“You’re fucking insane.” I turn around and leave, washing my hands of this mess.

He laughs—no—he cackles. It’s loud and haunting as it echoes around me. “You don’t think I fucking know that? You don’t think I know?!”

He’s talking shit. A goddamn nut job who has had too much beer. I don’t believe a word he said. Why should I? His brain drowned in malted barley and yeast a long time ago.

But then again...if I don’t believe him, why is my heart thrumming in my ears as loud and as obnoxious as a bass drum? A cold drop of sweat falls from my hair line and rolls down the back of my neck. Why am I nervous? It’s not possible.

I shake my head. A drunk. That’s all he is. I’m sure the feeling of pleasure he felt when he looked at Emily was nothing more than a perverse twitch of his cock—Joel too. Maybe his sexual hinge allows him to swing both ways.  It makes sense. I don’t know why I entertained him as long as I did, anyway. It’s done nothing but deter me from my night and invade my thoughts. The last thing I need is some crazy old man planting what ifs in my head. I don’t need the distraction. Not tonight.

Gravel crunches under my feet, the sound soon swallowed by the blasting of sirens. The darkness around me lights up in a flurry of reds and blues.

At least that’s one good deed I’ve done today.

As I enter the main parking lot, a beefy man on a Harley Davidson zooms past me, not  giving a shit that rocks flick up from his tires and bounce off the others bikes and cars. Why would he give a shit? It’s not like he paid for any of them.

Jerk.

I pause as I approach the steps of The Cavern, suddenly weighed down by stress as it sits like a heavy bucket of concrete on my shoulders. I glance at the door. I don’t even want to go in there. I’m tired...exhausted.

Maybe they feel the same. Maybe they want to go home too.

Forcing myself up the steps, I reach the doors and push them open. Rock music mixes with laughter and the clashing of glasses. I stand still, marveling that this shitty little building manages to keep majority of the sounds inside. Stepping in, I glance around the room, letting the double doors slam shut behind me.

At the bar, Joel keeps Emily busy and, judging by their expressions, they’re engaged in lighthearted conversation—embarrassing stories about my childhood, no doubt. At the end of the bar, Huss sits, sulking soberly in to his glass of water and, across the room, Ted leans over a tall table, his foot casually resting on a stool, as he chats up a petite, blonde girl. Immediately, I notice the crow tattoo on the side of her neck. It looks strange on her. How old is she anyway? She has the face of child’s doll—big eyes, a small, pointy nose, and fake, wiry hair to match. If I guessed her age on a whim I’d peg her at sixteen and no older than eighteen. Unlucky for him, Ted has never been good at establishing ages before engaging with a female. Twice I’ve saved him from going to bed with underage girls—seventeen year olds. I can’t blame him. It’s getting harder these days to pin point a woman’s age.

I glance back to the crow tattoo on the girl’s neck.

A crow.

Shit.

Is she the girl the old man was talking about? The one who had him beaten and kicked out? Of course Ted naturally found himself drawn to her. He’s always chasing women who cause him the most problems. His last girlfriend was an abusive drunk. She beat him with a led pipe while he was sleeping because he didn’t take out the cat litter like he said he would.

I run my cool palms over my burning face. For once, just once, I’d like to relax instead of babysit a bunch of adults. Unfortunately, I’m the reason Ted is here so it’s my responsibility to look out for him. Preventing Ted getting beaten by this girl’s father will prevent me having to kick someone’s ass later on.

I make my way over to Ted, dodging men in leathers and women in lingerie as they go back and forth from the bar, milling about like fish in a pond.

“Ted. I need to talk—”

BANG!

I freeze as tiny pieces of the roof fall down around me, coating my black sweater in white dust. I snap my head in Emily’s direction. She’s off her stool. She clenches it in her hands, her knuckles white from the pressure. Her chest heaves, her wide eyes on me. That’s when I feel the cool tip of a gun pressing firmly against the back of my skull. I react quickly, based on instinct, not thought. Sidestepping, I duck under his gun, grab the barrel and twist it out of his hand. The assailant grunts as I turn my body, over his arm, and punch him square in the face. He drops to his knees and I press the gun into the side of his head. I hear the click of more guns around me and my finger twitches against the trigger.

“Jai! Stop!” Joel shouts, his voice penetrating the sound of rushing blood in my ears.

Panting, I glance around the room. I see barrel after barrel of ready to fire guns pointed at me.

At Emily.

At my brother.

At my friends.

I look at Joel. His dark eyebrows are furrowed and his hands are raised, exposing his palms. What the fuck is he surrendering for?

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You think you can just waltz in here, sit at my bar, on my stools and drink my beer?”

My finger twitches against the trigger again as the booming voice echoes around the bar. Seconds pass, seconds that feel like an eternity, before I can put a name to the voice. He looks more menacing in person than he does in the mugshots on his file. A buzz cut. Dark, tar-like irises and a scar that runs through the side of his lips. Finally, I meet the famous Cain ‘Joker’ Peterson, President of the Twisted Sons Motorcycle Club, in person.

“Good to see you, Joker.” Joel says, sending my stomach dropping like a bag of rocks into my shoes.

Joker waltzes further from the shadows and soon enough his entire wide, six foot two frame is exposed in the light. The heavy thud of his boots stop as he pauses by Huss. Like the soldier that he is, Huss betrays no sign of fear even though he’s as weak as a child in this moment with no protection and no chance of fighting his way out. With a chuckle, Joker lifts his Remington M870 Police Magnum Shotgun and nudges Huss’s cast. Huss clenches his teeth with a hiss as his entire body tightens.

A single laugh filled with insult and amusement flies from Joker’s thin lips. “Quite a pathetic crew you’ve brought along with you this time.”

“I’m not here to fight you, Joker. If we can talk for one second—”

With heavy feet, Joker presses the butt of the shotgun into his shoulder and swallows the distance between him and Joel. I slam the butt of my gun into my attacker’s head and he crashes to the floor as I swing it in Joker’s direction. The sound of hammers being pulled surrounds me, but do nothing to deter me from protecting my brother. If anyone is going to kill him, it’ll be me as soon as we get out of here.

Temptation pulses in my index finger as it rests against the trigger, but I manage to hold out, even as Joker presses the tip of his shotgun against Joel’s forehead.

“You don’t get to talk.” Joker snaps, his hands clenching his weapon.

“You think your shotgun intimidates me?” Joel simpers, sealing the lid on all of our coffins. “There’s nothing scary about a quick death so do me a favor and pull the damn trigger.”

“Don’t tempt me, boy.” Turning his head, Joker spits on the floor. “Why’d you come here?”

“I have a favor to ask.”

He came to ask a favor? So tonight isn’t about enjoying ourselves before we’re gunned down like fucking deer? I should have known! That selfish mother f—

“A fucking favor? Ha! After everything you’ve done?”

“That was then. I’m not working for Skull anymore. I want him dead just as much as you do.”

“Bullshit!” Joker glances down the length of his gun.

“I’ll prove it—I’ll prove it! Just give me a second of your time—in private—and I’ll tell you everything. I want to end Skull. When he’s gone, you can have New York back. It’ll be yours again. I promise you.”