Oaks
I don’t like the way Elijah Notes stands.
That’s the first thing I clock, not his church-boy smile or the clean shirt or the way he keeps his hands visible like he’s harmless. It’s the stance. Too balanced. Too aware. Like a man who knows where the exits are and how fast he can move if he needs to.
He ain’t soft.
He just plays it.
I’m across the street from the county line diner before dusk, sitting where I can see the windows without being seen, bike angled out for a quick exit.
Brittany’s inside. I can tell which laugh is hers even through glass, because it hits different.
It sounds like she forgot, for half a second, that Hell eats girls whole.
Elijah’s with her. Leaning in. Offering her something clean like he’s handing her a towel after a storm. A fucking bitch tsunami called my ol’ lady who I followed here.
She looks lighter than she’s looked in weeks.
That should make me feel better.
It doesn’t.
Because Hell doesn’t stop once it picks a girl, and Pearly Gates doesn’t circle unless it’s ready to take.
Elijah steps out first like he’s on guard duty. He sees me coming and he don’t flinch. He don’t act surprised.
That tells me plenty.
He plants himself by the door while he’s waiting for her. Bible under his arm like a shield. Eyes steady. Mouth calm.
“You following her?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I’m walking her to her car.”
“That ain’t what I asked.”
His jaw tightens, just a little. There’s the crack. “You don’t own her.”
I step closer, boots grinding gravel, and I keep my voice low because I’m not here for a scene. Scenes get girls killed. “You don’t know what kind of men are asking about her.”
“I know what kind of man you are,” he replies, tone quiet like he thinks he’s brave.
I laugh once. No humor in it. “That right?”
“You leave damage,” he says. “Then you call it protection.”
That one lands, because it’s too close to truth.
I lean in, close enough that he gets smoke and leather and something meaner under it. “You ain’t wrong. At least I know I’m dangerous.”
He doesn’t move. That’s mistake number two.
“You think Pearly Gates is asking about her because they care?” I ask.
His eyes flicker. Quick. Guilty.
There it is.
“You know they’re asking,” I say.
“They ask about everybody,” he answers too fast.
“Bullshit.”
The bell above the diner door jingles and Brittany steps out into the cooling air like she can smell tension the way some animals smell storms. She sees us squared up and her whole body tightens.
“What are you doing?” she snaps.
Elijah’s face softens toward her in a way I don’t like. “Leaving,” he says, like he’s the hero in a story where heroes don’t bleed.
“Talking,” I answer, because I’m not giving him that.
Her jaw sets. “I don’t need either of you doing that.”
Elijah nods like he’s obedient. “I’ll call you later,” he tells her, then heads for his truck.
I watch her watch him go and I don’t like what it does to my chest, that hot feral twist that has no business existing in a married man’s body.
She turns on me the second he’s gone. “What?” she snaps.
“You been followed?” I ask.
Her eyes flash. “No.”
She’s lying. I can see it in the way her shoulders sit too tight and her chin lifts like a shield.
“You don’t get to interrogate me,” she says. “And you sure as hell don’t get to rescue me.”
I take a half-step closer, and my voice drops. “That ain’t how this works.”
“Then maybe I don’t want it to work,” she shoots back, and that one cuts clean.
She’s angry and stubborn and young enough to think defiance is armor. “I didn’t ask you to stand between me and anything,” she says. “I didn’t ask you to warn me. I didn’t ask you to hover. I don’t want you rescuing me.”
The word rescuing sounds like acid from her mouth.
I hold her gaze for a long second. I can feel my wedding ring like a damn brand. I can feel the weight of every choice I’ve made in this club, in this town, in this marriage.
Then I nod once.
“Fine,” I say.
Her breath hitches like she expected a fight.
Instead I step back. “Walk to your car,” I tell her evenly. “Alone.”
Her chin lifts. “Gladly.”
She marches across the lot like she’s proving something to me, to herself, to Hell. I don’t follow, not where she can see. I don’t push. I don’t hover.
I watch.
And I catch the movement she doesn’t.
A black SUV pulls out from behind the pharmacy slow as sin. Too slow. Windows tinted. Tires whispering over the asphalt like the driver’s trying not to exist.
My blood goes cold.
She reaches her car, fumbles with her keys, gets the door open.
The SUV swings wide.
Passenger door flies open.
Two men spill out.
Wrong boots. Wrong eyes. Not club. Too clean in the face, too blank in the mouth, like the kind of men who pray before they bury you.
Pearly Gates.
I move before she understands what’s happening.
One grabs her arm and she screams, sharp and terrified, and the sound splits something in my chest I didn’t know was there.
I hit the first bastard from behind and drive his face into the side of her car hard enough to make the metal thunk and the bone crack. He folds with a grunt, hands scrambling, and I don’t give him time to breathe.
The second one swings and I catch his wrist and twist hard. Something pops. He howls. A stun gun drops out of his hand and clatters across the pavement.
So that’s the play.
Take her quiet.
I shove him into the SUV door and slam it on his leg once, twice, because I’m not in the mood for mercy and Pearly Gates doesn’t deserve it. He goes down with a choking sound.
“Get in your car,” I bark at Brittany.
This time she doesn’t argue. She dives inside, locks the doors, shaking so hard I can see it through the windshield.
The driver guns the engine.
I grab the first bastard by the collar and haul him up just long enough to get in his ear. “Tell your preacher,” I say low and vicious, “she ain’t easy.”
Then I throw him into the open door and slam it.
The SUV tears out of the lot, tires squealing, the whole thing gone in seconds like they were never there.
Brittany sits in her car hyperventilating. Hands on the wheel. Mouth open. Eyes wild.
I step back into shadow before she looks up.
She doesn’t see me.
She throws the car into reverse too fast and peels out of the lot like the devil’s on her bumper.
I follow at a distance.
Just like I promised. Until she’s home. My brothers are camping out in the next yard watching the movements.
Later that night she storms into the Lockup like she’s made of fire and bruised pride.
The place is loud, the bass rattling the walls like Hell’s heartbeat. A few brothers glance up when she comes in, surprised to see her here without Lottie or Holler flanking her. Royal is in the corner, black hoodie up, eyes sharp. Legend’s at a table with Whiskey and Derby, talking low.
Brittany heads straight for me at the bar and slams her hands on the wood hard enough to make my drink jump.
“You’ve been watching me?” she asks.
I keep my face blank. “Maybe.” Holler said she didn’t want me to but he ain’t the boss of me.
She leans in, eyes bright with fury and fear tangled together. “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me.”
The room quiets in that dangerous way, like everyone pretends not to listen while they listen harder.
“I told you I don’t want you rescuing me,” she says, voice shaking. “I don’t want to owe you.”
“You don’t,” I answer.
Her eyes search my face like she’s trying to find the truth through the mask. “You always show up,” she says, almost accusing.
“Then stop needing me.”
That lands like a slap and I see it hit, see the hurt flash across her eyes. Good.
Because if she hates me, she lives longer.
“Stay out of it,” she whispers. “I’ll handle it.”
I nod once. “Fine.”
I mean it in front of everyone. I back off in front of everyone. I give her exactly what she asked for, because what she asked for might be the only thing that keeps her alive.
Legend’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Oaks. Office. Now.”
He doesn’t waste time. The warden’s office at the back of the Lockup still smells like old paper and old violence, like men made plans in here that ruined lives. Legend shuts the door and looks at me like he’s weighing the cost of me.
“Pearly Gates just made a move,” he says.
“They won’t stop,” I reply.
“No,” Legend agrees. “They won’t.”
Royal leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes cutting between us like he’s already three steps ahead. He don’t talk unless it matters.
Legend folds his arms. “Big Daddy wants eyes on this. National.”
My jaw locks.
“And?” I ask, even though I already know it’s coming.
“And you’re leading a run to Anarchy,” Legend says. “You go see him. You tell him what’s happening here. You make sure this don’t turn into open war without sanction.”
Anarchy, California. Big Daddy. National business. That ain’t a ride. That’s an exile with paperwork.
“And Brittany?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Legend’s gaze sharpens. “She ain’t yours.”
I don’t answer because if I do, I’ll say something true, and truth gets people killed.
He steps closer, voice low. “You go west. You cool your head. You let things settle here.”
Settle. Like that’s possible.
“When I get back?” I ask.
Legend’s mouth tightens. “We’ll see what’s left.”
After midnight I sit on my bike outside Brittany’s house where the road turns dark and the trees crowd in like they’re listening. Porch light on. Curtains drawn. Her silhouette crosses the front room once, quick, like she’s pacing.
I don’t go to the door. I don’t leave a note. I don’t line up boots like I’m some kind of gentleman.
I just watch the porch light flicker and I wonder if she’ll be safer with me gone.
The answer feels like no.
But orders are orders, and the club don’t survive on what I want.
I leave anyway, engine roaring, westbound toward Anarchy and Big Daddy and the kind of war that doesn’t wait for permission.
Back in Hell, Kentucky, Brittany will think she pushed me away.
She doesn’t know she just made it harder for me to stay.