Kenny Knox is a founding member of the Horsemen. He's been with the motorcycle club since the very beginning. His Harley is an ever-present fixture in the parking lot of their usual haunt-turned-headquarters. No one really knows where he came from or why he's stuck it out so long. They just nod at him when they wander into the pizza shop, like he actually might belong.

 

He does, as far as personality is concerned. Kenny is harsh and cold with a straightforward attitude and a willingness to get anything done, no matter the cost. But as far as looks are concerned, the man lives up to his name.

 

Even now, at near ten o'clock at night, there's something strange about walking into Pizza Villa and seeing Kenny sitting there. His ring-covered fingers drum against the red laminated tabletop. His white button-up shirt is done up near to the neck, black suit jacket thrown over the back of a chair. His leather vest also rests over the back of a chair.

 

Thick coke-bottle glasses make Kenny's eyes seem too large. He watches as Matt crosses the room, ordering half a pepperoni and a bottle of beer from the front counter. The owners keep beer around just for the Horsemen. They trade away other customers for guaranteed business, for the chance to charge a bit more on every pizza.

 

“Hey,” says Kenny, in that strong English accent of his. “You got a moment, Matt?”

 

“No, I thought I'd come out here just to take off.” Matt snorts but looks around the pizza shop like he's trying to find someone else to sit with.

 

No one else is here. Kenny chased everyone out almost half an hour ago. When it becomes clear that there's no way out of it, Matt walks over and drops down in the chair opposite of Kenny. Matt asks, “What's up?”

 

“Why don't you tell me?” Kenny slides a piece of newspaper across the table. It's from the Enquirer. “What's all this about?”

 

“It's not about anything,” says Matt, pushing the paper back towards Kenny. “What the fuck, Kenny?”

 

“You see that picture?”

 

“I've seen the fucking picture.”

 

“You see how clear your face is?”

 

“Kenny, this is bullshit. My name's not on there anywhere, and I fucking know it. Even if it was, that wouldn't matter. Everyone's just up in a tizzy over those bruises.”

 

Kenny's lips draw into a thin line. He pushes the paper back towards Matt, determined to get his point across. There's a hefty amount of money in it for him, after all, and a guaranteed position at the top of the chain once the current leader of the motorcycle club, the man sitting before him, is out of the way.

 

Kenny isn't here for the rush, after all. He's not here for the roar of the bike. He's here for the power, and there's something insanely powerful about being the second-in-command of a biker group, especially considering the plans Killian is trying to put into motion. If things go right, Kenny will become one of the most powerful men, not just in Georgia, but in the whole South.

 

“That's not good,” insists Kenny. “You understand that, right?”

 

Matt snorts. He's clearly getting pissed off over the conversation. This time, rather than shove the paper back at Kenny, he grabs it and rips it in two. “It's a picture. There's nothing more to it but some backwoods reporter trying to get some extra cash.”

 

“It's going to be hell for the club.”

 

“It's not going to affect the club!”

 

“You're sleeping with a princess,” says Kenny. “You the one that knocked her up?”

 

Matt stutters. “What?”

 

Kenny sighs. “Are you the one that knocked her up?”

 

“So what if I was?”

 

“Then that's even worse. You've been in charge for a while now, buddy. We might not be into running anything, but you know how many other clubs are pissed that we've got this side of town as ours. If you don't think they aren't going to see this picture and try something, you're just fooling yourself.”

 

“No one is going to give a shit if I've shown up in some shitty picture. This whole thing's just a scam. You know that!”

 

Kenny shrugs. He folds his hands on the top of the table and leans forward. “I know what I know. Pictures are proof, Matt, and you know that. Someone's going to see that picture, and it's going to cause trouble for us. It was stupid.”

 

Matt sneers. “It was my decision. It had nothing to do with the club!”

 

“That's not how a leader talks,” says Kenny, and he's still keeping his voice level, making sure not to sound too invested in this one way or the other.

 

There's a lot at stake, after all. There's a lot being offered that Kenny isn't willing to give up.

 

Matt bristles. He sits up tall as he can. The pepperoni pizza and open can of beer is deposited at the table; the owner’s a smart guy who can read the atmosphere, and he doesn't stick around any longer than he needs to.

 

Matt spits out, “Are you challenging my decisions?”

 

“No,” says Kenny. “But a lot of our men will. You know that.”

 

“What's the point of this damn conversation?”

 

“The point is stopping a problem before it starts. You're not a fool, Matt. You know this is bad business.”

 

Matt, this time, doesn't protest. He's watching Kenny from weary, half-narrowed eyes. “So what?”

 

“So we need to get a handle on it before the others come in here spitting whiskey flames,” says Kenny. “You need to figure out what you're going to do about this.”

 

“I'm not going to do anything about it. This is no one's business but mine, you hear?”

 

“You got a royal whore you're fucking on the side and a royal kid on the way. Everyone in the fucking country's seen your face next to hers. If they don't try something because of who you are—”

 

“I'm not anyone!”

 

“—then they're going to try something because of who she is,” finishes Kenny. He's quiet for a moment, just long enough to let that settle in Matt's mind, and then he says, “I think you should resign.”

 

Matt balks at the sentence. “What?”

 

“I think you should resign,” repeats Kenny. “This club, it ain't good for a kid, and it ain't good for a princess. And you ain't good for this club, Matt. Look at what you've done, putting your face out there.”

 

Matt stands up, fast enough that the chair threatens to topple over. He slams both hands down on the table. The beer tips, spilling carbonated amber out across the table. “Fuck you, Kenny. I'm not resigning just because I fucked a girl.”

 

Kenny's eyes narrow. “Is that all it was?”

 

“Of course,” says Matt.

 

Kenny says, “That's not how it looks. She's been pregnant for a while. I saw it on the news. Fuck, Matt, we all have. She's been pregnant for weeks, and you already said you're the one that knocked her up. That means this picture isn't a one-time thing. You've been with her before.”

 

“I'm not resigning,” spits Matt. “And you can just fuck off.”

 

The president of the Horsemen storms out without another word. Kenny leans back in his chair. He pulls out his phone and pulls up Killian's number. “Okay,” he writes. “I brought it up.”

 

Killian doesn't text back, but Kenny knows the message went through just fine.