Page 9 of Everest

I inhale sharply, my grip tightening around the mug in my hand. The pain of that moment lingers, not just in my body but deep in my fucking soul. The resentment, the anger at the life I lost, it simmers under my skin for a few seconds.

Then, I shake it off.

That’s not my life anymore.

I’ve made peace with it.

I had to.

After that incident, my eyes were wide open. I needed a change. I was desperate for it. So, I stood in my room, staring at a map on the wall. I needed a new purpose, a fresh start in life, and it needed to be anywhere but Minnesota. I closed my eyes and threw a dart. It landed on New Orleans—a city richwith culture, music, and a promise of rebirth—so I packed what I could carry, hugged my folks, and left my hometown, seeking redemption in the Crescent City.

This is where I discovered the Kings. The brotherhood within the club filled a significant void in my life. Being part of the MC gave me a sense of purpose and belonging that I needed. Riggs and the others allowed me to be a part of something bigger than myself.

This life isn’t something that everyone can endure. It’s a path carved from the trials and tribulations we face daily. In this world, death hides in the corners while we claw for a taste of redemption. It’s a life I’ve chosen, bled for, and thrive on.

I down the rest of my coffee and don’t dwell on a past that is dead.

I let myself get stuck once.

And I won’t do it again.

The bar is packed tonight. A thick haze of smoke hangs in the air, along with the scent of whiskey and the ever-present musk of Bourbon Street. The deep thrum of Fender’s guitar growls through the speakers, his voice rough as sandpaper as he belts out an old rock classic. Like always, the crowd, especially the women, are eating it up with drinks raised, their bodies moving, and voices shouting along in drunken celebration.

I stand near the door, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room. Tonight, like most nights, I’m security. My presence alone is enough to keep most people in check, but there’s always some asshole looking to test his luck.

A couple of tourists stumble past me, one of them eyeing my cut with a mix of curiosity and caution. It’s easy to spot theoutsiders. Tourists move differently, always looking around like they expect the city to bite. Locals walk with purpose. They know which streets to avoid and where to find the best damn authentic Louisiana cuisine.

The heat inside is pressing against me, so I look across the room, locking eyes with Catcher, who is helping with crowd control tonight, and give him a chin lift, letting him know I’m stepping out for a minute. I step into the thick Louisiana air, lean against the brick wall, pull a cigarette from my pack, and light up. The first drag hits my lungs and as I glance around, the street outside is alive with neon lights and revelers, some on unsteady legs, with drinks in hand. I exhale, watching the smoke curl into the night.

Kiwi steps out, exhaling like he just walked off the battlefield. “The place is packed, and all the family is here tonight.” He rolls his shoulders. “Our women are inside raisin’ hell.” He takes a pull from his beer, then side-eyes me. “Except for London. She’s MIA.”

I take a long drag of my cigarette and flick the ash onto the pavement, keeping my face neutral, though my interest is piqued. One thing about London is that she likes to have a good time and never misses a night out with the women. But this is the third time she’s skipped out on them in the past few weeks. I glance at Kiwi, and he’s grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“Maybe she’s on a date with some suit and tie,” Kiwi quips, trying to get a rise out of me.

“Not her type,” I fire back, and Kiwi chuckles. Before he can continue to poke me, a tall woman with long blonde hair struts right up to me with a confident air that screams she’s used to getting what she wants.

“You got a name, big guy?” she purrs, running a red-painted nail down my tattooed arm.

Kiwi snorts, taking a sip of his beer as he watches.

I should be interested. Hell, a few months ago, I would have been. I wouldn’t have hesitated in taking her to my bed, burying myself in her, and letting it be nothing more than a way to take the edge off. But that was before London got under my goddamn skin. No matter how many women I have in my bed, it’s London I want. It’s her sharp tongue, her fucking fire, the way she looks at me like she’s daring me to make a move. It’s a fucking distraction I don’t want but can’t shake. And it’s pissing me off more than I care to admit.

The woman before me shifts, stepping close, waiting for an answer.

I take another drag and exhale. I gotta give it to her, she’s bold as fuck, but I’m not biting. “Not interested.”

She tilts her head, pouting. “You sure about that?” She presses her large fake tits against my abdomen. I’ve got easy pussy ripe for the taking, and my dick isn’t interested because everything about this woman is not what I crave.

I grin, slow and easy. “Pretty sure.”

She shrugs. “Your loss, big guy.” She takes the rejection and walks back to the group of women she was with.

Beside me, Kiwi damn near chokes on his drink, more for theatrics than anything. Luckily, he keeps his trap shut.

I push off the wall and head back inside. The loud bass slams into my chest as Fender starts another set, and the energy in the bar amplifies.

Then, I see him, a wiry, greasy-looking fucker in a leather jacket lingering around a back corner table, his hands moving in a way I’ve seen a thousand times before. A quick trade and a few bills are exchanged.

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