Finding Mayhem

by Layla Frost

The dark stout hitting my taste buds and the knowledge I’d be sleeping in my own bed that night must’ve signaled to my brain that I was home and off the clock. My muscles loosened, and my shoulders relaxed. And then my damn phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket to hit ignore before I saw Judge’s name on the screen. My brother—though not by blood—and motorcycle club president. He knew I’d been coming home to crash. He’d been the one to order it. If he was calling, it was important. I swiped to answer, but before I could say anything, Judge rumbled, “Fuckin’ dickhead.” “Well, fuck you, too,” I said. “I’ll just hang up and go nap with my pussy.” “Don’t call Dumpster your pussy,” he bit out, but I could hear the smile in his voice. I was good at that. Getting people to smile. Cheering them up. Helping. “Maybe I meant a woman,” I said. “You looked dead on your feet an hour ago. Know you work fast, but not if you’re falling asleep on the bar.” He was right about me being dead on my feet. He was wrong about my inability to pull a woman in that state. Didn’t matter if I was too drunk, stoned, or tired to pick them up. They’d just take the initiative to come on to me. Not that I’d take them up on it. I wouldn’t go to their place—or the bathroom stall, alley, back seat of a car, the clubhouse—with a woman unless I could give her my A game. I had standards and a reputation, dammit. “What’s up?” I asked. “Need you to pay Danes a visit.” Fuckin’ hell. Helping people escape their monst...