Ihad a lot of shit to do.
With Rye closed for the week instead of just the usual Sunday and Monday, I could do all the crap I never had time for. I could touch-up the paint. Reorganize behind the bar. Completely redo the inventory system to make it smoother.
Hell, I could just get caught up on all the paperwork without getting interrupted by a million disasters.
I didn’t do any of that.
As some Court of Mayhem brothers worked in and out of the building, I sat at my desk and stared at the damn open door.
Waiting.
No.
Anticipating.
The pretty detective had messaged that morning to ask what time she should come in since we hadn’t set anything specific. Ihad no doubt she would be there right exactly at one, but that didn’t stop me from going alert at every noise.
It was a helluva lot of distraction for a very temporary situation. She would likely hang out for a week or so before seeing there was noScooby-Doomystery to solve. She could reassure whoever that there was nothing more to the random act of potential violence, and that would be it. She would move on, and I could get back to dealing with the chaos of being a bar owner.
Chaos that involved flaky staff, late deliveries, and drunken fights…
Not flying bullets.
Or uptight detectives in boxy suits.
Running my palm down my face, I let out a frustrated groan before pushing my chair away from the work I hadn’t put a dent in. I stood and headed out to the main room. Could say it was to check on the progress, but even I knew that was bullshit.
I lifted my chin at Haze as he stood near the stage in the corner. I didn’t recognize the prospect working alongside him, but that was what happened when I had no free time for rides or parties at the clubhouse.
Meeting Glitch in the center of the room, I asked, “How’s it going?”
He looked up from the tablet in his hold, his jaw clenched like he was considering throwing the thing across the room. His tone and forced smile were loaded with sarcasm. “Livin’ the fuckin’ dream.”
I tilted my head. “That bad? ’Cause the last guy who ran the software updates was a know-it-all dickwad.”
He flipped me off since he was that know-it-all dickwad—a name I stood by.
The motorcycle club had their hands in a lot of pots—or their bikes on a lot of roads. Their real skill was helping the vulnerable escape shitty situations. But to keep that funded and possible—not to mention pay their own bills—they worked together to run a security company.
MayCo was in-demand, and a big part of that was Glitch’s tech know-how. If he was frustrated, it must’ve been bad.
I was about to ask for details when he put his finger to his mouth, jerked his chin toward the front door, and started walking in that direction. I followed, wondering if there was something he didn’t want the other two brothers to overhear.
He was close with Haze.
Hell, everyone was close with Haze. He was a likable kid.
It could’ve been the prospect he was being cautious around.
If that was the case, he wouldn’t be a prospect by the end of the day. Brothers needed to be able to trust each other with their lives and the lives of the people they helped.
My assumption was only half right. Glitch was being cagey, but not because of either man. He stopped us near the entryway and explained, “They’re still sweeping over there, but we’re clear here.”
Neither man held a broom, but that wasn’t what he meant. It was routine for them to sweep for bugs for their high-profile clients and themselves. Their clubhouse. Their houses. Cars. Bikes. Everything.
A certain fake-ass cunt’s betrayal made the group paranoid.
Usually, it was a step they skipped with me since my business was firmly on the lawful side of shit, but a drive-by called for increased vigilance.
