I chuckle. Tally is Archer’s wife, and although she’s only forty and far from old, she always complains about being the grandmother in the group, since the majority of sweetbutts that hang around the club are closer to twenty-five.
“Tally could never be old, bud. She just keeps getting better with age.” I grin down at him. “You need me to tell her?”
“You stay the fuck away from her. The last thing I need is a fucking Brad Pitt look-alike sweet-talking my ol’ lady,” he bites out.
I chuckle.
“If you’re calling me that, you better meanFight ClubPitt.” I knock back the rest of the bourbon in my glass.
“Aye, is there any other?” He chuckles with me. I pat him on the shoulder.
It’s a lot to balance, being at the helm of this club. My father, Gregor Foxx, did it well when he was the president prior to Marco. Marco was always looking for a quick fuck or a quick high. I was only twenty-four when my father died. Marco was eight years older than me, and he was a smooth talker. He always said what everyone wanted to hear. He’d smile while he stabbed you in the back, and he’d doanythingfor money. But he had the table’s vote, a bunch of fucking shitheads in his back pocket. Had I been just a bit older or been around more—hell, even if I had more men than Archer in my corner—I could’ve taken over from my father. Instead, I stayed as close as I could to keep an eye on Marco—I was his VP. I had to stand by and watch him take everything my father had built and practically burn it to the fucking ground.
I push the history from my head, because none of it matters now. I’m finally rebuilding. I’m getting the deadweightweeded out, and my nightclubs are legitimate businesses that offer women respect and protection no other club offers them.
I make it out to the bar area of our clubhouse with Archer close behind. In another hour, this place will be packed.
“Drink?” he asks.
“Nah.” I shake my head. I’m keeping my head clear, because I must admit, I’m interested to see if my newemployeewill actually show up tonight. Or if she’ll run as far away as she can. It might be better for both of us if she does. It’s been a long fucking time since I’ve even cared to speak to a woman in my club, and I can almost smell the storm someone like her could unleash.
Archer reaches behind the bar and pours himself a shot of whiskey. We sit and I light a smoke, taking a minute to think about the way Mia eyed me suspiciously earlier. There’s something off about her, something simmering beneath all that false confidence I sensed right away. As a SEAL, my job was to watch and learn everything there was to know about my team’s threats so I could take the threat out. Because of that, I know when someone is hiding something, and if that little minx was sent here to spy on us, namely by Georgia’s most notorious mob, I’m gonna find out who sent her and why. And then I’ll be sending her pretty blond head back to them in a box.
Chapter 6
Mia
“Fuck, Briggs!” My vision turns static as my back hits the mat and my teeth sink into my lip. I instantly taste copper. Anytime my mind wanders, I’m taken out. And my mind has been wandering nonstop since my encounter with Aiden Foxx this afternoon.
My braid sticks to my sweaty back as I sweep Briggs’s leg out from under him. He goes down like a sack of rocks, letting out a deep grunt when his heavy body hits the floor. Then I’m on top, straddling him and leaning in with my blunt-tipped blade at his throat, ready for the kill, and he’s helpless to stop me.
“Christ, you fucking got me,” he bites out. I sit up, smiling, smug with victory.Big fucking mistake.
Briggs sweeps the back of his bulky forearm against the outside of my ribs, and my back and head hit the mat again before I can even blink. My ears fill with a dull buzz as he leans in. “Never fucking celebrate,” he grits out.
I know he’s right. It doesn’t matter how many times I get the better of him. The second I gloat, it opens the door for him.
He flops down beside me, both of us breathing heavily for a moment. I need this after coming face-to-face with my new boss. I know what’s at stake here. Foxx is a president, a leader, and yet I can’t stop myself from digging. The budding investigator in me needs answers. If he was involved or even knew about Nic’s rape and didn’t stop it, he’s going to die.
“I think you almost cracked my rib.” I rub my side as I push Aiden from my head.
Briggs chuckles. He doesn’t take it easy on me. My second week training with him, I had a professor ask if I needed to talk to somebody. She saw the bruises and thought I was being abused.
“Still got ya though, even if it only was for a second.” I grin up at the clear blue sky as the sun threatens to sink.
“Doing your best to give me a concussion won’t make you feel better tonight, Tyler. You should be with your family.” He knows we had my sister’s celebration today, and he says it with concern, calling me by my last name. I turn to him and swallow back my grief, pushing it to the place in my heart I don’t touch, along with the never-ending promise to cry tomorrow instead of today.
“This isn’t a therapy session.” I reach over and lay a light, friendly smack on the side of his face, but just as it lands, he grabs my wrist and twists it, stopping just before the ominous crack that would follow if he applied any more pressure.
“I’m happy to keep reminding you that I can still kick your ass.” He pushes my hand away and stands, wiping his face with a towel. He’s a true mountain of a man. At six foot four and two hundred and fifty pounds, he isn’t super defined, he’s just big. His red hair is lined with flecks of silver now, as is his long, thick beard. His brown eyes are caring as he analyzes me.
“If you try to incapacitate him again tonight,I’llbe forced to step in and kick your ass. I need my steaks grilled,” Patty Briggs says as she comes into their yard from the house and raises her glass toward the barbecue.
I prop myself up on my elbows and look around at their fully off-grid property, where they train soldiers and teach self-defense. Briggs is a patient teacher, and the land is private with a full-size shooting range. I spit blood into the grass and wipe my chin with the back of my hand. “Congrats, you made me bleed,” I tell him.
Briggs is built like a tank, so when he pumps his fist and gives a little kick with his foot before he says, “Still got it!” in a pre-teen girl kind of way, I have to smile. The moment I do, I cringe, because I definitely split the top of my lip open.
His meaty hand comes down now to help me up as Patty moves toward us with glasses of electrolyte drink.
