He smiles just likehim. The man I tried to forget. The man who used to look at me like that, just before his hands would roam lower, just before the air in the room turned too thick to breathe. Marcus wears the same grin, the same shadow in his gaze, like hurting people is a game and I’ve already lost. And just like that, I’m not on the porch anymore—I’m thirteen again, bracing for impact.
“Well, well,” he drawls. “If it ain’t Romeo and his pretty little plus one.”
Landon doesn’t blink. “We’re here.”
“I can see that.”
His gaze settles on me again, heavier now. “You clean up alright, sweetheart.”
I feel Landon tense beside me like a live wire.
Marcus notices it too, and his grin widens. “Relax, Lanny. You brought her here, didn’t you? That makes her family.”
He steps aside, gesturing us in like it’s his house and not the gateway to hell.
“Come on in. Everyone’sdyingto meet her.” Marcus crackles, stepping aside like the devil welcoming us into his parlor.
Landon doesn’t wait—he laces our fingers together as he firmly pulls me in with him.
The inside is not what I expect. Less biker gang fortress, morecountry frat house from hell.
The living room opens up wide, ceilings high and vaulted like an overdone hunting lodge. There’s a massive TV mounted above a fireplace that looks barely used, its mantle littered with empty liquor bottles, poker chips, and one very real-looking rifle. Tapestries of the American flag, old band posters, and mounted animal heads decorate the walls in clashing chaos. There’s a fish tank in one corner with no fish, just murky water and a floating beer can.
The furniture is oversized and mismatched—brown leather couches patched with duct tape, a recliner that looks like it’s survived multiple bar fights, and a bean bag that definitely hasn’t been cleaned since the 1990s. The scent of beer, barbecue, sweat, and smoke mixes into a single overpowering funk.
Red solo cups litter the floor. A country-rock remix thuds from unseen speakers. Someone’s playing pool in the back near an old jukebox, and the walls shake every time they laugh.
Every guy we pass is dressed in some variation of “my dad owns land and a shotgun.” Boots. Leather. Ball caps. Tattoos. Silver chains over sleeveless shirts. Some of them nod at Landon. Most just stare at me like I’m the party favor no one expected but no one’s mad about.
A few girls are here too—denim shorts, too much perfume, laughing too loud. One’s perched on a guy’s lap, taking a shot while he stares at her chest like it’s on the menu.
“This way,” Landon mutters, steering me down a hall lined with crooked family photos and an array of decorated, but very clearly loaded guns.
“Dinner’s this way!” Marcus yells behind us, his voice bouncing off the wood-paneled walls. “Hope she’s hungry—we’re servingrare.”
A chorus of snickers follows. One of the guys makes a barking noise. I keep my chin up, but my stomach twists.
Landon mutters a very annoyed,fuck off,but for the most part he’s silent.
When we step into the open garage in the back of the house, the smell hits me first—thick, syrupy maple barbecue layered over smoke and meat. My stomach growls before I can help it, because of course my body doesn’t care that we’re at dinner with devils.
There aren’t any cars inside, just a wide, echoing space that’s been converted into a kind of biker banquet hall. Folding tables are lined up in rows, covered with red-checkered cloths and mismatched plates. Beer cans rattle in coolers shoved in the corners, and someone’s already halfway through a tray of ribs licking their fingers like it’s the best barbeque in Texas.
The fluorescent lights above cast a sterile yellow glow over everything, making the dried brownish-red stains on the concrete floor impossible to ignore. Landon tries to steer us toward a side table near the back, but we don’t make it two steps before two heavy hands land on our shoulders.
Marcus leans in between us like he’s parting the Red Sea, his breath a mix of nicotine and yeast from the beer.
“Nah,” he says, his voice slick with amusement. “Y’all’re sittin’ at the grown-up table tonight.” His laugh is sharp, phlegmy, and way too close to my ear. “We gotbusinessto discuss.”
Landon stiffens beside me, his jaw ticking.
I roll my eyes, plastering on a tight smile I don’t mean. “Wow, business and barbecue. Howofficial.”
Marcus cackles louder. “She’s a feisty one!”
Landon glares at me, as Marcus runs past us to the main table. I mouth ansorry,and keep my head down.
I can’t help it, Marcus is annoyingly country. And yeah, I was raised country. I know the difference between a good Southern boy and a man play acting like he’s a family-guy when he’s really running a criminal empire. He’s like a rejected extra fromThe Beverly Hillbillies,just with tattoos, a body count, and more rings than fingers.
