“Fine. Do what you want.” Even I cringe at his friend’s placating tone. “But we didn’t come here to start trouble.”
And yet, Mike dumped you in a heap of it.
Wednesday nights are slow, and I’m bored. I will consider it a personal favor if Mike continues his bullshit and allows me the privilege of realigning his jaw.
The group of four twenty-something-year-olds is comically oblivious to me sitting next to them. I mean, seriously, do they not possess any survival instincts? I almost feel sorry for them.Almost. First thing I do when I enter a room is take stock of my surroundings and assess the situation. It’s a matter of safety. Hell, I assumed it’s something everyone does. Guess I’m wrong, because these idiots don’t have a single clue they’re sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with one of the very people this Mike guy is talking mad smack about.
Now look, I’m not exactly a small man. I may not be as wide as Wraith. Nor am I as tall as Malice or Havoc. But not for nothing, at six feet, three inches and 210 pounds of solid muscle, I’m hard to miss. These morons must be drunk, visually challenged, or have the survival skills of a toddler not to notice me encroaching on their party.
I’ll go with the latter, and I’m being generous.
I shift my attention to the guy who told Mike to shut up and roll my eyes at his outfit. For real? A pink button-down paired with beige cargo shorts. Did he think he was going boating instead of drinking in Pennsylvania’s most notorious hell-town? I give him points for the warning, though. If Mike does the smart thing, I’ll send him home slightly worse for wear and with an outstanding story to tell his friends…once his jaw heals and he can talk again.
Unfortunately, most people don’t do the smart thing—myself included.
Especially me.
But back to this asshole, because right now, it’s not about me. Shocking, I know, but tonight it’sallabout this dick right here.
Did Mike honestly expect to waltz his pretentious ass into Mayhem and run his mouth? The balls on this one. Only reason he’s still breathing is because I’m not in a murdery mood. I’m also not as vicious as most of the other Unholy. Thing is, this Van Wilder rejectwillbe picking his jaw up off the floor because I need to make an example out of him. Can’t send him home thinking he can come to my town, run his mouth, and walk out of here unscathed.
Trust and believe he’s going to be scathed like a motherfucker.
And I’m going to have fun doing it.
Not how I wanted the day to end, but oh well. Never let it be said that Jester Hayden doesn’t strive to make people happy.
Mike wants action? Okay, sure. I’ll give him action.
I’m such a people pleaser.
Tonight I may be on Jack’s payroll, but knocking a few of Mike’s perfect teeth out of his face comes part and parcel with being a member of the Unholy. Having his jaw wired shut will (hopefully?) teach this guy how to show respect. And Jack won’t mind because I’ll take the lesson outside the bar. Don’t want to make a mess inside his lovely establishment.
A win for everyone.
Mike cranes his neck and peers around the bar. “Maybe, but we came all this way. And for what, to hang out with Mayhem’s geriatric finest? This sucks.”
I twist around and drape my arm across the back of the barstool. Mike isn’t entirely incorrect. There isn’t an Unholy in sight—except, of course, for me. He doesn’t realize this important fact because he’s too busy being an idiot. I wouldn’t call the faces I see geriatric. But this is where we split hairs, because Talon’s crowd isn’t young, either.
“Seriously.” I insert myself in their conversation and jut my chin at Jimbo sitting alone at the other end of the bar. “Like, look at that one. Pudgy bastard,” I say over “Fortunate Son” by Creedence Clearwater Revival playing in the background.
The group finally notices me, with the two guys stepping forward to give me a once-over. Their dates (I assume) adjust their miniskirts and toss painfully straight hair over their shoulders. Can’t say I don’t appreciate how they eye-fuck the hell out of me, but before I damage their uteruses, I need to make their friend cry a little.
Okay, a lot.
LOL.
Mike, predictably, takes the bait. “Right? This is Mayhem. If we wanted to go to just any bar, we’d have stayed in Brighton.”
Damn. I’m getting rusty, because I can usually nail who lives where. I’ve mastered judging a person by how they dress and carry themselves. And shit, the fact that they’re from Brighton is an instant mood killer.
Contrary to popular belief these days, Wraith doesn’t own the corner on being mental. Difference is my trauma is self-inflicted. My best friend got abducted and held in a literal dungeon in Florida, where he was tortured for six months. Long story short, his high school crush was married to the psycho who forced Wraith to survive nine modern-day gladiator fights.Nine. But Jamie Ellis busted him out, we razed Gomorrah to the ground, and left David Crane’s corpse to rot in the rubble. I’d say it was a satisfying end to the sick bastard’s reign of terror. So what if we had a little help from the FBI. I mean, come on. Crane surrounded himself with powerful friends. It was worth working with the law (and cashing in most of our favors) to get payback for what he did to Wraith.
But anyway, Wraith is home. Jamie is back in Mayhem. Their fairy tale has its happily ever after because—
“You’re here alone?”
Oh damn. My mind wandered. I almost forgot about Mike and his friends.
