By seven in the evening, the clubhouse has shifted into full-on party mode. The heavy scent of garlic butter, fried calamari, and grilled lobster fills the room as three giant wooden tables are pushed together to hold the massive seafood spread Mayhem ordered.
The guys are in incredibly rowdy spirits. Laughter echoes off the timber rafters, glasses clink constantly, and stories from old road runs are being shouted over the music.
Then, out come the heavy bottles.
Brick pulls three bottles of top-shelf, small-batch bourbon out from behind the bar, while Rook uncorks a dark, aged tequila.
"Alright!" Mayhem booms, pouring amber shots down the line of glasses set up across the center table. "A hardcore toast, now. None of that champagne nonsense from last night. Real liquor for a real mile
