Brittany
A week is a long time in Hell, Kentucky. Long enough for whispers to get bored. Long enough for my nervous system to stop flinching every time a truck door slams. Long enough for me to almost convince myself I imagined it all.
That the look in that biker bunny’s eyes at the diner was just jealousy, not a warning. That the way Lottie said I got seen wasn’t a death sentence. That Oaks didn’t burn his name into my brain with nothing but a note that said don’t panic and handwriting that looked like it could break bones.
So I lie low.
I work on my homework at the kitchen table with a I go to the pawn shop and keep my head down, ring up busted rings and stolen tools, and take in one wedding band a man tries to pawn while his wife sits in the truck staring straight ahead like she can will the shame into disappearing.
I babysit Mason and let him smear peanut butter on my jeans and call it art. I laugh when he laughs because it feels good to laugh at something that ain’t mean.
I don’t go to the Lockup. I don’t go to Slice unless I’m scheduled. I don’t look for Oaks even when my mind drifts there anyway, traitorous and curious, like wanting is the same as asking for trouble.
I tell myself the quiet means I’m safe.
It’s a lie that fits, so I wear it.
Friday comes with damp heat and low clouds, the kind that make the whole town smell like wet gravel and gasoline. I’ve got a paper due by midnight and my head full of numbers and paragraphs and the constant, stupid thought of a man I barely know but somehow can’t stop feeling.
By late afternoon I need gas, and I need air, and I need to stop feeling like my own house is shrinking around me.
The Pump N’ Shop, the station on the edge of town is small and half-lit, the kind of place that always has somebody lingering by the ice chest like they’re waiting on a sign from God or the devil. I pull in, kill the engine, and sit for a second before I get out.
I’ve been doing that lately. Pausing. Listening. Checking the mirror. Hell teaches you habits and fear teaches you quicker.
The humid air sticks to my skin the second I step out.
My tank top clings. My hair is up, still damp from the shower I took after work like washing can rinse off a week’s worth of nerves.
I’ve got my keys threaded between my fingers like a weapon even though I hate that I do. I hate what it turns me into.
My gaze sweeps the lot.
Nothing that looks like trouble.
Just an old man fueling a mower can. Just a teen in a rusted Civic blasting music too loud with the windows down. Just the faint buzz of the lights over pump three and the ticking click of the readout.
I let myself breathe and start pumping gas.
Then I hear a voice behind me.
“Brittany?”
It ain’t a biker voice. It ain’t gravel and smoke and threat. It’s warm. Familiar in a way that makes my shoulders loosen before my brain can stop them.
I turn.
Elijah stands there in a clean gray tee and jeans that look like they’ve never seen a bar fight. His hair’s neatly trimmed. His face is sun-browned like he works outside. His posture is polite, but his eyes are two different colors like Becki’s and sharp, taking in more than he should.
Pearly Gates has that effect on people. They learn to watch everything.
“Elijah,” I say, surprise and something softer tangling together. “Hey.”
He smiles like he’s glad to see me, like I’m normal and safe and not a girl with a target painted on her back. “I thought that was your car.”
My cheeks heat and I don’t know why. It ain’t like he’s saying anything dirty. It’s just that he’s so familiar. My age. Safe. He feels like a life that makes sense, the kind of life I used to think I’d have if I just worked hard enough and stayed out of the wrong places.
We went to school together, technically. Not in the same circles, but the same small-town bubble where everybody knows what church you go to and what your mama did before she ran and whether you’re the kind of girl who gets in trouble or the kind of girl trouble finds.
Elijah always looked at me like I’m the second kind.
“How’ve you been?” he asks, stepping closer but not too close. He keeps his hands visible like he’s trying not to scare me.
I watch him do it and something in my chest tugs. I’ve been around so much male energy lately that feels built for taking. Elijah’s feels built for staying on the right side of a line.
“I’m fine,” I say, and the lie comes easier than it should.
His eyes flick down to my hand on the pump, the keys between my fingers, then back up to my face. His jaw tightens just a little, like he doesn’t like what he sees.
“You don’t look fine.”
The wind shifts, bringing the smell of rain and asphalt. The station lights flicker once like they’re tired too.
“It’s been a week,” I admit.
“A week since what?” he asks.
I hesitate. Because if I say it out loud it becomes real. Because if I say it out loud I admit I did something that half this town thinks makes me dirty.
I keep my voice light. “Since I did something stupid.”
Elijah’s gaze holds mine. “Is this about the Lockup?”
My pulse jumps. “What?”
He doesn’t smile this time. “Don’t play dumb with me, Brit. Folks talk.”
Of course they do. Hell would gossip at a funeral if it thought it could get a good story out of grief.
“It was a party,” I say.
Elijah’s eyes darken. Not with lust, not with hunger. With disapproval dressed up as worry. “You don’t belong in their world.”
The words hit me like a slap with a smile.
I stiffen. “I didn’t ask to belong.”
“You danced with one of them,” he says, voice low like he’s trying to keep it private even out here under buzzing lights. “That’s all it takes for them to decide you’re theirs, Brittany. Their property.”
My breath catches.
Ownership.
“You’ve seen the vests their women wear,” he adds.
I force out a laugh that doesn’t sound like me. “They don’t own me.”
Elijah watches me like he’s deciding whether I’m lying to him or to myself. Then he surprises me.
“Pearly Gates ain’t safe either,” he says.
My eyes narrow. “You mean your people?”
He flinches like the word stings. “I mean the men who hide behind scripture and act like God gave them permission to hurt what they want.”
I stare at him.
That ain’t the Pearly Gates line. That ain’t the polished Sunday version of Elijah. It’s something real. Something sharp. Something dangerous in its own way.
My heart does a stupid little twist.
And for one small breath of time I forget the club. I forget Oaks. I forget Bethany and whispers and gloves and eyes on me.
I just see Elijah, the boy I used to watch from across the cafeteria. A man now standing here like he could be my safe option.
He steps closer, voice softer. “If you need help, you can call me.”
I swallow. “Why would you help me?”
His gaze flicks to my mouth then away like he hates himself for noticing. “Because I’ve always liked you.”
A flush moves up my neck. My skin prickles. My stomach dips.
There it is.
The pull that doesn’t feel forbidden because it’s age-appropriate and sweet and clean. The kind of thing that would make my daddy nod approval if he was home long enough to meet anybody I brought around.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, when a shadow falls across the edge of the lot.
A motorcycle rolls in.
Low rumble. Heavy engine. The kind that makes the air vibrate in your bones.
My blood goes cold and hot simultaneously.
Elijah turns his head, expression sharpening, shoulders tensing like he’s ready to step between me and whatever’s coming. The bike cuts through the lot like it owns the ground and stops beside the curb with a slow, controlled ease that feels like a threat wrapped in patience.
Oaks swings off.
He’s in dirty jeans, black boots and a dark tee that clings to his chest, and over it is his black leather vest that reads V.P.
His hair’s damp like he washed up and didn’t care if it dried right.
However, his beard is dense and perfectly groomed.
His gaze is mesmerizing, yet chilling at this moment.
He takes one look at Elijah.
Then he looks at me.
And it feels like somebody reached inside my ribcage and squeezed.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t nod polite. He doesn’t play friendly. He steps toward me with that quiet control that makes my stomach flip and my temper flare.
His gaze drops to Elijah’s proximity, the way he’s standing too close like he has a right.
Oaks’ mouth tightens.
“Evenin’,” Oaks says, but it ain’t a greeting. It’s a warning with manners.
Elijah’s chin lifts. “Evenin’.”
The two words hang between them like a fuse.
My gas clicks off and I jump. I shove the nozzle back into the pump too fast and my hands go clumsy.
Oaks’ eyes flick to my hands, then back to my face. “You alright?”
His voice is low and controlled, but there’s something under it that makes my skin heat. Possessive. Protective. Pissed.
“I’m fine,” I snap, because the week of quiet just shattered and I hate that part of me is relieved to see him.
Oaks’ gaze drags over me like he’s checking for bruises, like he’s counting my breaths, like he memorized the shape of my fear.
Then his eyes cut to Elijah again.
“Who’s this?” he asks me, but he’s looking at Elijah like he already knows.
I lift my chin. “This is Elijah Notes.”
Elijah offers a hand because he’s polite and normal and doesn’t understand that biker etiquette doesn’t include handshakes when another man is standing too close to something he thinks is his. At least his to protect.
Oaks doesn’t take it.
He stares at Elijah’s hand like it’s a snake.
Elijah slowly drops it, face flushing with irritation.
“I’m just talking,” Elijah says, measured. “She was alone.”
Oaks’ gaze snaps to me. “You been alone?”
I hate how that lands like accusation and plea at the same time, like he’s mad at me for existing without him.
I throw my hands up. “My daddy’s a trucker, Oaks. I been alone my whole damn life.”