Page 27

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.

“I’ve called the cops,” yells a young female.

I glance at her. “Fucking great.”

Sonny swings again, hitting me in the jaw, sending me flying. I scramble to my feet, let out a war cry, and tackle Sonny around the waist, forcing him outside.

“Did you hear her, Sonny? Cops are coming. Neither of us needs the heat.”

He swings again, but I dodge his fist.

“Are you listening?”

“I don’t fucking answer to you, Whiskey!”

The man charges me, but he’s slow, and I kick him in the ass as he stumbles by. Sonny trips and lands on his butt. The Outlaws and the Razorbacks are brawling in the street, and I can hear the sirens of the approaching police.

A few of the regulars are out on the street cheering on the fights surrounding me. Sonny gets to his feet, hands raised into fists, and begins to circle me.

“I hear sirens, Sonny.”

“Yeah, I don’t care. You moved into our turf. We had an understanding, and you fucking broke it!”

He swings, and I dodge the punch.

“We didn’t, or if we did, it wasn’t me. I’ve honored our deal.”

“Liar!”

Sonny roars and swings. I block it and slam my fist into his face. He staggers, his eyes roll back in his head, and he hits the ground.

The next thing I know, I’m being hit in the back of the head, and everything goes black.

I come to slowly, groggy and disoriented. My head throbs with an intensity that’s hard to ignore. I try to stand, but my legs feel like Jell-O, and I stumble, catching myself on a nearby car. I glance around the street. It’s a mess with shards of glass, overturned trash cans, and even some barstools from inside the bar are strewn across the street.

The wail of sirens grows louder, and soon enough, the police arrive on the scene. The Razorbacks scatter like roaches do when you flip on the light. My head hurts too much to give chase, so I lean against the car, waiting for the dust to settle and trying not to throw up.

I rub the back of my head, wincing as my fingers press against a knot that’s swelling faster than I can blink. When I pull my hand back, it’s streaked with blood pooling in my palm like some twisted badge of honor. My vision blurs, dark edges creeping in as I fight to stay upright, biting down on the rising nausea.

“You okay, Prez?” Gamble’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Who… or what the hell hit me?” I rasp, blinking away the stars still dancing in my line of sight.

Gamble shrugs, his lips pressing into a grim line. “Didn’t see it, sorry.”

“Sonny?” I ask, half spitting the name, that bastard’s smug face flashing in my mind.

“Ran off,” Gamble mutters, shaking his head. “For a fat fucker, he sure can move.”

“He accused us of muscling in on their territory,” I say, my voice low, irritation scraping with each word.

“Bullshit,” Gamble replies, fists clenching.

“Yeah, that’s what I told him. Look into it,” I say, but before I can finish, a uniform sidles up next to me.

“Whiskey,” the cop says, eyeing the blood smeared across my fingers.

“Hey, man, we didn’t start it,” I mutter, sounding more defensive than I’d like.

“Wanna tell me who did?” He looks between Gamble and me, suspicion thick in his gaze.

I shake my head, a mistake that sends my vision spinning again. Both the cop and Gamble reach out, steadying me before I pitch forward.

“I don’t feel so good,” I manage, the words slurring as they ease me down to the curb, guiding me to sit with my head between my knees.

“Put your head down,” the cop orders, his voice surprisingly gentle.

Nausea stirs, and I hold up a weak thumb to show I’m still with them, barely.

“We should call a bus, get him checked out,” the cop mutters to Gamble.

“The hospitals will be a mess tonight. He’ll be waiting for hours,” Gamble says, glancing back at me. “We’ve got a guy. We can take care of him.”

“Whiskey, you cool with that?” the cop asks, sounding a little reluctant.

With eyes squeezed shut, I raise my thumb again, giving him my answer. I hear his boots against the sidewalk as he walks away, his partner following. Once they’re gone, Gamble crouches beside me.

“You okay?” he asks, worry shading his voice.

“My head’s killing me,” I say, my voice weak and shaky. “And I feel like I’m gonna pass out or throw up. Maybe both.”

“You don’t look so good,” says Tracker.

“Think I need a doc.”

“On it,” replies Tracker.

Pain sears through my skull like a lightning bolt as I attempt to open my eyes. The world tilts, and I slam them shut with a guttural groan. Warm blood trickles down the back of my neck. The throbbing is relentless, a brutal drumbeat that pounds with every shallow breath I take. Bile creeps up my throat.

“Jesus, Prez, you’ve gone gray,” Tracker mutters, his voice low and tense. His hand clamps down on my shoulder, steadying me, though the pressure sends a fresh wave of pain radiating from the back of my skull.

“Doc’s on the way. How about we get you inside?” he says, but his words are muffled, distant, like he’s speaking through water.

“Inside?” I croak, my voice barely more than a rasp. “I can’t even stand.”

“You’re holding steady like a drunk on roller skates, and that’s saying something considering you’re sitting down,” Tracker shoots back, his humor forced, masking worry. I feel his grip tighten, and then another hand grabs under my arm. A grunt escapes me as they haul me to my feet.

Every movement is agony. Fire explodes behind my eyes, and the sharp sting of the cut on my scalp mixes with the dull, pounding ache. My boots scrape against the sidewalk as they drag me toward the bar door.

Blood oozes down my neck, pooling at my collarbone. The coppery scent fills my nose, mixing with the sharp bite of Tracker’s cologne. My vision blurs as I crack my eyes open again, just for a second. Bright light stabs through my skull like jagged glass.

“Fuck,” I hiss, my knees buckling.

Tracker catches me before I hit the ground.

“Hang on, Prez,” he says, his voice gruff but softer now. “Doc’ll patch you up. Just stay awake, yeah?”

Awake.

Sure.

Easy for him to say.

But with every passing second, the darkness clawing at the edges of my vision looks a hell of a lot more inviting.

***

The moment the sharp, stinging scent hits my nose, it’s like getting punched in the brain. My sinuses burn, my head jerks back, and I gasp as the chemical bite claws through the fog in my mind. The smell is electric and overpowering, sharp enough to make my eyes water. I don’t know what the hell it is, but it drags me out of the darkness, kicking and coughing like I’ve just been slapped awake by the air.

“Try to stay still. Do you know who I am?”

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.”

“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.

“You planning on celebrating, or are you too busy tearing your guy a new one?” she asks, her tone light, but there’s a challenge hidden in her words.

“Depends,” I reply, my lips curving into a smirk. “You sticking around?”

She chuckles, the sound low and rich. “Someone’s got to keep you in line, don’t they?”

Tracker clears his throat, his discomfort palpable. “Uh, I’ll… just head out. Let you two… talk.” He takes two steps then looks at Brandy. “He needs someone to watch over him. Someone clocked him in the back of the head and good. Doc says to wake him every couple of hours, and if he seems worse, to take him to the ER.” Tracker nods once and stalks away.

Brandy raises a brow, amused. “Still scaring the hell out of your men, I see.”

“Only the ones who deserve it.”

Her laugh is louder this time, more genuine, and it settles something deep inside me. Suddenly, all the shit from tonight doesn’t seem so bad.

Brandy closes the gap between us, her warmth radiating as my arms slide around her waist like they’ve always belonged there. She tilts her head, a knowing look in her eyes, and her lips curve into that teasing smile that drives me crazy.

“Can I take you home?” she asks softly, her voice wrapping around me like a balm for the night’s chaos.

I close my eyes, exhaling a long breath before slightly shaking my head. “No. The police have closed it.”

When I open my eyes, her bemused smile hasn’t wavered. There’s a spark of curiosity behind it, but she doesn’t press. “It’s a long story, and I don’t feel like telling it right now.”

Her hand rises, soft fingers brushing along the stubble on my jaw before she cups the side of my face. The touch is so tender it makes my chest tighten.

“You look tired,” she murmurs, her thumb brushing my cheek.

“It’s been a day,” I admit, my voice quieter than I intended, the weight of it all finally catching up with me.

“Worse than last year?” she asks, tilting her head, her hair falls in waves catching the faint light.

I huff out a dry laugh, shaking my head. “Last year, I didn’t get to go home with the girl.”

She leans in, her forehead resting lightly against mine. “Well, then, Whiskey…” she whispers, her breath warm against my lips, “… tonight might just be your lucky night.”

Brandy takes my hand, her fingers threading through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Without a word, she guides me down the street. The night air is cool, but her warmth lingers against my side as we walk.

When we reach a car, I blink at the sleek black Mercedes convertible waiting under the dim glow of a streetlamp. She pauses, looking at me with a smirk as she fishes the keys out of her pocket.

“This yours?” I ask, arching a brow.

“Of course,” she says with a laugh, unlocking the car with a soft chirp. “I figured you’d appreciate the ride.”

I chuckle, running a hand over the hood. “Not exactly what I expected from a girl like you.”

Brandy grins, opening the driver’s side door. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Whiskey. And what did you expect? A bus?” She leans on the edge of the door. “I’ve got a house on the outskirts of town. Quiet, plenty of space. Thought you might like to crash there for the night.”

“You don’t have to do that, Brandy.”

“I know,” she says softly, tilting her head. “But I want to.”

She climbs into the driver’s seat, and I slide into the passenger side. The leather interior is cool against my skin. The car purrs to life with a low, satisfying rumble. Brandy glances over at me, her grin still firmly in place.

As we pull onto the street, I glance at her, the weight of the night lifting more with every mile we put between us and the chaos. “Happy St. Patrick’s Day,” I murmur, my voice carrying a hint of amusement.

She spares me a quick look, her lips twitching into a smile.

Who would have thought?

Whiskey and Brandy—together…

We’re the perfect pair.