Page 12 of Manic

Geirolf leans against the bar, his expression turning serious. "So, we need to get any specific shit done today since Liam's showing up?"

I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. "Nah, I asked my old man. He said no, but..." I pause, my green eyes scanning the room. "I'm sure he'll want us around when they meet."

"Good," Geirolf nods, relief evident in his voice. "I'll be glad to see them. Maybe we can finally get some of this shit figured out on how to handle the Patriot."

The mention of the Patriot sends a surge of anger through me.

I clench my fist, feeling the familiar skull ring dig into my skin. "Yeah," I growl, "It's about fuckin' time."

I turn away from Geirolf, pacing the length of the bar.

The clubhouse suddenly feels too small, too confining.

My mind races with thoughts of the Patriot, that bastard who's been encroaching on our territory for far too long.

"Fifteen years," I mutter under my breath. "Fifteen goddamn years he's been testing the waters."

If it were me I would’ve handled this ages ago, but there’s a reason my father does things the way he does, and I have to trust that.

Still, it pisses me off to no end.

Images from last week flash through my mind—Geirolf and I, out on a routine ride, spotting that kid with the baggie.

The insignia wasn't Liam's Irish Wolfhound.

No, it was a fucking eagle.

I slam my fist on the bar, my frustration coming out of me. "They're getting bolder," I growl to Geirolf, who's watching me with concern. "We saw it ourselves. That eagle... The Patriot's men are pushing harder. Harder than ever before"

Geirolf nods grimly. "I know, brother. But with Liam coming... maybe we can finally put an end to this shit."

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the rage boiling inside me. "We need to handle this. Soon. Before it's too late."

The weight of the situation settles on my shoulders like a lead blanket.

I can feel the eyes of the club on me, waiting to see how the President's son will react.

But all I can think about is protecting what's ours, what we've built.

Then it makes me think ofher, the woman I let push me away.

The woman I walked out on when shit got tough.

I was young and damn was I stupid.

I'm so lost in my thoughts that I barely register the feel of a body pressing against mine.

A sultry voice purrs in my ear, "Why you looking so sad, sugar?"

Irritation flares through me as I recognize Lexi, one of the club'shóras. I push her away, probably harder than necessary, and fix her with a steely glare.

"Lexi," I growl, my voice low and dangerous, "now isn't the fucking time. If you're that bored, go look for someone else."

She recoils, hurt and surprise flashing across her face before she masks it with indifference. "Jeez, someone's in a mood," she mutters, sauntering away.

I turn back to the bar, my hands clenched into fists.

The thought of Meghan has opened up a floodgate of memories I've spent years trying to dam up.

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