business of rescuing the church’s daughters.”
“No,” Legend says calmly. “But we are in the business of keeping trouble off our doorstep.”
His eyes flick to me again, and I know exactly what he’s thinking.
Young girl in our house last night. Club-adjacent now, whether I like it or not.
Legend’s voice stays even. “Hear me clear. Any girl, I mean any legal aged woman, walks into our house, she gets out the same way she came in. On two legs. Breathing. Anybody forgets that, they answer to me. Otherwise, I couldn’t give a goddamn.”
Eyes lock around the table. It settles in my chest, heavy as a stone.
Legend stands. “Church ain’t done yet. Let’s pray none of you embarrass me before noon.”
As chairs scrape back and noise picks up, Derby leans close and mutters, “For what it’s worth, VP, Hell’s already talking.”
I look straight ahead. “Hell always does.”
And that’s the problem.
I think about Brittany behind the counter at the pawn shop. Hungover. Soft-spoken. Too damn visible.
I don’t like the way my gut tightens.
Legend keeps talking like he always does, calm and dangerous, built like a man who learned early how to survive violence without letting it rot him from the inside out. Royal stands off to the side, black as sin, eyes sharp.
“This ain’t a call to arms,” Legend says. “Yet. But we keep eyes open.”
He finishes up and dismisses us. The brothers break into clusters. I start to step away.
When I step out of the old warden’s office, Bethany steps in front of me.
She didn’t have to come. Bethany’s at the Lockup because she wants to be seen. Her nails dig into my arm. Not affectionate. Territorial.
“You’ve been busy,” she says under her breath.
I don’t look at her. “Church.”
“Funny,” she replies. “Heard you were bouncing instead of praying.”
“I was working,” I say.
She laughs soft. “Sure you were.”
“You think I don’t hear things?” she asks. “You think I don’t notice who people look at?”
“Move,” I tell her quiet.
She doesn’t.
“I married you for this club,” she says. “For the good of it. And I won’t be embarrassed by some little pawn shop girl.”
So she followed Brittany. I knew it. That does it.
“You married me because your daddy wanted leverage,” I say, low and flat. “And because you wanted something you couldn’t ever have.”
Her eyes flash. “Careful.”
“I’ve been careful for years,” I reply. “That’s why I’m sleeping on a couch and not in a grave.”
Her hand comes up like she might slap me. I don’t move. I don’t flinch.
She drops it.
“I’ll show your new toy who holds your leash,” she says. “You don’t protect her, or I’ll make sure everybody knows your sins. The club, the town, all of it.”
“Is that a threat?” I ask.
Bethany’s known to shoot first and ask questions later. Known to shoot, period.
She doesn’t answer. She glares at me, then turns and walks away.
I don’t follow.
I don’t go home either.
I crash at the clubhouse, boots kicked off, jacket tossed over a chair. The couch smells like old farts. Fits.
I stare at the ceiling and think about Brittany. About how I’m owned and I can’t even look twice at a girl I wouldn’t just hit and quit without a fight.