Jack (The Kings of Mayhem MC Tennessee 1)

He doesn’t drink or do drugs.

His addiction is his body art. It’s what soothes the ache he feels over the loss of his career.

Once, I asked him why he never drank, and he told me, “I’ve seen the insides of men who’ve died from drink. You dissect a liver hardened by cirrhosis, and you’d never touch a drop of liquor again.”

Ironic, really, he belongs to a club of bootleggers and weed dealers.

But with him it’s a tradeoff because even though we’re moonshiners and cannabis growers, when he became a King, it opened the door for him to practice medicine again. Illegally, of course, but then, we’re used to operating on the wrong side of the law. It’s also where the people who fall through the cracks exist too, and a lot of those forgotten people are in desperate need of medical assistance.

During this ride, Doc has treated everything from sprains and skin infections to tooth pain, influenza, hypertension, diabetes, and one drunk, ninety-two-year-old moonshiner with a week-old break in his wrist.

Sometimes we all accompany Doc to see his patients, but usually, it’s only Dakota Joe who goes with him. While we visited the farmers who grew our crops, they disappeared onto the next off-the-map town to see the next off-the-grid patient.

Although for the time being, it’s behind us.

Finally, we’re headed for home.

To Flintlock, Tennessee.

The forgotten town.

Home.

Nestled in the base of the Appalachian Mountains, it’s as breathtaking as it is filled with hopelessness and poverty.

Once upon a time, it had been a thriving mini-metropolis of prosperity and good fortune thanks to the abundance of coal beneath the ground. Now, it’s a town trying to claw its way out of a collapsed industry that’s left us broke, rundown, and struggling to make ends meet.

Rosanna used to say Flintlock is where dreams came to die, but it’s all I’ve ever known. I was born here. Grew up here. Got married here, and by the time I was sixteen, became a father here.

Flintlock is still a three-hour ride away, and my Kings of Mayhem brothers are tired and in need of some good food and good fucking. It’s time to stop for the night.

Up ahead, the sky boils with dark rain clouds. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it to The House of Sin before it starts to rain. In the deepening gloom, the welcoming lights of the little brothel glow in the windows, beckoning to us like a lighthouse in a storm. We always stop here when we’re in this part of Appalachia. It’s a welcomed break from two weeks of living rough and riding hard.

With a flick of my wrist, I push my Harley faster, keen to arrive dry. As soon as we pull up and climb the stairs of the Victorian mansion, the red door opens, and a beautiful redhead greets us with a dazzling smile. Antoinette. The most beautiful damn madam that ever there was. Red hair, the color of rubies. Tiny waist. Wicked smile. Eyes like sunlight on water filling with sparkle the moment they settle on me.

The boys let out a holler of appreciation as they enter the old home where they’re quickly greeted by good-looking girls with loving arms and a body only too pleased to pleasure and nurture them for the night. My brothers deserve it.

Antoinette always keeps the brothel exclusively for us when we ride into town.

She gives me a wink. “You boys look like you could do with some good ol’ mountain hospitality.”

She isn’t wrong.

While my club brothers, Venom, Paw, Wyatt, and Gambit disappear upstairs with one or two of Antoinette’s girls each, I hang back with Antoinette as she locks up for the evening.

Doc and Dakota Joe continued on ahead in the ambulance. Doc isn’t one for the type of mountain hospitality Antoinette is talking about, and that same hospitality would get Dakota Joe’s balls cut off by his wife of twenty-nine years if he stayed.

But for me, a night with Antoinette is exactly what I need.

My body aches for the release and my mind even more so.

I watch as she locks the front door and switches off the porch light before turning back to me. “Are you ready?” she asks seductively.

I’m more than ready. “For you, always.”

Taking me by the hand, she leads me up the stairs to her bedroom. Once inside, she peels my cut from my shoulders and lifts my sweatshirt over my head, her soft hands sweeping over my body. Her touch is more nurturing than sexual, more comforting than seductive, and is exactly what I crave.

Comfort.

Peace.

A respite from a trying couple of weeks and an exhausted mind.

“I’m going to take good care of you tonight, Jack.” Her voice is as smooth as Tennessee whiskey as she undoes my belt and lowers the zipper of my jeans. “Give you whatever you need.” Her hands drift upward, her fingers whispering across my abs as she takes off my T-shirt. Every touch is purposeful, every caress of her fingers meant to relax and calm the anxiety in my taut body. We’ve done this dance enough times for her to know exactly what I need.