Jack (The Kings of Mayhem MC Tennessee 1)

Sebastian’s eyes gleam as he presses his index finger on the table in front of him. “There’s a party here tonight?”

I nod. “You ready to let your hair down and celebrate?”

Sebastian clicks his fingers. “Oh, Brontosaurus, I am the King of Party.”

“Ah, yes, but you haven’t seen how we do it here in Flintlock,” I say.

Sebastian throws me a challenging look. “Bring it on, girlfriend. If it’s one thing this boy knows how to do, it’s put on his party pants and get wild.”

“Better buckle up then, buttercup.” I give him a wicked grin. “Because you’re about to do it he Kings of Mayhem style.”

JACK

She’s drunk.

Straight up plastered.

I’ve watched her downing beers with her friends all night long and, at one point, wanted to step in and tell her to slow down. Except she’s a grown woman surrounded by her friends, and this is probably the most relaxed she’s felt in months. I don’t want to take that away from her. Or clip her wings. Or come across as some overprotective father figure.

Instead, I keep a protective eye on her throughout the night to make sure she’s okay. Even when the two dancers from Candy Town give me a birthday lap dance—courtesy of my well-meaning Kings of Mayhem brothers— I keep my eye on Bronte.

Yet, during the lap dance, she keeps her eyes on me too.

In fact, her gaze sears right into me as she watches the two beautiful dancers bump and grind their assets in front of me. Her face is tight, her lips pressed firmly together.

I don’t touch the girls. Hell, I don’t even really notice them. Not when Bronte has me spellbound with a look on her face that I can only describe as stormy. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s jealous.

But I do know better.

Know better not to go there.

Shooter comes up to me. “We need to talk.” The tone in his voice and the look on his face tells me it’s business.

“My office?”

He nods and follows me out of the bar. My office is down a long hall, past the kitchen and bedrooms, at the end of the corridor. Back in the day, it’d been the hotel owner’s office and is one of the more opulent rooms in the hotel. Spacious, with high ceilings, like the rest of the clubhouse it has the bones of a one-time fine establishment. But now all the glamor has faded.

“The harvest starts in three days,” Shooter says, closing the door behind him.

I frown, confused by what this is about. “I know. I’m president, remember?” I lean against my desk and fold my arms across my chest. Shooter’s got something on his mind. Something that’s agitating him enough to pull me out of my birthday celebrations.

“We’ve been friends a long time,” he says.

I nod.

“Been through a lot over the years.”

Again, I nod.

“I like to think I know you better than most.”

I let my arms fall to my side. “Look this trip down memory lane is good and all but get to the point.”

“Bronte,” he says without hesitation.

“What about her?”

“The girl looks like she’s trying to forget.”

“She’s got reason.”

Like the rest of my Kings of Mayhem brothers, Shooter knows what’s going on with Bronte and The Poet.

“I don’t disagree. But are you sure you want to get caught up in this right now? The club’s got a lot riding on this harvest. We need your focus on it one hundred percent.”

I straighten. “And you’ve got it. But I ain’t gonna turn my back on her when she needs help.”

“That’s not what I’m suggesting, but you don’t need to be the one to help her. Let Bam or Loki watch out for her so you can keep your mind on the harvest.” He gives me one of his questioning looks. “Why does it have to be you?”

“She was Coop’s best friend. She’s family.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“You think there’s another?”

It’s his turn to fold his arms across his chest. “I think that maybe you and her look at each other and see something a little more than friendship.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means right now you’re thinking with your balls and not your brain, and that’s no good for business. Especially with the biggest harvest we’ve ever had coming up. Fuck her if you have to, but get your head out of her little panties and back in the game.”

I let his comment slide because of our friendship, but if he talks about her that way again, I’ll put my fist where his words are falling out. “You questioning me where my head is at?” I ask darkly.

“I’m questioning your involvement with her, and how it’s the worst timing for you to be preoccupied. The club needs you to focus, not get distracted by a piece of puss—”