Page 18 of Property of Legend

It’s in one of those old brick buildings folks used to say was cursed.We just cursed it harder.Now it pulls in tourists, outlaws, racers, and runaways from Lexington to Louisville.Our biggest moneymaker, and more important, it’s neutral ground.

Or it’s supposed to be.

But the Kings don’t follow any rules.Anarchy is king in this club.I’m just the asshole charged with sorting out the aftermath of the shitstorm my boys bring.

Oaks and Royal walk in with me, shoulders squared, eyes sharp.Bullet’s already at the bar, arms crossed, that look on his face like he’s just beggin’ for somebody to be stupid.My Enforcer, he went in first.Derby and Rye fan out into the shadows, ears open, hands close to steel.

Then I see him.

Knuckles.

Cocky motherfucker from the Depraved Sinners MC.Same greasy mullet, same shit-eating grin.He’s not wearin’ his cut.He knows better, but he don’t have to.Everyone in here can smell a rat even if it’s bathed in cologne.

“Holy hell,” Oaks mutters.“That bastard still stuck in the ‘80s?”

“Looks like Bon Jovi had a baby with roadkill,” I mutter back.“Let’s see what he’s sniffin’ around for.”

I move through the crowd, slow and mean.When I stop in front of him, his chair squeaks like it’s got regrets.

“Knuckles,” I say real cold.“Didn’t know they weren’t taken the trash out tonight.”

He grins, full of rotten teeth.“Legend.You chasin’ that monster?I thought you learned your lesson last time.”

That laugh in his throat’s about half a second from gettin’ knocked clean out of his windpipe.

I step closer, boots scraping the old wooden floor.“Careful what you say, Knuckles.You’re about to find out how much of your face is optional.”

He stands up fast, knocking his chair back.“Maybe I just wanna see if the son fights like the daddy.”

I stare him down, fire already burnin’ through my blood.“You wanna dance with a man who walked outta the woods covered in blood and holdin’ a knife while something goddamn primal screamed behind him?Go ahead.I don’t flinch.”

He scoffs.“You still peddlin’ that Bigfoot bullshit?You didn’t fight nothin’ but a bottle and your own shadow.”

Before I can answer, Royal steps up behind me, voice like smoke and death.“Wasn’t bigfoot.Prez fought off a creature that ripped a thousand-pound thoroughbred clean in two.You ever seen a man come back from that?He did.Alone.Since that night, he’s never lost a fight.Not in the ring.Not on the road.Not in this life.”

The whole bar goes still.Knuckles blinks.His bravado’s drainin’ faster than cheap liquor.

Spitting on the floor, he says, “Next time, Legend.”

I nod once.“Yeah.Next time.Run back to Swagger.”

He backs off, tail tucked under all that denim.

Oaks leans in low.“You think they’re the ones behind the threats?”

“Maybe.Or maybe they’re just sniffin’ for weakness,” I mutter.They’ve been eyeing our territory for a while.“Either way, they’ll find steel.”

Cornbread ambles out of the bar, arms thick as tree trunks, carrying two beers like they’re juice boxes.He’s built like a damn refrigerator.He sets one down in front of me and eases into the chair beside mine like gravity’s got a vendetta against him.

“You hear anyone threatening the Montgomerys?”I ask him point blank.Got to be clear with him.It’s not that he’s slow, exactly.He’s just big and words take a minute to get from his ears to his brain.

He leans forward, elbows on knees.“About Paradise Falls?”

I nod, eyes on the fire.“See anything suspicious?”

Cornbread shakes his head.“Nothin’.”

I grunt.“Somethin’s off.Sophie’s wouldn’t call unless it’s dire.”

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