Chapter 18 Axel/Darla #2
I dropped the mic. “Let’s finish it, then.”
***
Nobody ever told me how much a fistfight on church steps feels like a homecoming.
The crowd parted, a human Red Sea, as Bart and Silas powered forward, shoulders squared, hands already flexing for violence.
Behind them, a ragtag cluster of church deacons followed, half in business suits, half in football jackets, looking for all the world like they’d wandered into a gladiator movie and just now realized it was unscripted.
Bart caught my eye and grinned, mouth all teeth and zero humor. “The Reverend sends his regards,” he said, and the next thing I knew, he was in my space, hammering a forearm into my throat.
We hit the steps together, a tangle of denim, leather, and synthetic church carpet.
The first punch rocked my jaw sideways, lights sparking behind my eyes.
I jammed an elbow into his ribs—felt the hollow thunk but no give.
Bart was bigger, faster, but I was angrier.
He tried to throw me, but I hooked his arm and used his momentum to drag us both onto the slate landing.
My shoulder took the brunt of the landing, pain lightning up my neck.
The world narrowed to three things: the pain in my body, the crowd’s gasps, and Bart’s eyes—blue, cold, calculating every move before I even made it.
He went for my nose, telegraphed as hell, and I blocked with my forearm.
I threw a quick jab to his solar plexus, but he barely flinched, just smirked and headbutted me.
The smell of his aftershave, sharp and antiseptic, mingled with the metallic tang of my own blood.
I tried to shout something clever, but my mouth was already filling with copper.
“Gentlemen!” Maple’s voice boomed behind us, the perfect blend of concern and command. “Let’s be civil in the Lord’s house!”
Bart laughed. “You heard the man,” and drove a knee into my thigh so hard I saw white.
The fight rolled down the steps, crowd scattering, some old ladies screaming, the dads hustling their kids to the minivans.
I caught a glimpse of Darla through the open doors, her face pale, mouth frozen in a silent “O.” She half-stood, as if to run toward me, but then dropped back to the pew, hands shaking so hard she nearly dropped the hymnal.
I don’t know if she was scared for me or for Bart, and in that moment, I didn’t care. I just needed to make it to her alive.
Sarge closed in, less elegant than Bart but twice as mean. He tried to blindside me with a baton, but I pivoted and caught him in the knee with my boot. He went down hard, but Bart was already back on top of me, driving my head into the grass.
I spat blood and grabbed a fistful of dirt, flinging it into Bart’s eyes.
He roared, swiping at his face, and I used the opening to land a punch right on his chin.
He staggered back, cursing, and I lurched to my feet, hands shaking.
Around us, Vin and the others were holding the line, Red pulling Sarge off me and clocking him with a full can of Monster.
“Go, Axel!” she yelled, voice pure adrenaline. “Finish it!”
I turned just in time to see Bart charge, arms wide, aiming to tackle me straight through the doors. I ducked, grabbed his jacket, and spun him around so we hit the doors together. They slammed open with a bang, sending a dozen churchgoers scrambling back.
Inside, the sanctuary was chaos—people standing on pews, cell phones recording, a few brave souls trying to play peacemaker and getting shoved for their trouble.
Bart slammed me into the nearest support pillar, drywall and old paint dust raining down.
I ripped free and countered with an uppercut, catching him square in the jaw.
His teeth snapped shut, and for the first time, I saw a flash of real pain cross his face.
He retaliated by grabbing me around the waist and hurling us both at the altar. We crashed through the communion rail, splinters and hymnals scattering. The altar teetered, then toppled, taking out a pair of flower arrangements and a memorial candle that hissed and smoked on the carpet.
I rolled, gasping, and came up on one knee.
Bart tried to tackle me again, but I sidestepped, grabbed a broken kneeler, and swung it like a bat.
It shattered against his shoulder, but he kept coming, grabbing my shirt and dragging me into a chokehold.
My vision tunneled, the edges going gray, but I managed to stomp his foot and rake my boot down his shin.
He grunted, the grip loosening just enough for me to twist and slam my forehead into his nose.
He stumbled, blood gushing, and for a second I thought he might go down. But Bart wasn’t built to lose. He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, then smiled, eyes blazing with a kind of religious fury I’d only seen in people about to die—or kill.
“You think this ends with you?” he spat, voice thick. “You’re just a means to an end, Axel. The Shepherd always wins.”
“Then let’s see how the sheep handle a little truth,” I said, and shoved him back into the center aisle, right in front of the whole damn church.
For a heartbeat, everything stopped. The choir had gone silent, and even the cell phones were still. I could feel the eyes of every parishioner on us, waiting to see which side God would take.
Bart straightened his jacket, then pointed at me. “He’s a criminal! An addict! Everything he says is a lie!”
I wiped my mouth, spat blood on the marble. “I might be an addict, but I’m not the one trafficking kids.”
A collective gasp, the words hanging in the air like a curse.
Bart rushed me, but I was ready. I dropped low and let him go over my shoulder, slamming him into the first row of pews. The wood cracked, and the nearest church ladies scattered, some shrieking, some just clutching their pearls harder. I stood over him, panting, waiting for him to get up.
He didn’t.
Instead, Sarge came in from the side, catching me in the ribs with a baton. Pain exploded through my side, but I kept my feet, turned, and clocked him across the jaw with the heel of my hand. He went down, groaning.
Vin and Canon burst through the doors, backing me up, fists raised, faces split with matching grins. Behind them, I heard the distant wail of sirens—Lexington’s finest, late as always.
Red slipped inside, phone still recording, and panned the chaos with a flourish. “Smile for the camera, motherfuckers. TMZ is gonna eat this up.”
I looked up to the altar. Darla was still there, halfway between standing and sitting, eyes locked on mine.
For a split second, the rest of the world faded out—no blood, no rage, just the two of us and the quiet knowledge that we’d burned every bridge worth crossing.
She mouthed something—I couldn’t tell if it was “run” or “stay”—but either way, I knew what I had to do.
Vin grabbed my arm. “Cops’ll be here in thirty. Time to bail.”
“Not yet,” I said, turning back to Bart. He was still on the ground, dazed but conscious. I crouched over him, voice low. “Tell Maple I’m not finished. Not by a long shot.”
He blinked, face a ruin, and nodded once. “I’ll tell him.”
We hustled out, the squad close behind. The crowd outside was even bigger now, reporters shoving mics in our faces, cops setting up a perimeter, Maple playing victim at the top of the stairs.
He spotted me, and for the first time, I saw the mask drop.
Just for a second, his face went flat, cold, utterly inhuman.
He knew he’d lost the room, and he hated it.
Vin shoved me onto my bike, then kicked his own to life. The whole squad rolled out in formation, engines drowning out the sirens, and we peeled away from the church like the hounds of hell were on our tail.
I didn’t look back, but I felt Darla’s eyes on me the whole way.
We regrouped at the old car wash, breathless and battered. Red dabbed at my split lip with a bottle of cheap bourbon. “You got fucked up, pretty boy.”
I shrugged, the pain secondary to the rush of what we’d done. “Worth it.”
Vin slapped me on the back, not gently. “You made the news. That’s what matters.”
I sank to the pavement, head spinning, and watched the sunrise through one swollen eye. For the first time in months, I felt something like hope. Not for me, but for her. For Darla, who’d stood her ground when every instinct said to run.
I pulled the ring from my neck, turned it over in my fingers, and wondered what she was thinking right now. If she still wanted out, or if she’d decided her cage was safer than the world outside.
Either way, I was coming for her.
Darla
I sat in my father’s office, hands folded in my lap, forcing my breath to slow. Outside was chaos—sirens wailing, shouting, the scraping of broken pews being dragged out of the sanctuary. Inside, it was just me and Maple, my dad, the door locked, the blinds drawn.
He paced the width of the room, stopping every so often to glare at me. No pretense now—no “my precious daughter” smile. He looked at me like a problem he hadn’t solved yet.
“Who is he to you?” he asked again, voice low, dangerous in its quiet.
I didn’t answer. I stared at the grain in the desktop, tracing its whorls with my eyes, refusing to give him what he wanted.
He slammed a fist on the desk—the sound sharp and final. “Don’t lie to me, Darla. I’ve seen the way you look at him. Is he—have you—” He spat the words he couldn’t say: “You’re my daughter. You’re not supposed to be… polluted.”
I felt a cold wash over me. Not fear, but something sharper—rage, maybe. For years, I’d let him dictate every second of my life: where to go, what to wear, who to trust. Now the leash was slipping, and he knew it.
He leaned in and grabbed my arm hard enough to bruise. “Is he using you to get to me?”
I met his eyes, steady. “No, Dad. He doesn’t care about you at all.”
It was a lie, but it landed. Dad recoiled, the blow to his pride more painful than any fist. He let go, and I cradled my arm, the skin already red and throbbing.
Down the hall, church staff moved like ghosts—voices hushed, shock rippling through the community. Deacons clustered together, clutching flyers, heads bowed in disbelief. A few women tended battered security men. Children cried in the Sunday school room, confused by the violence but not surprised.
Dad straightened, his mask sliding back into place.
“I won’t have this, Darla. I won’t let you shame me or this church.
” He stepped back, smoothing his tie in deliberate motions.
“From now on, you stay in this office until I say otherwise. You will not see him. You will not disgrace your mother’s memory. ”
I opened my mouth to protest, but his glare shut me up. “It’s for your own good,” he said—the oldest lie in the world.
He turned away, busying himself with paperwork as if that could undo the morning’s disaster. I sat numb, feeling the pulse of his grip radiate up my arm.
After a while, he left, the lock clicking behind him. I waited until his footsteps faded, then reached under my dress, my fingers finding the chain. The ring was hot against my chest, burning like a warning.
I held it tight, closed my eyes, and tried to remember Axel’s voice—the way he’d said my name on the overlook. I tried to remember what it felt like to want something so badly you didn’t care what it cost.
On the other side of the wall, Dad fielded calls—police, reporters, the bishop. He was spinning the story already, painting the Bastards as thugs and himself as the martyr. But the evidence was out there, and I knew it was only a matter of time before someone called bullshit.
I imagined Axel, face bruised but smiling, riding off into the distance, and made a promise to myself: I’d get out. One way or another.
I slipped the ring back under my collar, wiped tears from my cheeks, and waited for my chance.
Axel
The sun set slow that night, turning the sky blood-orange behind the shattered windows of Fable Christian Church. I sat on the hood of the van, watching the world go purple, a six-pack at my side and a thousand plans buzzing in my brain.
Canon limped over, handed me a roll of gauze. “You think she’s okay?”
I wrapped my hand, tight enough to hurt. “She’s tougher than she looks.”
He nodded, then went back to the others, who were already trading war stories and making bets on who’d have the most arrests by morning.
I popped a beer, took a long pull, and looked out at the city. Somewhere out there, Darla was waiting. And so was her father.
It wasn’t over. Not even close.