Working MayCo security did. Setting up systems. Being visible muscle. Tracking down stalkers, blackmailers, or stolen items. Some PI work.

Private jobs for big shots who paid a shit-ton for quality work done discreetly.

Not that it was all on the up-and-up. We were able to work off the grid by word of mouth because we were damn good at our jobs. And sometimes that meant being on the right side of our personal moral compasses but the wrong side of the law.

It was our sweet spot.

And usually, I enjoyed it.

But not when it came to that job.

We had our pick of clients, but if the price was right or the job was interesting, we took on pain-in-the-ass clients. Scared. Paranoid. Egotistical pricks.

Elliot Danes was all of that and more.

We’d only started the job the week before, but in that time, he’d claimed Glitch and I had hit on his wife. Then he’d accused his wife of throwing herself at us when she’d offered us coffee.

Mrs. Danes was a lovely lady and all, but she was a full-on suburban mom—pretty, wholesome, drove a minivan, cut organic apple slices for her teenagers, wore shirts about being blessed, the whole nine. Nothing wrong with that, but it wasn’t exactly my type.

And we weren’t her type, either. She wasn’t a motorcycle club bunny. She sure as shit wasn’t trying to live, laugh, love her way into a biker Eiffel Tower.

I’d say money corrupted and made people paranoid, but that wasn’t true.

Money gave people the balls to be who they truly were.

And most people were truly dickheads.

“He’s not on my schedule till next week.”

“Change of plans. He called today. Repeatedly.”

It was getting harder and harder to bite my tongue around Danes, so I said, “Send Glitch.”

“Can’t,” Judge shot back. “He doesn’t want Glitch involved anymore. Something about him trying to fuck his wife.”

“What a load of bullshit.”

“You sayin’ Glitch doesn’t wanna knock Mrs. Danes’ sensible shoes off?”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with sensible shoes,” I heard O snap in the background. “I wear them at work, and unlike these shitkickers, they don’t give me blisters.”

Ophelia used to work as a nurse in a ritzy retirement facility before Judge ‘temporarily restrained’ her.

Kidnapped.

He’d kidnapped her.

Once she’d gotten a taste of Mayhem in her life, she’d quit to take care of our sorry asses.

I, for one, appreciated having a nurse around. She’d patched us up when Haze and I were mysteriously jumped outside a bar. She had the best hangover remedies. She sure as shit had a better bedside manner for patching up road rash and busted knuckles than any of the brothers.

And she asked fewer questions than a hospital would.