Page 45 of 12 Months of Mayhem

“Got it.”

“And if your symptoms get worse, you need to either call me or go straight to emergency.”

“It’ll be you, Doc. Emergency on St. Patrick’s Day is a zoo.”

He steps toward the door, and as he opens it, Tracker appears, his face etched with exhaustion and concern. His dark eyes scan me quickly before landing on the doctor. “You okay, Prez?”

I force a nod, even though the tightness in my chest says otherwise. “Yeah.”

The doctor interrupts, his voice firm and unapologetic. “No, he’s not. He’ll need someone to watch over him.”

Tracker frowns, his tired features tightening as he turns to me.

“Take me home,” I mutter, unwilling to argue the point.

Dr. Jones narrows his eyes, his expression softening into something that looks like worry. “Make sure he’s taken care of,” he says, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. “Someone needs to wake him every couple of hours, and if he’s worse, take him to the ER.”

Tracker nods. “Will do, Doc.” He reaches out and shakes the doctor’s hand before stepping closer to me, his arm hovering just shy of my shoulders.

“I’m fine,” I snap, brushing him off with more edge than I intended.

Tracker pulls back slightly, offering a sheepish smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He turns and heads for the door without another word, and I follow him. As I pass Dr. Jones, I lift my hand in a casual two-fingered wave, earning a slight shake of his head.

The cool night air hits me the moment we step outside, and I breathe it in deeply, the crispness cutting through the fog in my head. It feels like freedom, like clarity, and I feel a sliver of relief for the first time tonight.

“Ah, Whiskey?” Cocking my head to the side, I lock eyes with Tracker. “The bar got trashed last night. A couple of the guys said it’s all boarded up, and the cops sealed it shut with a…” he pauses and makes quotation marks in the air, “… “Do Not Enter” sign plastered to the door.”

“Why?”

Tracker swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, his unease as obvious as the sweat gathers at his temple. “Someone clipped Sonny.”

The words barely land before I grab the front of his shirt and shove him backward. His boots scuff against the floor as I drive him into the wall, the sound of impact reverberating through the street. “You’re only telling me this now?” I snarl, my face inches from his.

“Prez, you were out cold,” he stammers, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Who did it?” My voice is sharp as I demand to know.

“It wasn’t one of us,” he says quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “The street talk is it was one of his own, but the cops…” He hesitates, wincing as if the next part will hurt.

“They think it was us,” I finish for him, my voice low and edged with barely restrained fury. My hands slowly uncurl from his shirt, the fabric crumpled from my grip, and I take a deliberate step back. Tracker’s chest rises and falls beneath my hand as I pat him once by way of an apology. With my lips curving into a smile, I say, “Well, at least we don’t have to go after the bastard.”

Tracker puts a hand to his neck and rubs. “There’s one more thing?”

I shake my head and groan at the pain. “What?”

Before Tracker can respond, a voice rings out behind him, soft and familiar, with a teasing lilt that instantly makes the tension in my shoulders disappear.

“Happy St. Patrick’s Day.”

My head snaps up, and Tracker steps aside, his movements awkward and unsure. There she is—Brandy. Her long hair falls in waves over her half-zipped leather jacket, covering a dark green top. Her eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, it’s like the rest of the street fades away.

“Brandy.” Her name leaves my lips before I can stop it, the weight of the night lifting as I drink her in.

She smirks, crossing her arms as she leans against a light pole. “Looks like you’ve had a rough one, Whiskey.”

I huff out a laugh, the sound dry but genuine. “You could say that.”

Brandy steps closer, her boots clicking softly against the pavement, and suddenly, everything else—the trashed bar, Sonny, the cops—feels like a distant problem. She tilts her head, her gaze flicking over me, sharp and knowing.

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