Page 37 of 12 Months of Mayhem

“Three days? What’s the rush?”

“It’s a battle of the bands, televised on national TV.” She looks down at the card, her fingers brushing it as though it’s magic itself. “Randy Andrews, head of Star Records, promised we’d get the deal no matter what. But if we play this show, the exposure will put us on the map. This is our shot to really get our name out there.”

“To the world,” George says, slapping his hands together like he’s sealing the deal.

The way Brandy’s whole face lights up tells me everything. She’s all in, head and heart, and there’s no room left for hesitation.

“When are you leaving?” I ask, swallowing down the ache in my throat.

“Tonight.” She’s bouncing on her toes, too thrilled to stand still. Her hands cup my face, pulling me into a hard, fast kiss. “We’re going to hit the big time, Whiskey!”

My hands settle on her waist, trying to keep her grounded for just a second more, but she’s already gone. Her energy, mind, and dreams are halfway to LA.

“Guess I’ll be seeing you on the TV, then?”

Her grin is wild and radiant. “Can you believe it?” She twists out of my hold, already turning to gather her bandmates. “Guys, let’s get this show on the road!”

George gives me a nod before she links her arm through his, and just like that, they’re heading back toward their bus, laughter echoing in their wake. Not a single backward glance.

“That was cold,” Gamble murmurs as he sidles up beside me, his hands tucked in his pockets.

“She’s a free spirit. It was never going to work.” My voice sounds casual, but my chest feels hollow.

Gamble shrugs, a hint of a smirk on his face. “Maybe, maybe not, but that’s the happiest I’ve seen you in ages.”

I huff out a laugh, staring at the empty space she left behind. “You hungry?”

Gamble nods. “Yeah, I could eat.”

As we head toward the diner, I feel an unfamiliar ache in my chest—the mix of pride and loss twisting together in a way only Brandy could leave behind. She’s chasing her dream, and somehow, I’m still here, walking back into a night that feels colder than it did just minutes ago.

Chapter Six

The bar is packed tonight, thick with the scent of spilled beer and stale cologne. Some drunk at the far end belts out a slurred version of “Jingle Bells,” his voice competing with the low rumble of voices and clinking glasses. Near the center of the bar is a group of rowdy guys crowding around the new waitress, their hands drifting just a little too far. It’s time to put a stop to that nonsense.

I let out a sharp, piercing whistle, cutting through the noise like a knife.Instantly, every MC member in the bar turns to look at me, and I give a quick nod toward the new waitress. Her eyes go wide when she catches sight of the guys moving to back her up, and she shakes her head, mouthing, I’ve got it.

Names aren’t my strong suit. With the constant turnover, waitresses and bar staff come and go like clockwork. Mindy? Maybe Mandy? The name eludes me as one man rests a hand on her backside. She mutters something under her breath, her eyes flashing, and he holds up his hands like he’s innocent. But when he looks over at me, his expression changes, and he knows better than to push his luck. He shares a look with his buddies and, one by one, they toss money on the table, muttering as they head out.

Maybe it’s Molly? Whatever her name is, she snatches up the crumpled bills, stacking them in her hand before returning to the bar. She brushes past me, holding her head high, chin tipped up.

“I had it under control,” she says, her voice carrying a hint of defiance.

“Maybe you did, but listen…” I lower my voice, making sure she hears me over the hum of the crowd. “No one puts hands on you unless you want it. Got it?”

She meets my gaze, something defiant still flickering in her eyes, but there’s a glimmer of relief there too. “Yeah, got it.” Then, after a beat, she smirks. “But don’t go thinking I can’t handle myself.”

I chuckle, giving her a nod. “Never said you couldn’t, but we look after our own here. Let me know if you need backup.”

She walks off to handle the next order, tossing a quick, grateful glance over her shoulder. I watch her navigate the crowd with confidence I can respect.

It’s Christmas Eve, and you’d think the bar would be dead tonight. But the holidays have a funny way of dragging out the lonely souls who’d rather drown their thoughts in a drink than sit home alone with them. And, hey, I’m more than happy to take their money and build up my little Christmas stash while they keep the bar packed.

The place is wall-to-wall with regulars, drifters, and even a few club members. An old neon light casts a warm glow over the scuffed-up tables and barstools, and there’s the faint scent of pine from the scraggly tree someone set up, topped with a dented silver star. The drunk in the corner is still belting out his off-key rendition of “Jingle Bells,” egged on by a crowd that’s a few shots deep. It’s noisy, warm, chaotic, the kind of night that blurs together by the last call.

“Yo, Prez!” Tracker’s voice cuts through the clamor, his tone laced with something between amusement and curiosity. “Isn’t that your hellcat on the TV?”

I frown and glance up at the screen over the bar. Sure enough, there she is—Brandy, larger than life—sitting in some studio, a microphone pinned to her chest as she talks to the interviewer. Her hair is wild, cascading around her shoulders, and she’s wearing that wicked smile that says she’s loving every second of the spotlight. I can’t hear a damn word, but it doesn’t matter. The way her eyes light up and her hands move as she speaks, it’s like she’s dancing without moving her feet. She’s in her element.

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