Jack (The Kings of Mayhem MC Tennessee 1)

“Bronte is back.”

Her eyebrows lift and her glossy lips break into a smile. She’s all white teeth and pink lipstick. “She is? Well, that’s fantastic news. She come back for your party?”

I pull a face.

My party.

Don’t remind me about the goddamn party. It’s the last thing I want.

My sister has gotten it into her head to throw me one for my fortieth birthday on Saturday, despite me begging her not to. Because no one tells my sister no. Even the president of a damn motorcycle club.

“Don’t remind me about it.” I grimace. “But no, she’s not here for the party. Don’t think she even knows about it.”

“She back for good then?”

“Not sure. Didn’t get much out of her. She drove through the night to land on her grandma’s doorstep about a couple of hours ago.”

Dolly puts her hands on her hips. “Oh, Lord.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’ve got that look about you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She cocks her head and her eyes sparkle over my face. “You’re worried about her.”

“Don’t I worry about everyone?”

She smiles. “True.”

I push off the bar. “Anyway, I’ll make sure she drops by before she heads back to Nashville.”

“You do that because that girl is as sweet as pie, and I sure do miss seeing her sunny face around the place.”

The crashing sound of beer bottles smashing against concrete grabs both our attention. We both look over to see TJ has dropped an entire case of beer onto the floor.

“Lord give me strength,” Dolly says with another eye roll, then she walks away to handle the mess.

I leave them behind and head for the chapel. It’s already full of my Kings of Mayhem brothers when I stride in and take my place at the head of the long table.

There are twenty-one of us in the Tennessee Chapter—nineteen fully patched members and two prospects.

The prospects aren’t welcome in church. Not until they’re fully patched.

Right about now, Dolly will have one of them helping TJ clean up the mess behind the bar. While the other prospect will be assisting our maintenance man, Luther, fixing something in the clubhouse.

Today we’re meeting to discuss two things—our cannabis crops and a psychopath.

After thirty years of bootlegging our King’s Pride moonshine up and down the Appalachian trail, ten years ago we went legit. Got ourselves a legal setup to make the white lightning we are known for. About the same time, we expanded our interests into cannabis crops, and for more than a decade have grown crops across several Christmas tree farms throughout Appalachia.

This year, we have increased the crops from ten thousand plants to more than fifty thousand, making the upcoming summer harvest the biggest one yet. In less than a month, it’s going to be all hands on deck for picking.

“Everything in place?” I ask Bam, who’s overseeing the harvest.

Bam is the eldest of my twin sons.

“All farmers are onboard,” he says. “And we currently have a crop value around eight million.”

An appreciative murmur fills the room.

“Is security in place? I ask. “Or do we need to bring Bull and our Mississippi brothers in to help?”

A rival club, the Appalachian Inferno, has been causing trouble with the crop. They’re a much smaller club, more like a backwoods cult run by a man called Max Stonecypher, who has numerous wives and a lot of henchmen. Their trade is hillbilly heroin, something the Kings of Mayhem keep as far away from as possible. But lately, they’ve been dabbling in the weed market, and that isn’t going down well and won’t stick with me. There is also a concern they might fuck with the upcoming harvest.

“I’ve got the mayhem army in place,” Wyatt says.

The mayhem army is a nickname for a group of locals trained in security. A handful of men and women who probably shouldn’t have weapons but who are loyal to the club and will do anything for us if the pay is right. They’re a small group, but they’re trustworthy. So, if the Appalachian Inferno decide to fuck with our harvest, we’ll have the manpower to stomp them into next week.

Next on the agenda is the psychopath.

I send a photograph around the table. It’s of a man called TomTom. A low-life parasite lurking in the shadow of the state’s underbelly. He moves about in a dark world doing the dirty work for those who don’t want to get their hands dirty. Sometimes, he gets paid for it. Other times, he does it for fun.

“According to a reliable source, this guy is a known associate of Ghost. Been riding with him until he was picked up by law enforcement last week.”

“What was he arrested for?” Shooter, my best friend and VP, asks.

I’ve known Shooter since elementary school. We joined the club as prospects together. He was the best man at my wedding and helped pull me out of the depth of the bottle following Cooper’s death.