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“No. Chase is right. Most of the team won’t be going through the paper archives, which will definitely be in a separate room away from the tech team. If Chase feels this guy is a threat, then he’s a threat. Jo would be one pissed off hellcat if I left you without security.”
Simone’s eye twitches, but she doesn’t argue. When it comes to protection, our MC doesn’t fuck around.
Atlas turns to me. “Who do you want covering her detail?”
Easy.“I want Punk.”
Simone scoffs. “Absolutely not!”
Atlas doubts my choice, too. “You really want to assign Punk? They don’t exactly get along.”
“He’s the only one I trust with her.”
“I’m not having that moron shadowing me, telling me what I can and cannot do. Besides, he’s Jo’s guard dog.”
“Tank watches Jo, too. He can handle her security while Punk is away,” I remind her.
“Get over it, sis. Punk’s your security for the assignment. Chase wants him,” Atlas says, with finality. “Get your team in order. You leave for Sacramento next week.”
CHAPTERTEN
CHASE
Atlas approving Simone’s position on the team has my composure slipping.
“Fuck!” I shout, grabbing fistfuls of my hair as I retreat from Atlas’s office. I’m so goddamn irate—I need to cool off before I can return to my work.
“Chase,” Atlas calls after me, “where are you going?”
“Out,” I snap, not bothering to look over my shoulder, where his hulking presence follows me. “I need some air.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he warns from behind me.
A bitter laugh leaves my lips. “Stupider than asking Simone to work with her ex? I think I’ve filled my stupid quota for a lifetime, don’t you think?”
Atlas curses, then hollers for our brothers. “Ravens! Anyone available needs to go with Chase. Make sure he stays out of trouble, while I secure headquarters. Punk, send me a text whenever you reach wherever it is you go. Gauge and I’ll be right behind you.”
I want to argue I don’t need babysitters, but my complaint will fall on deaf ears. What Prez says goes, and no one argues with Atlas. If he says I need supervision, then I need supervision. No questions asked.
Fine, my brothers can tag along for my pity party. I don’t give a flying fuck. Most of the crew, like Eagle, Stage, Triple, Flay, Butch, Tank, and Ziggy, are working tech or security around headquarters. Meaning only about half the brotherhood will witness my meltdown. I can deal with that.
Punk hurries to catch up with me. “What’s the plan, bro? Do you want to head over to the gun range and shoot some shit up? A long ride on the hogs? What do you need?”
“I need a drink.”
“A drink?” I can hear the judgment in Punk’s cynical tone as he says, “It’s only noon, Chase.”
“‘It’s five o’clock somewhere,’” Reaper sings with a nasal twang as he and Brass follow me and Punk out of headquarters to the garage, where our hogs are.
The ride over to Mickey’s Pub isn’t long enough to take the edge off my anger. Not even the cool mountain air with the scent of fall leaves in the breeze is enough to settle my temper over my shit situation. Hopefully, a bourbon and some lunch will calm me down, or at least hit the spot, before I need to return to my tech lair.
Mickey’s Pub is the Mercy Ravens MC local bar of choice. It’s a rustic, timbered building along the outskirts of the city, surrounded by tall aspen trees and close to the Rocky Mountains. It may be a little rough around the edges, much like the old man who runs the joint, but it’s clean, always stocked with booze, and has good food. Being close to the highway makes it a popular spot for bikers, truckers, and blue-collar workfolk.
Today’s lunch special is gyros—a favorite among the locals. The bar is crowded for the lunch hour, but the patrons step out of our way when they spot our biker cuts. We’re not a nefarious biker club, but we don’t exactly take shit either. While at Mickey’s, we’re more like the bouncers of the pub. You start shit, and we finish it.
Old Man Mickey waves us up to his bar. “What brings you boys in at this early hour?”
“Bourbon,” I say with a huff as I sit on a stool at the bar.
