Looking up, I roll my eyes. “I take a breather and get caught by the boss.”
Prez barks out a laugh. “So this is how you spend your days. Always suspected you slacked off on the job.”
I raise my middle finger toward the prez. He knows I put in my hours. “You need anything, Prez?”
“Nah, just dropped off Patsy’s car. Needs an oil change and one of her tyres is wearing a bit low.”
He’d be worried about that. Lost would do anything to keep his old lady safe.
“Hi, Grumbler.” Patsy puts her head around the door, doing that little finger wave women are apt to offer.
Lost turns and directs himself to her. “Wait here for me, babe. Just need a word with Scribe about your car.”
When she nods, Lost disappears. Then Patsy’s eyes sharpen as they turn toward me. “I thought Salem did a custom job on your tank.”
Tilting my head sideways, I put aside the parts manual and look up, surprised by her statement. “He did. Why?” I get to my feet, grimacing as my leg’s stiffened in just the minute or so I’ve been sitting down. I place my hand on my desk, thinking about the work that had been done on my bike. The enforcer had done a fucking good job.
“Does he do the same for other people? Or is someone copying his style?”
I bristle. My bike’s a one-off, and if Salem has done the same paint job on someone else’s bike, I’ll want to know why before his teeth meet my fist.
Instead of elaborating, she fumbles in her purse, digging down deep like women seem to do, then with an exclamation of triumph, pulls a small tablet out. She taps the screen and slides her finger across it, then passes it over to me.
In big letters there’s a title, Death Ride, and the author’s name, Fara Weir, is underneath. And there, in pride of place, is my fucking bike—one of the pictures that had been taken weeks back. I slide the screen and quickly find the details I need.
Photographer: Devon Starr
Models: Alicia Styles and Owen Leesom
There’s no fuckin’ mention of my bike, not a tribute or thanks for me allowing it to be used. Should there be? Fuck if I know. Maybe there should and perhaps Starr is as fucking dirty as I originally suspected he might be. One thing is blatantly obvious, he’s shafted me. I’d had no contact from the day he assured me he’d be in touch if a picture using my bike was sold, but no such contact had been made, which meant I was out of pocket two hundred bucks.
Taking my phone out of my cut, I snap a picture of the cover that Patsy’s shown me. As I do, I notice she’s standing with her chin raised, her head leaning more toward her left shoulder than the right, and her expression is pensive. Slowly a grin spreads over her face.
“I take it from your reaction that this,” she taps the screen of her e-reader I’ve just handed back, “is your bike.”
I might be a biker, but I live by a code. Unless it’s to protect my brothers, I don’t like to lie, especially not to my president’s old lady, so I keep my mouth firmly shut.
Her grin widens, and she reaches forward and touches my arm. “Your secret’s safe with me.” She starts to turn, presumably to go off and find her man. “It’s a good picture, Grumbler. Really shows off your bike.” Then she disappears out back, ignoring the fact Lost had told her to wait—just like a woman.
Gazing after her, I narrow my eyes. Sure, she’ll keep a secret from her man. Of course she won’t. But Lost’s a good man. He’ll guess if I haven’t said anything that I won’t want it common knowledge that I literally pimped out my ride.
Still, I’ve got heavier shit to deal with than being the butt of a fuckload of jokes if were the truth to come out, like this asshole of a photographer taking me for a ride. You do not cross a Satan’s Devil and he’s going to learn that. I think it’s time I go and pay him a visit. First of all, though, I’ll have to find out where he resides.
Following the path Patsy took earlier, I call out to Scribes that I’m calling it a day, hang up my overalls, then walk back to the converted hangar which is our clubhouse, and take the stairs up to the place that I call home. To some it wouldn’t be much, a room containing little more than a closet, a desk and chair, and of course, a large king-sized bed. Off to one side is a door leading to a private bathroom. On the desk is an ever-growing pile of bike magazines and parts manuals. Taking out my wallet, I look inside. No card.
I go to the desk and then rummage through the drawer. Coming up blank in both places, I rack my brains. What did I do with it? Damn it. Suspecting I tossed it, I look into the garbage can. Empty. Well, if it wasn’t Wrangler, Curtis and Connor wouldn’t have a chance at getting patched in.
Moving the pile of periodicals aside, I open my laptop. It takes a few moments to come to life and I tap my fingers impatiently. As soon as I reach the search engine, I enter Devon Starr’s name. I find a load of social information about him, but there’s no physical address anywhere that I can find. Fuck. My immediate idea of riding to find him and literally shaking my money out of him goes straight out the window. He has an email address on his website though, and Facebook
