Page 44 of 12 Months of Mayhem

The voice cuts through the pounding in my head like a hammer on glass. Groaning, I press a hand over my eyes to block out the light stabbing through my skull and nod. “Yeah, Doc. What the fuck was that?”

A low chuckle rumbles from somewhere near my shoulder. “Smelling salts. What’s my name?”

Peeling one eye open, I squint at him. His face blurs into focus—bald head, wiry mustache, and a smirk that’s probably meant to be reassuring but just pisses me off. “Doc Jones,” I mutter.

“Good. What day is it?”

“St. Patrick’s Day.” My voice comes out hoarse, dry as sandpaper.

“Do you know where you are?”

I drop my hand from my face and glare at him, though the motion sends another wave of pain pulsing through my skull. “Where the fuck do you think I am? I’m in my bar.”

He chuckles again, the sound grating against my nerves. “Whiskey, you took a nasty hit to the back of your skull. Let me do my job. And no, you’re not at the bar.”

I force my eyes open wider, blinking through the haze. The walls are bare, sterile white, and the faint smell of disinfectant creeps into my nose. My bar doesn’t smell like this. My bar smells like spilled whiskey and bad decisions.

Looking around, I notice I’m on a gurney, the stiff mattress pressing against my back. “Am I at your office, Doc?”

“The boys panicked when you blacked out and drove you here. You’ve been out for a little while,” he says, his tone calm, almost conversational, as if I didn’t just wake up feeling like my head has been split open. “I’ve cleaned your wound and stitched you up.”

He holds a finger in front of my face, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Follow my finger.”

I do as I’m told, though the movement makes my stomach churn. He nods, then pulls a penlight from his pocket, shining it directly in my eyes. The sharp beam feels like a dagger slicing through my skull, and I hiss out a curse under my breath.

“Pupils look good,” he says, ignoring my reaction. “You’re lucky. Slight signs of a concussion, but you need to rest.”

Lucky? It feels like I got hit by a goddamn train.

“Cool.”

“Is there someone who can watch over you? Wake you periodically?”

Gritting my teeth, I twist onto my side, letting my legs dangle over the gurney’s edge. With a low groan, I push myself upright, the effort sending a fresh wave of pain slicing through my skull.

“Yeah.”

Doc crosses his arms, his gaze sharpening as he eyes me, skepticism written all over his face. “Who?”

“One of the boys.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Which one specifically?”

“Gamble.”

Doc tilts his head, a brief flicker of acknowledgment before he nods. “He’s already left.”

I frown, irritation rising in my chest. “Tracker.”

Doc’s lips twitch, but it’s not in amusement. “He looks ready to pass out from too much alcohol.”

I shake my head slightly, the movement jarring through the ache in my skull, but I ignore it. Spitting out the words with more force than I feel, I grunt, “I’ll find someone.”

“Make sure you do. If you die on my watch, your men will come for me, and I like my life, Whiskey.”

Smirking, I nod. “I’m made of tougher stuff than that, Doc. But can I have something for the pain?”

“Tylenol but not Advil. You need to keep away from ibuprofen. It can increase the chance of a bleed.”

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