Pierce Kensington.
The line barely rang once.
“Reid?” Pierce’s voice came smooth, warm, and amused—because Pierce was always amused. “Tell me you’re not bleeding on a sidewalk somewhere.”
“I’m in Lower Manhattan,” Viper said. “I need you to pick me up.”
A pause. Pierce’s tone sharpened—intent replacing humor.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just need to get in somewhere.” He closed his eyes briefly. “A place called Aurelia. Private event. I’m not dressed for the list.”
Pierce hummed low—the kind of sound he made when he was already solving the problem.
“Stay put. I’ll be there. Twenty-five minutes tops. Traffic’s a bitch.”
The line clicked off.
He barely had a second of quiet before his phone rang again.
Not Pierce.
Not Titus.
Memphis.
“Yeah?” Viper answered.
“Where the hell are you? You left the ranch like your ass was on fire.”
Viper scrubbed a hand over his jaw, cleared his throat. “New York City.”
“Because?”
“Just handling something.”
“Sure you are… well, I’m here.”
“Here as in?” Viper frowned.
“New York.”
A short huff escaped him—half laugh, half exhale.
Of course, Memphis had followed him. His own damn fault. He should’ve said something before he took off.
“I’ll send you an address and access code to my brother’s place. I should be there in half an hour.”
He texted Memphis the address to Pierce’s penthouse.
A beat.
“Got it… and Viper—”
“What?”
“Don’t forget—friends don’t let friends do stupid shit alone.”
