She Wore My Patch First

I was the first woman Cumberland Ash ever patched. I earned that kutte running loads through Knoxville for six years while my man ran the table. I paid for this clubhouse's back room with my own money and my own blood. Then Bishop put Cricket in that back room and let the whole club smell her perfume on his cut. I could have left. Every old lady in East Tennessee told me to. Instead I stayed. I kept the books. I watched the girl try on my life and fail at it, one missed load at a time. Because I knew what nobody else did: when it all broke, Bishop wouldn't call Memphis. He'd call me. And when he did, I was going to make him ask nicely.