Oaks
If Hell, Kentucky had a heartbeat, it’d be the bass rattling the Lockup after midnight. Loud. Dirty. Unapologetic. The kind of sound that makes men feel brave enough to start problems they can’t finish, then act surprised when consequences show up with teeth.
I sit at the bar with a whiskey I barely taste and a headache I earned, watching smoke curl toward the ceiling like it’s trying to escape this place.
The room is thick tonight, bodies pressed tight, sweat and perfume and spilled beer ground into old wood.
Every laugh is a little too sharp, every clap on the shoulder a little too hard.
Everybody’s overcompensating. Everybody’s pretending they don’t notice what’s shifting under the floorboards.
The brothers are in rare form. Derby’s arguing over a hand of cards like the money matters, Rye’s laughing too loud like he’s trying to convince himself he’s still having fun, and Royal’s in the corner with his hood up, watching the room like he always does, like he sees five moves ahead and hates every single one of them.
Normal night.
Except I can’t stop seeing her face.
Brittany in that diner booth, chin lifted, eyes lit like she was daring the whole county to tell her she didn’t belong.
Mad at me. Hurt. Furious. Good. She should be.
I warned her, did what I was supposed to do, then walked away because that’s what men like me do when something starts to matter.
We cut it off before it roots. It didn’t stop it from growing, anyway.
“VP,” Whiskey says, sliding me a fresh drink I didn’t ask for. “You look like shit.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter, but I take it. It burns all the way down and still doesn’t touch the part of me that keeps replaying her voice in my head.
You don’t get to act like you don’t know me.
That’s the problem. I don’t know her. But I do want to know her. Too damn much for a man who’s never touched her.
Across the room, Bethany is holding court. Laughing too loud. Surrounded by women dressed sharp and polished, like knives pretending to be jewelry. She hasn’t looked at me once.
Which means she’s watching everything.
She always does.
I shift on the stool, irritation crawling up my spine. I didn’t come here for her. I didn’t come here for drama. I came here because sitting alone in our house with Brittany’s voice in my head felt like a worse idea. That makes me a coward and an idiot in equal parts.
A hand slides onto my thigh. Slow. Familiar.
One of the club girls, Jakie, red lipstick, big tits high, and a “Property of Nobody” t-shirt showing them off.
The kind of woman around here who knows the rules and plays them because it keeps things simple.
She ain’t somebody’s ol’ lady. Ain’t from Official.
She’s just a bunny with a warm snatch and an exit plan.
“You look tense,” she murmurs, leaning in so her mouth brushes my ear. “Wanna loosen up?”
I should say no. I don’t. “Buy you a drink,” I say instead, because that’s easier than thinking.
She smiles like she won something and presses against me when somebody tells a dirty joke. Her hand finds its way back to my crotch, feeling right at home. I let it. That’s my line. I let. I don’t chase, don’t promise, don’t pretend it means anything. That’s the point.
Bethany looks away. Bitch don’t really care when I don’t either.
Hell, she probably sent her over. Bitch gets off on being the victim in a loveless marriage.
I tell myself it’s meaningless as I follow Jakie upstairs.
The hallway smells like smoke, pussy and years of bad decisions.
The room has walls that have heard too much and a mattress that doesn’t ask names.
She’s on me fast, mouth hungry, hands sure, unzipping me, rolling on a condom, tugging at my shirt like she’s unwrapping something she already owns.
I let it happen. I don’t close my eyes. I don’t say her name as she kisses my neck. I don’t think about Brittany.
That’s a fucking lie.
I think about Brittany the whole time as Jakie bounces on my dick. When I bite at Jakie’s tits, I think about the way Brittany stood up to me in that diner, the way her voice shook but didn’t break, the way she looked at me like I was both the danger and the shield.
It turns my stomach in a way it shouldn’t because this is supposed to be easy. Women have always come easy, easy pussy, a place to empty out whatever claws at the inside of my ribs. Squirt it on their back. Their face.
Brittany is something else. Not that I don’t imagine doing to her, what I’m doing to the bunny. Rolling her over to get better leverage, pound her pussy so hard the bed batterers the wall.
Brittany ain’t easy. I knew that before she got drunk and offered herself. It took everything in me to hold back. Not just because she’s young, too young for me, or because she was drunk. I was too. But because my heart broke at the thought of someone else taking advantage of her.
I gave a damn. For once.
Brittany is something I don’t get to have. A heart. I utter her name in my head as I blow my load into the whore my bitch of a wife sent to me so she can call herself a victim. Her girlfriends will rally around her. I’ll continue to be the piece of shit she made me.
When it’s over, the girl rolls off me and reaches for her clothes without a word. Efficient. Professional. No expectations. That’s why this works. She kisses my cheek on the way out like we’re both in on the joke.
“See you around, Oaks.”
“Yeah,” I say, already pulling my boots back on.
The door clicks shut. The room goes quiet. And I feel worse than I did before. I sit there on the edge of the bed with my elbows on my knees, jaw locked tight, and there’s no satisfaction, no edge taken off, just a hollow place where something used to be easy.
I used to be able to split myself clean in two. Club first. Marriage for optics. Women for distraction. No bleed-through. No guilt that stuck.
Now I can’t even fuck without thinking about a girl who looked at me like I mattered.
I head back downstairs, grab another drink, and catch Bethany’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. She’s watching me now.
Good. Let her.
She corners me near the pool table like she’s been counting down the seconds. “So,” she says lightly, eyes flicking toward the staircase, “have fun?”
I don’t answer.
She smiles anyway. “You always did prefer easy.”
I lean in close enough that only she can hear me. “You wanna start something tonight, or you wanna keep pretending we’re married for appearances?”
Her smile tightens. “Careful.”
“Fuck careful,” I mutter. “You wanted a ring, Beth. You got one. Don’t act surprised when I don’t play house.”
Her eyes flash. “You’re sloppy lately.”
That gives me pause. “Meaning?” I ask.
She steps closer, lowering her voice. “Meaning people notice when you hover. When you warn. When you don’t finish the job.”
My blood goes cold. “You talking about Brittany?” I ask quietly.
Bethany’s mouth curves. “Look at you. Said her name like it matters.”
I grab her wrist, not hard, just enough to remind her who she’s dealing with. “You leave her out of whatever the fuck this is.”
She laughs, sharp and ugly. “Or what? You gonna choose her?”
“I ain’t choosing anybody.”
“That’s the problem,” she snaps. “You never do. You just break things and call it loyalty.”
The words land harder than I expect because they’re close enough to true to sting. She leans in, voice dropping to something almost intimate. “Pearly Gates has been asking questions.”
My head snaps up. “About what?”
“About a girl,” she says sweetly. “Guess which one.”
The noise of the room fades for a second. Pearly Gates doesn’t ask questions unless they’re already moving pieces.
“Who’s asking?” I demand.
“Does it matter?” she says. “They know she was at the Lockup. They know you walked her upstairs.”
I get the implication. The reverend has been trying to frame us for disappearances for years. Girls from Official come here and party then they’re in the paper, missing. “How the fuck would they know that?”
Bethany shrugs. “People talk. Walls have ears. Men brag.”
Or women do.
“You stay the fuck out of it,” I warn.
She tilts her head. “You don’t control them. Or me.”
“Don’t push me, Beth.”
Her smile turns thin. “You think they’re the only ones who can make a girl disappear in this county?”
The threat sits between us. Not loud. Not dramatic. Real.
I release her wrist slow. “If anything happens to her,” I say, keeping my voice level, “this club burns before I let you hurt her.”
Her eyes flicker. She didn’t expect that answer. “You’d tear down your own house?” she asks softer.
“If it’s rotten,” I reply.
She steps back first. She always does when she realizes I’m not bluffing.
I stand there long after she walks away, heart pounding, mind running angles. Pearly Gates circling. Bethany watching. The town whispering. Brittany standing smack in the middle of it, stubborn enough to lift her chin at all of it like she’s daring the dark to take a swing.
I drain my drink and slam the glass down harder than I mean to. Royal’s eyes cut toward me from across the room. He saw. Of course he did.
I don’t go back upstairs. I don’t go home. I grab my jacket and keys and head for the door.
Outside, the air is cooler, cleaner, and my bike roars to life under me like it’s daring me to make another bad decision. Maybe I already did. Because one thing is suddenly real clear.
I can fuck whoever I want. I can sleep anywhere. I can pretend nothing touches me.
But Brittany already did.
And if Pearly Gates is circling her, this stops being about temptation and starts being about territory, leverage, survival. When it comes to survival, I don’t play.
I ride out into the dark knowing one thing.
If they touch her, I won’t warn anybody.
I’ll end it.