Page 41 of 12 Months of Mayhem

I press a kiss to her temple. “Sleep. It’s a brand new year, one you’re going to conquer.”

She twists, so she’s facing me. “You sound sure of that.”

“You’re fearless.” I smirk and steal a kiss. “We’ll see each other again. Fate keeps throwing us together.”

“She does, doesn’t she?” Brandy snuggles closer, her voice softening. “Maybe it’s not just fate… maybe it’s something more. Something we can’t explain or control.”

I gaze deep into her eyes, seeing the truth behind her words. “I believe in fate, but I also believe in choice. We can choose to make our paths cross again, and again, and again.”

She smiles. “I hope so.”

Chapter Seven

It’s been one long, unpredictable year, and here we are again, St. Patrick’s Day. The bar is buzzing, green beer is flowing, and shamrocks and leprechauns are plastered everywhere in all their tacky, glittery glory. It’s the kind of chaotic night I’ve come to appreciate—loud, rowdy, full of life—the way a bar should be. I’m behind the counter pouring drinks and watching the crowd when the door swings open, and Simon, Brandy’s younger brother, walks in. He’s grinning like a fool under this ridiculous green top hat, a gang of his buddies are trailing behind him like a bunch of stray puppies. The sight of him makes my jaw clench, and I feel the muscles in my neck tighten. Last year, he and his crew brought their own brand of trouble into my bar, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to throw him right back out tonight.

But Simon walks straight up to me, a flicker of something serious in his eyes, and holds out his hand. I blink, caught off guard. Apologies aren’t exactly common in my line of work, and certainly not from a guy like Simon.

“I owe you an apology for what happened last year,” he says, his voice low, almost respectful.

It throws me for a loop, and I raise an eyebrow, sizing him up. He’s dead serious with no trace of a smirk. After a beat, I take his hand, give it a solid shake, and for a second, the tension between us fades.

He grins, loosening up. “Can we stay?” he asks, this one a little lighter, like he knows he’s pressing his luck.

I narrow my eyes at him, the urge to boot him out still tugging at me, but I take a breath and hold back. “Yeah, you can stay. But if there’s any bullshit tonight, you’re out. Got it?” My tone is sharp, leaving no room for argument.

Simon throws up his hands, feigning innocence. “No, sir. Besides, Brandy would kick my ass if I messed this up.”

Hearing her name stirs something tight in my chest. I smile, unable to resist. “So, you’re more afraid of your sister than me?”

Simon chuckles, a glint in his eye. “You’ve seen her fight, haven’t you?” He winks, then turns and heads back to his buddies, leaving me with a grin I can’t quite shake as the memory of Brandy comes to the surface.

***

The night is in full swing, a blur of green beer and loud laughter, with the air thick from spilled drinks and the reckless energy that only St. Patrick’s Day can bring. I’m working the bar, pouring shots and trading jabs with the regulars, caught up in the chaotic rhythm of it all. Now and then, my eyes drift to the door, half hoping, half expecting to see Brandy walk in like she did last year. It’s stupid, but the thought sneaks up on me anyway.

Then, in the middle of pouring a round, the atmosphere shifts. The door slams open, and a crew from the Razorbacks MC, our local rival club, walks in. Instantly, the crowd grows tense, the boisterous laughter and chatter dimming to wary glances and whispers. These guys don’t show up here for a good time—they’re here to make a statement.

I catch Gamble’s eye across the bar, and he gives me a nod, his hand already twitching toward his belt. We’ve been here before, and we both know what’s coming.

The Razorbacks shove their way to the counter, their President, Sonny, sneering at the green streamers and decorations like they’re a personal insult. He locks eyes with me, grabs a patron’s drink, swallowing it like it’s some kind of challenge. I take a deep breath, keeping my cool, but when one of them makes a snide comment about the bar, and another mutters something about what pussies the Outlaws of Vengeance are, that’s it.

Gamble is the first to take a stand, his fists flying, and I vault over the bar, taking on Sonny.

The place erupts into chaos.

Glasses shatter, barstools crash to the floor, and the shouts and curses of a dozen men turn the bar into a war zone. I dodge a fist, landing one of my own, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline surge through me. Gamble is beside me, fighting like a damn pit bull. Sonny’s fist crashes into my face, and I taste blood as my lip splits. With a growl, I clock him in the jaw. He stumbles but comes back swinging. The Outlaws are pushing the fight out into the street. The last thing we need is our bar all torn up because the Razorbacks feel like they need to prove something.

“Fuck you, Sonny,” I yell as I land a punch to his gut.

“Fuck me? You’re the ones stealing our damn business!”

He swings at me again and misses. Sonny is in his fifties, overweight, and with a mouth of teeth any meth head would be proud of.

“We don’t deal in the shit you pedal,” I say as my fist smashes into his nose.

Blood pours down his face onto his white T-shirt. “Bullshit!”

He wipes his arm under his nose and swings again.

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