One on a red Harley with black hair in two braids and a shotgun across her back like a purse strap. The other on a purple bike, shaved sides, grease-stained jeans, and a pistol resting openly against her thigh.
Behind them, another woman steps from the trees with a rifle. Older. Broad. Gray hair. Eyes like gravel.
I stop.
Not because I’m scared.
Because I ain’t stupid.
The woman with the rifle comes forward. “Cut the engine.”
“Not real fond of orders.”
“How ‘bout warnings? Before I put a bigger hole in your dick.”
I cut Widowmaker’s engine.
The sudden silence ain’t silence. It’s birds, wind, the ticking of hot metal, and women breathing with weapons ready.
The braided one looks me over. “Kentucky King.”
“Yeah.”
“Name?”
“Derby.”
The shaved-haired one snorts. “Like the hat?”
“Like the horses.”
“Were you born pretentious or did Kentucky do that to you?”
I stare at her.
This is going well.
The older woman steps closer. Her cut says Shortie.
“You expected?” Shortie asks.
“I’m expected by the woman I came to see, whether she knows it or not.”
Every weapon shifts a little.
Bad answer.
Shortie’s mouth curves. “Wrong place to be romantic and dumb.”
“I’m good at multitasking.”
The braided one laughs.
Shortie doesn’t.
“I’m here for Amelia and August,” I say.
“No man enters without invitation.”