Rhys’s Peace (Hyde #6)

Prologue

RHYS

Walking through Rye—my pride and fuckin’ joy—there was no lightness. No happiness. No sense of accomplishment for what a schmuck like me had accomplished.

Instead, there was exhaustion that sank in so deep, it replaced the marrow in my bones.

And rage.

There was a shit-ton of that, too.

Owning a business was a pain in the ass. It wasn’t knocking back shots with the bands that played. It wasn’t chilling in the office while my staff ran their asses off. It was staffing nightmares. Drama with bands who wanted to be drunk divas. It was the worst levels of paperwork hell.

And that was before the motherfucking cops raided the building earlier.

When they’d stormed in, I’d thought it had to be a mistake.

It was, but not because they had the wrong address.

It was because they were following a bullshit lead.

According to them, there’d been an anonymous tip I was serving underage kids.

The part that burned at me? It had almost been true.

While I’d been stuck behind the bar thanks to multiple no-call, no-shows, one of my bouncers had let four kids inside.

Thankfully, Harlow was also there to help because I’d had to jump over said bar when one of my competent security guards spotted the group.

When the literal children couldn’t even offer up the usual shitty fake IDs dumbasses tried to use, they were back on the street.

It was less than ten minutes later when the cops stormed in.

Maybe that was a fluke.

The pit in my gut said it wasn’t.

Rather than a night of decent bar tabs and a good concert that filled the place with attendees, the lights had come up so cops could check IDs on everyone. Since that was a damn process, people went in search of booze without the hassle. The band followed.

That loss of income was another stab at my narrowing bottom line, but it was also a blow to staff who counted on the tips from what should’ve been a busy night.

Ringing echoed through the silence, and I pulled my phone from my pocket to see Judge’s name flash across the screen.

Judge was the president of the Court of Mayhem MC.

I wasn’t a patched brother, but I was tight with the group.

We rode together when our schedules aligned—which was less often than I would’ve liked.

My bike and I hadn’t seen the open road in months.

More often, I swung by the converted church that was their clubhouse to catch a game or for dinner, but even that was a rare occurrence.

“Hawkins,” I greeted.

“Heard you had an exciting night.”

“Unlike poor Ophelia if you’re calling me. Weren’t you having a night in? You done already? I think they sell pills at the gas station to help with that. Made with genuine rhino dick or something.”

“Yeah, well, Hollywood and Haze stumbling in bloody and beat kinda killed the mood.”

The stifled giggle in the background said it wasn’t completely DOA, but I was too caught up on his words to give him shit.

“What the fuck happened?” I asked.

“Hoping you had some insight. They were headed your way for the concert. Parked down the street from Rye, climbed off their bikes, and were jumped.”

I filled him in on my night before saying, “Can’t figure out how it’s connected—”

“But it is,” he cut in, echoing my thoughts.

“Yup.”

Shit.