It was wearing on my men. Which meant they kept starting shit with the Henchmen—mostly the younger, second-generation ones—when they came across them in bars or restaurants or even at the damn beach.
It was exhausting.
They were exhausting.
Why was it so hard to accept that they got spanked, and move on?
But, no, they had to be babies about it.
Sore losers, all of them.
Though none of them rubbed me the wrong way quite like...
"Oh, son of a bitch," I grumbled as my thoughts aligned with my reality as I moved into Chaz's, and nearly ran right into the asshole himself.
Fallon.
The president-in-training.
A man whose attractiveness only made him all the more irritating.
He was a younger version of his father—tall, dark, handsome, cocky, tattooed. But he had his mother's blue eyes.
"Nice to see you too, Danny," Fallon said, shooting that wicked smirk at me.
"Ugh. Don't you have a curfew to abide by?" I asked, holding a finger up at the bartender, who knew me well enough at this point to know it was either a beer or vodka, and that I wouldn't bitch either way.
"Shouldn't you be surrounded by your flying monkeys?" he shot back, tipping up his beer.
I did not watch him swallow.
That would be too weird.
"Is your old man around?" I asked, taking my vodka, glad the bartender was good at reading the room because a beer just wasn't going to cut it. "Isn't he worried about you being out here without your training wheels on?"
"Are you always such a smartass, or do you reserve it all for me?"
"Don't flatter yourself," I said, annoyed that I didn't have a better comeback. "I save my best for my equals," I added, a little more satisfied with that. Especially when Fallon's eyes blazed. He didn't exactly have a poker face, and I enjoyed it way more than I should that I could get a rise out of him.
I was riding that high for a good solid hour after walking away from him.
Long enough to feel the vodka kicking in, and the stress lifting from my shoulders.
With a slight buzz coursing through me, I paid my tab, glad to see all the Henchmen guys had moved on, and made my way out front, ready for the walk home that suddenly felt a lot longer than the walk to the bar.
"Too badass to be worried about walking around drunk this time of night?" the last voice I wanted to hear asked just as I rounded the next corner away from the bar.
"Jesus Christ. Stalker, much?" I griped, shooting him a nasty look over where he was standing next to his bike.
"Don't flatter yourself," he said, throwing my words from earlier back at me. "My bike crapped out on me," he admitted, shaking his head at it.
"It is paralyzed at the idea of having you touch it," I said, shrugging. "I can't blame it."
We were just snapping at each other.
Like usual.
Everything was normal.
You know, until the bullets rang out.
Chapter Two
Fallon
It would jinx it to say it out loud, but we all felt it.
Things were too quiet.
It was making everyone antsy.
Hell, Dezi had rolled in the clubhouse three times that week alone bloodied and bruised. Because, apparently, if you didn't keep that crazy fucker busy enough, he went to look for some fists to slam his face into.
In lieu of some problem to keep our minds occupied, we needed to get the hell out of the clubhouse to chase another kind of action.
"Anyone up for Chaz's?" I asked, walking into the common room to find Finn, Seth, Dezi, Cary, Brooks, and Slash hanging around, looking bored.
Some of the OG guys were around somewhere too. Sometimes they would drop in for a beer before heading home, but it wasn't often either. It was probably just going to be the six of us. Which was fine. It was the group that made the most sense since we were all single.
Our club had never been big on clubwhores. Mostly because it would piss off our moms and aunts. So if we wanted to get some women, we typically had to go out and find them.
Besides, we were still trying to get to know Slash, who we were eyeing up to open a new Henchmen chapter. It would give us all a better idea of who the man was if we saw him in an environment outside of the clubhouse. And with a few drinks in him.
"Dezi, don't even bother bringing your bike," I said, shaking my head, knowing the man thought if one drink was good, a half a bottle was better.
"Self-control hasn't ever been my strong suit. Any other irresponsible fuckers hoofing it with me?" he asked, eventually getting the others to walk to the bar with him, while I decided to take my bike, only planning to have a couple beers.