Page 28 of 12 Months of Mayhem

“Time to move!” I shout, grabbing her arm, ready to make our escape.

But she shakes me off, gives me a two-fingered wave, and tucks the college kid who started this whole damn thing under her arm before making off into the night.

“Time to go, Prez,” says Tracker as he shoves me through a door. “Keep going, Whiskey. I’ll keep them busy while you make your escape.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he slams the door shut, cutting off any argument I could throw his way. The sounds of chaos fade as I find myself in a narrow hallway, dimly lit and filled with the scent of spilled beer and smoke. It’s our escape hatch for emergencies, but we haven’t used it in years.

Leaving my men behind isn’t something I’d usually do, but it’s St. Patrick’s Day. I know they’ll be fine as long as no one gets killed in this brawl. They’ll spend the night in the drunk tank and be out by morning.

I stride down the hallway, my heart racing, the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. The image of that woman and how she fought with a wild intensity that captivated and unnerved me swirls around in my brain as though it’s on a loop. I make my way toward the back exit, where the sounds of the bar blend into the distant sirens of approaching cops.

Just as I step outside, the cool night air hits me like a slap in the face. I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head. That’s when I hear a voice behind me.

“Whiskey Mick, huh?” Her voice is low and teasing. She’s leaning against the wall, the college kid slumped beside her, looking dazed but intact. “You really left your boys hanging for me?”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t seem too eager to leave me to the wolves back there,” she replies, her eyes glinting with mischief.

“Not a chance. Besides, I don’t leave my brothers behind, but they can handle themselves for a night.” I take a step closer, feeling the heat radiating between us. “What now?”

She tilts her head, her lips curving into a sly smile. “You look out for your men, huh?”

“I do.”

“I’m the same with my brother.”

“The same how?”

She shrugs, her green eyes bright with humor. “I keep him out of trouble when I can, but if he’s determined to dive headfirst into chaos, who am I to stop him?”

“S-sis?” The kid stirs, his voice groggy as he clings to her for balance.

Her gaze flicks to him before settling back on me. “Come on, Simon, let’s get you home.” She guides him away, then glances over her shoulder, her smirk growing wicked. “Until next time, Whiskey Mick.”

“Wait! I don’t know your name.”

With a wink, she props up her brother again and turns away. “You will… one day.”

Chapter Two

It’s been a month since St. Patrick’s Day. The brawl at my bar landed me with a hefty fine for overcrowding, and a few of my men got hauled in on old warrants. Typical. We’ll handle it, though. We always do. The legal side of things is just another bump in the road, and there is nothing we can’t smooth over with enough time and cash.

Outside, the air still carries a cool, crisp edge, spring clinging on, but there’s a warmth building, like summer is hovering just out of reach, ready to break through any day now.

I’m heading downtown, weaving through traffic, on my way to a meeting with a promotional company. I need to sort out getting a regular band to play at the bar. Normally, we’d throw up a sign, word would spread, and someone always knows a guy in a band who’s looking for a gig. But after the last three acts bombed—full-on disasters—I’m not taking any chances. I’ve had enough of shitty music that gets the crowd riled up in the worst way. The last thing I need is my bar torn up again because some tone-deaf wannabes can’t hold the room together.

Pulling off the road, I kick out the bike stand and kill the engine. The instant the Harley quiets, the sharp sound of an argument cuts through the air.

“Fuck you, Tony!” a woman with long dark hair yells at a guy.

“Be fucking reasonable. It’s a job. You told me to get a job, and I did!” He throws his hands up in the air.

The last thing I want or need is to get in the middle of an argument between a guy and his old lady. Still, my curiosity gets the better of me. I swing off the bike and walk toward them, keeping a bit of distance. The tension between them is thick enough to choke on, and I’m not eager to become a target for either of them. From where I stand, I can see the guy’s jaw clench while the woman’s hands ball into fists. “You call playing some shitty bar a job?”

“You think you can do better, princess? Well, have at it. I quit!”

Glancing up, I see her standing there, hands on her hips, but his words stop her cold. She’s staring down at the pavement, shaking her head, lips moving like she’s saying something under her breath. From here, I can’t make out what she’s saying, but I sure as hell see the guy throw his hands in the air, glance up at the sky, and then clench his fist.

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