Page 9 of Property of Legend

But I wasn’t allowed to see him ever again.And I never did, not on purpose.

Not until the summer I turned eighteen and caught him stealing a horse.

I stand, brush dirt off my knees, and look toward the horizon.

From here, I can see the rolling green hills of Paradise Falls, stretching out like a dream.It used to be the prettiest farm in the state.Now it’s bleeding.Like the foal.

Like me.

Workers gather around the gate, waiting for orders.I steel myself.

“Get this cleaned up,” I tell them.“And lock the gates tonight.I want double patrols.”

“But the gates are electric.”

“Then we use chains and locks,” I snap.“No one comes in or out without me knowing.Not even Goddamn ghosts.”

They nod, moving to obey.

I walk back toward the house, boots caked in blood and dirt, and think about that boy who never came back to the stables.The one who left me waiting, heart full of fire.

The one who became a legend.

If he were here now, what would he say about this?About the dead foal?About the fact that I’m running a farm full of secrets, debts, and maybe monsters?

Would he believe me?

Would he fight for me?

Or would he walk away again?

I’m not sure which would hurt worse.

My heart doesn’t matter.All that matters is the farm.I call Gibbs over, get a message to Hell.

Chapter 5

Legend

Welcome to Hell, Kentucky, but the locals mostly call it Heck.It used to be a paper town, nothin’ but a whisper on a land deed, ‘til my old man rolled back into Paradise County on a Harley with a vendetta and a bottle of bourbon.Now it’s an incorporated city alongside the city of Paradise.Yeah, the man they used to call Legendary Mike, a road dog turned wrestling champ, turned ghost, turned outlaw again, raised Hell for real.

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.

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