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I take the key card he pushes my way over the desk and don’t even bother with my own grunt of acknowledgment back.

I’m too damn tired. And cold. Freezing is more like it.

When Casper told me I was to come up to this sister club, I didn’t think he meant right then.

But sure enough, the second I agreed and was about to walk out the door, he asked when I was going.

At the time, I said, “Right after I drink my coffee.” Figured he would have known I was joking.

Don’t drink that stuff unless I have to.

But the guy didn’t get it. He just patted my back and said he’d tell the guys and get a prospect to help me pack.

Fucker didn’t even let me finish the coffee.

And yeah, I grabbed one, ’cause I knew it was going to be a long drive.

A single-day’s drive from mid-Kansas to northern Michigan would kill anyone.

Add that it’s on a bike and not a car, and you’re dead.

Oh, and let’s not forget that I was up half the night before doing whatever the shit I wanted.

Which was just doodling new sketches, but whatever.

Didn’t seem like it mattered to my prez.

Then again, if I was itching to clear house of all the shitbags in my club, I wouldn’t want to wait anymore either.

I take the stairs and hustle up to my room.

I want to just drop my shit and crash, but I need to wash the road off me.

Some brothers can live with dirt all over them for days, but I never was like that.

Part of it’s being a tattoo artist and the need to have clean hands when I work, but the other part is just having fucking respect for yourself.

Dropping my bag by the bed, I hang my vest over the single chair by the desk that’s mounted to the wall.

It’s the only thing I waste a good long second on, making sure it’s sitting pretty before I kick my shoes off and throw my clothes on the ground as I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower.

I wait to let it heat before I go in, though.

I might be tired, but I don’t want to kill myself with the cold water hitting my ass.

It’s fucking December, and I’m in Michigan. It’s freezing dicks off out there.

I want to hate my boss. I want to curse the prez’s name.

And as I step under the warm spray, I debate if he would hear me if I do.

But I choose not to. I voted the guy in.

I respect him and agree with his choices.

Casper is a lot of things—even an asshole when the timing is right—but one thing he’s never been is quick to pull the trigger.

The guy was a sniper for the military for years before he hung that shit up and came to the Hounds of the Reaper MC.

He worked his way up the ranks till our old prez went out and we had to elect a new one.

Sure, it only happened a few months back, but Casper still keeps a level head.

Even as he found himself an old lady and we’ve dealt with shit going down with the mob and now trafficking women in our own clubs.

The guy isn’t one to make a rash decision.

He’s meticulous to the point of being annoying.

But if he thinks we have a problem, I know it would be stupid to ignore it .

And when a sister chapter’s VP is part of the skin trade, something the Hounds have written in every bylaw from the mother chapter to the sister chapters as something we ain’t a part of, you bet your ass he wasn’t working alone.

You don’t get up in the ranks of a club without others knowing your business.

You can keep secrets, but not things that big.

Not without bringing in a few brothers to help cover your tracks.

Which is why I’m here.

Prez wants me to find out what’s going on.

Figure out who’s worth saving up here and who ain’t.

We had a few guys we trusted come up almost immediately after Casper figured out what was going on, but they’ve gotten nothing done.

Or if they have, Prez didn’t tell me when he sent my ass up here yesterday.

Whatever. I’ll figure it out. It’s what I do. Come in and blow shit up—both physically and metaphorically.

After all, I’m supposed to be the new chapter’s president for Traverse City, Michigan . They just don’t know it yet.

The banging on the door pulls me from my slumber. It takes me a few moments to figure out where the hell I am. I know it ain’t Kansas, but I think I blacked out or some shit. I remember arriving here and taking a shower, but no clue how I got to bed.

As I stand, I grab the towel around my waist on instinct as it loosens and resecure it. I’d rather put clothes on, but the banging won’t stop, and I swear it’s like they’re pounding a fucking drum in my head.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” I say to keep the anxious knocker at bay. But it only seems to rile them up, as they pick up their pace.

I sneer at the door but grab my gun from my bag before I look through the peephole. I might be tired, sleep-deprived, and still cold, but I ain’t stupid.

Releasing a heavy sigh, I open the door and glare at the man who’s still knocking.

“Fuck off, Mickey.” I’m not in the mood for the Irishman. Never figured out why he decided to cross the pond and transfer from his chapter to one stateside, and I ain’t about to ask now. He can just get the fuck out for all I care. Which, considering how tired I am, I don’t.

I turn and head back to bed. If I’m lucky, the door will slam in his face and I’ll be able to get a few more hours of sleep before this shitstorm hits the fan.

“No can do, buttercup,” he says with a pep in his voice that only the damn Irish can have at this hour.

I look at the clock on the nightstand and see it’s not even seven yet.

Barely got four hours of sleep after a fourteen-hour drive.

I groan before throwing a pillow over my head, hoping it works to block out the sun, Mickey, and my responsibilities.

At least till noon. Noon is a good time to figure shit out.

After breakfast, of course. Better make it after two before we really take on the world.

The bed bounces a second before the pillow is ripped away. I glare, but it does nothing to the damn man but make him chuckle .

“Not the top-of-the-morning type, aye?” He takes a seat on the desk, not giving a shit that I hate everything about him right now.

The guy was with me the entire time we were in Russia, but we still know little about each other.

Taking out a Russian mafia leader takes more planning and less buddying up than you’d think.

I met the guy a few times before then but rarely spoke to him.

I just never considered him a friend—more acquaintance, really. Looks like that’s about to change.

Out here I need all the friends I can get, and at least Casper vouches that the bastard is clean.

In my book, that’s the same as me saying the guy’s good to go.

I trust most of the brothers back home with more than my life.

It’s those outside the circle I hesitate to say the same for.

Which is half the reason I got this gig and no one else.

I sniff out trouble, trust little, and get my hands dirty if I have to.

Which I like to do, so it makes for a fun life.

But not now.

“Screw you and go away,” I say as I roll over and hope he gets the hint.

“Oh, come now, buttercup.” I can hear the mirth in his voice a second before my ass is smacked. Hard. I jump up and damn near knock the asshole’s head off as he laughs so hard he falls back against the wall.

I grunt as he giggles like a child at my reaction before I grab my bag and head to the bathroom, locking the door—not going to take any chances of him barging in and trying to mess with me more. I’m up. Pissed, but up. If he wanted a happy guy, he should have let me sleep in .

Heading back out a few minutes later, I grab my vest off the chair and put it on. I don’t say anything, and neither does Mickey, though he keeps chuckling. Whatever.

I look over the place once more and make sure I get all of my shit before leaving. This was only a pit stop. I’m planning on bunking at the clubhouse tonight.

When we make it outside, I curse as the wind picks up.

It hasn’t snowed recently, but that just means it’s too damn cold to do so.

I hardly had a chance to pack after I glanced at the weather yesterday.

You bet your ass I’m making a full new wardrobe part of the expenses for coming up here.

I’m even going to bill it to the club. Well, half of it.

Don’t want the boss to see me as greedy or nothing.

I could just have Jumper send my shit up here, but that means more than I’m ready to admit. This is just temporary. I’m here to clean house, start it over, then pass it along, not for anything long term.

On the way up here, I had a lot of time to think. Flint spoke to me a bit on the comms and gave me some details he and Casper found out about what’s going on up here, but most of the time, I was solo. Left to my own thoughts. I’ve never had a problem with it. Still don’t.

Gave me time to think about this and set up a plan.

Six months. I’m giving this place six months to get back in shape.

If it’s still out of whack by then, then Casper needs to demolish it.

Or I will. Six months is enough time to figure shit out.

And if I’ve still got questions, that means more than enough are damaged goods and don’t need to be in the Hounds’ brotherhood anymore.

As we get to the bikes, I secure my bag before I turn the engine over. “Where’s breakfast?”