Page 19

The roar of the crowd’s a low rumble, like thunder rollin’ in over Paradise County.

Hell’s backyard wrestling night is in full swing, and every soul with a switchblade is here to see someone bleed.

We’re posted up on rusted bleachers welded to an old cattle auction barn.

The ring ain’t much, ropes frayin’, canvas stained, but the energy? Pure anarchy.

I clock every face. That’s the job. After the shit that went down at the track, I got my radar set to kill mode. One twitch wrong and somebody’s losin’ teeth.

Sophie slips back into her seat beside me, carryin’ two Styrofoam bowls of burgoo like it’s Sunday supper. She hands one to me, fingers brushin’ mine, and I damn near forget how to breathe.

“Got you some,” she says, cheeks a little flushed. “It’s hot.”

I look down at the mess, meat, corn, lima beans, a little okra. Real Kentucky stew. Made from whatever didn’t make it across the road.

I smirk. “Burgoo, huh? That’s one way to say you love a man.”

She snorts. “Don’t push it.”

She’s dressed down tonight, cutoff shorts, a plain blue tank, and an old UK ball cap turned backward. Her boots are scuffed, and there’s a little smear of sauce on her cheek. She’s the most beautiful damn thing I’ve ever seen. All fire and grit, sittin’ cross-legged like a gremlin beside me.

At 4'11", she looks like she could fit in my damn pocket. I’m nearly six foot and built like a battering ram. When we walk side by side, people look twice. We don’t make sense on paper.

But hell, if I don’t feel whole with her next to me.

"You keep lookin' at me like that, someone's gonna think you're about to propose," she says without lookin' up from her spoon.

I chuckle low. “You’d say no.”

“I’d say hell no,” she fires back, sweet as sassafras.

I lean in. “You know, you’re startin’ to look like you belong here.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Here? With you and the ‘Property Of’ crew?” She jerks her chin toward the group of women watchin’ ringside.

One’s got “Property of Vandal” patched across her back and a wicked smile.

That’s Janie, she works at the county clerk’s office up in Official.

What we call the other side of Paradise.

The other’s Tiffani, young, but sharp as a tack.

She's got a “Property of Rye” cut and delivers Sophie’s damn mail every week.

Both of ’em nod when they see Sophie, like old friends catchin’ up at the Piggly Wiggly.

“It’s like that cult you crawled out of.”

My jaw ticks. “This ain’t a cult, darlin’.”

“If it walks like a duck...”

“Pearl Gates was a prison,” I say low, “This? The Kings? We’re rough. We’re lawless. But we respect our women.”

She stares at the ring where a guy named Roadkill is gettin’ suplexed onto a table full of beer cans. The ring girls are flashing their tits. “Doesn’t look like respect.”

“That ain’t our ol’ ladies. That’s just club bunnies havin’ fun. All of it’s consensual. Nobody's forced into shit.” I set the burgoo down, look her dead in the eye. “And this thing between us? Ain’t about ownin’. Not like you think.”

She sighs. “Legend… no matter how you make me feel, I could never wear one of those vests. Being someone’s property? That’s not me.”

I nod. “Didn’t say it was. But you callin’ it the same as the shit your Reverend used to preach? That burns.”

She winces, but I keep my voice steady.

“We don’t bow to no preacher. We don’t answer to the law. And yeah, we work with some folks who walk on the darker side of the tracks. You knew that when you hired us.”

Her gaze sharpens. “I hired y’all for protection. That’s it.”

“Then why the hell does it feel like more?”

“Because you make it more,” she snaps, standing halfway, then sitting again, like she doesn’t know where to run.

I sigh. “You paid Royal, right?”

“Handsomely.”

“Well, I ain’t takin’ your damn money.”

She blinks. “What?”

“I’m protectin’ you ‘cause I want to. ‘Cause it’s you. ”

She opens her mouth.

“And I’ll donate every cent you paid Royal to the church in Official,” I add, cutting her off. “Let Lex put it toward the food bank. Let it go to somethin’ good.”

Her lips part, then press together like she don’t know whether to scream or kiss me.

And just when the tension’s ready to snap like barbed wire in a thunderstorm, the crowd explodes.

“Mayor McCoy’s up next!” somebody shouts.

Sophie blinks. “The dog?”

I grin. “Yup.”

The golden retriever mix lopes into the ring with a bandana tied ‘round his neck that says “MAYOR.” The place loses its collective damn mind.

She’s doubled over, laughing now. “How’s that good boy gonna fight someone?”

“He shut down that puppy mill with his dick.” I say, puffin’ out my chest. “And he’s a hell of a wrestler. Watch him take down Biscuits and Gravy,” I point to the colt mascot from Paradise High who entered the ring.

Derby’s on the mic, voice boomin’ like he’s runnin’ the damn State Fair.

“Ladies and gentlemen, hold onto your cornbread! In this corner, wearin’ blue fur and poor life choices, we got Biscuits and Gravy, the Paradise High mascot with more enthusiasm than brain cells!

And in the opposite corner, the reigning, tail-waggin’, treat-beggin’, puppy-mill-ruinin’ Mayor of Hell, the one, the only, McCoy! ”

Derby paces the edge of the ring like he’s callin’ a horse race. “Mayor’s sniffin’ for weakness. Oh! He’s circlin’! He’s droolin’! He’s… Lord help us… he’s humpin’ the leg! That’s a dominance play, folks!”

The crowd howls while the dog flops his paws on the mascot and gives him one big sloppy lick.

“And Biscuits is down! Somebody call the vet, we got fur-flyin’ carnage out here!”

Just when the crowd starts chantin’ “MAY-OR, MAY-OR,” the lights flicker and Derby lets out a mock gasp.

“What’s this? Could it be? From the shadows of Hell itself. He’s six-foot-four, dressed like your sleep paralysis demon, and carries more unpaid parking tickets in the Ville than moral fiber… It’s the Grim Reaper! ”

Fog rolls in low like someone’s clearly got a vape goin’ overtime, and Royal steps into the ring cloaked in black with a plastic scythe slung across his shoulder like it’s a damn broadsword.

“Death has come for Paradise High,” Derby bellows, nearly choking on his own laughter.

Royal lifts the limp mascot like a sack of potatoes, throws him over his shoulder, and parades him outta the ring while McCoy gets a standing ovation and a Milk-Bone from one of the ol’ ladies.

Hell, I think someone’s got tears in their eyes. Sophie’s about to pass out from laughin’.

Sophie wipes her eye, gasping. “I swear, you bikers…”

“You hired us for our rep,” I say, leaning closer. “But this? This is the Kingdom. Lawless, weird, deadly when it counts. And you’re part of it now, whether you like it or not… Or you could sell the farm…”

She doesn’t answer.

But she don’t move away, either.

And when her fingers brush mine again, I don’t let go.