Page 72 of On The Rocks

I felt a muscle tic in my jaw.

Motherfucker.

Pagan’s eyes caught on something over my shoulder. “Yo! Cru!” he bellowed. “Get your ass over here.”

I turned to see a tall, blond guy saunter over, his eyes glued to Tristan. “Howdy,” he called out in a thick Southern accent.

“Hallelujah,” I heard Tristan mutter. “Thank you, Jesus.”

“This is Cruise, my tail gunner,” Pagan announced.

The dude dipped his chin in greeting. “Welcome. Heard all about the infamous Speed Demons.”

Atlas jerked his head in reply.

Cruise’s gaze stayed fixated on Tristan. “Hey. You part of their club?”

Tristan cocked his head. “No, but I’m a friend of the family. I’m Tristan. Hambleton’s salon owner and certified hair genius.” He extended his hand for the other guy to take.

Cruise clasped it in his. “Wanna get a drink at the bar?”

Tristan beamed, replying, “I’d love to,” before being pulled through the crowds and craning his neck to give us big eyes as he went.

“Oh my God,” Maeve murmured. “This place is totally awesome.” As she said the words, the lights dimmed, and the music faded as three beams shone toward the stage where Carbine and his band stood in a huddle.

The dull roar went up, and a smattering of applause filtered through the crowd of people.

“Hey,” Carbine’s deep, raspy voice echoed through the microphone. “The Kings of Anarchy wish you all a good evening and wanna welcome every one of you to their new clubhouse.”

Shouts and catcalls filled the air as the crowd bellowed their excitement.

“Lemme introduce you to the band,” he continued. “Meet Styx, Blue, Griff, and Jax, I’m Carbine, aka Noah, but you know us better as... Dischordium.”

My pulse raced as I heard the drummer beat his sticks together three times before a familiar beat thundered through the room, and Blue, the lead guitarist, began to play the opening riff to “Walk This Way” by Run DMC and Aerosmith.

The crowd went wild. Bellows and shouts filled the ether, along with the pulsing energy, and the entire room slowly began to move in time to the music.

I was no dancer, but the thudding bassline was so forceful I could feel it reverberating through my chest, and even my foot began to tap in time to it.

Kennedy made the girls put their drinks down, grabbed Maeve’s hand, and pulled her and Sophie toward the swaying crowd to dance.

My heart jolted in panic, only settling when my woman glanced over her shoulder and smiled at me reassuringly.

It was like she was tuned into me. I didn’t like her away from my side in this kind of place. Maeve was innocent and wasn’t used to biker parties. To my relief, the girls didn’t move more than ten feet away, and I relaxed slightly and settled in to watch Noah come in singing the first verse, backed up by the lead guitarist, Blue.

Noah’s raspy, soulful voice hit me through the speakers, causing something inside my chest to contract. He felt every lyric he sang, and he made every person listening feel it, too. It was like the atmosphere in the room lifted along with every word.

“They’re amazing,” Donovan shouted in my ear. “They haven’t missed a note. It’s like they’ve been playing together for twenty years.”

Dischordium had formed after Styx and Carbine met in an open mic night at a bar. Griff was Styx’s buddy, who knew Jax through another friend. Then they saw Blue playing with a band in a bar in Greeley, Colorado, and poached him. Since then, they’d gone from strength to strength. They were sought afterand played all over Wyoming and beyond. The fact they were gonna play regularly at the Shamrock was a huge deal, and it didn’t escape me what a solid Maeve had done for my ass.

I studied how Blue’s fingers traveled effortlessly over the strings and frets of his guitar and couldn’t help myself from grinning at the pure magic they were making. “Yeah. They’ve got something special, alright.”

Donny’s shoulder nudged mine. “They’ll pack the Shamrock out next Saturday. Maybe I better get a few extra boys in for security.”

I looked around the clubhouse, taking in how crowded it had become.

Pairs of KOA men were dotted around randomly, drinking and taking in the shenanigans, but I also noticed how they were all placed exactly where they needed to be. I realized then this was no tinpot set up. These men were organized; they knew their business, and they meant business. Pagan may have looked like a fucking hooligan, but it was becoming clear how switched on he really was. These fuckers were a force to be reckoned with, and it hit home that Bowie was right about something.

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