Page 5

When I was eighteen, I swore I’d leave and never come back to Paradise. Not after what happened. Not after the whispers, the blame, the preacher who took me in just to mold me into his own brand of holy soldier.

But when my father found me, told me we were takin’ over the map, not just Hell but the whole damn county, I didn’t hesitate.

We turned the old, abandoned courthouse into a wrestling ring, the jailhouse into our clubhouse, and Hell into a home for the Kings of Anarchy MC, Kentucky, chapter.

It was meant to spit in the face of the reverend and his Pearly Gates community up the road.

A God-fearin’ doomsday commune built on fear, fire, and control.

And right smack dab in the middle of all that?

Paradise Falls. Sophie Montgomery’s family farm.

The only slice of land still holdin’ out between hell and holy war.

Our clubhouse sits in that old red-brick jail. Cracked windows, iron bars, patched roof, and history that don’t sleep easy. This mornin’ I’m standin’ in front of the cracked mirror in my room, slidin’ on my cut, patches worn and earned.

Church is in ten, and the Mayor's already curled up in the seat at the head of the table.

Mayor McCoy, a golden retriever mix who got voted in after a write-in campaign by the town drunk.

Hell, we even got a plaque made. That dog shows up more sober than most elected officials in Kentucky, and he keeps the peace better too.

I comb my hair back, scrape the stubble off my jaw, and light a cigarette.

In the main hall, Oaks is leanin’ over the map, Derby’s already arguin’ with Rye over racetrack logistics, dreaming again, and Royal, our black-clad, eyeliner wearin’, poetry-speakin’ secretary, is drinkin’ coffee so strong it smells like vengeance.

This club, it ain’t just a home. It’s blood.

It's bruises. It’s a family you choose after the one you’re born into turns their back.

And now I’m the president. Legendary Mike’s dead, took a steel chair to the neck in the ring at fifty-four, tryin’ to prove he still had it.

Left me his boots, his belt, proclaiming his name, and a whole damn legacy to carry.

Every summer, we ride out west to Anarchy, California, for the national rally.

But Hell is ours. We own the bars, the roads, and the respect of every outlaw who rides past the faded sign on the edge of town.

We’re feared, revered, and barely legal.

Our pride and joy? The local bourbon bar we rebuilt from the ground up.

We call it The Fire Pit. Ain’t no better place to pour a shot, settle a score, or start a war.

And today, we got church.

I walk in as Lex, our chaplain, starts things off with a shot of bourbon and a blessin’ none of us take too serious. Though Royal bows his head like he might actually believe, even if he looks more like a resident of Hell than the rest of us.

The brothers settle in, Bullet, Vandal, Whiskey, Wildcat, Holler, Bluff, Ash. Our prospects, Kernel, Whip, Critter, are posted at the doors.

“First order of business,” I say, noddin’ to Oaks, who steps forward with a file in hand. “Paradise Falls?”

That name hits me like a hammer to the ribs.

“Sophie Montgomery’s people reached out,” Oaks says. “They got threats. Her daddy’s dyin’, the Derby’s comin’, and they think trouble’s knockin’.”

The room stills. Nobody breathes.

I suck in a long drag of my smoke. “Ain’t been back there in over a decade.”

“You think it’s the reverend?” Rye asks. “Or somethin’ darker?”

I meet Royal’s eyes. The man’s always read between the lines.

“Could be anyone,” I say. “But if someone’s messin’ with Sophie, they’ll find out real quick, Hell’s not just a place. It’s a promise.”

Oaks nods. “Then we ride tomorrow. Paradise Falls.”

“Ride? Hell, we could walk next door,” Holler quips as my hand tightens on the gavel.

“Nobody fucks with the Kings,” we all chant in unison as the gavel lands.

Time to go back to the girl I left behind, the ghosts I tried to forget, and the land where everything I am was born in blood, bourbon, and one bad night.