I need help.
Christ. If I ask my brothers for assistance, I’ll have to wait until they pick themselves up from the floor where they’d fallen laughing after seeing my bike on a romance novel. Then they’d crack up again at how I’d been taken for a fool. Not that I’d blame them, I’d do the same if the boot was on the other foot. So what do I do? Put it down to experience? That is not my style. It strikes me that if Lost’s old lady hadn’t a penchant for devouring any novel that mentions an MC, I’d never have known my photo had been used and had proof that I’d not been paid.
Trust Patsy to like reading that rubbish, it had gone out of my head that she did. But I had known, I’d even once asked Lost if he minded her filling her head with rubbish about fictional clubs, and people writing about shit they knew nothing about. For some reason, a broad grin had spread over his face, then he’d given me a knowing wink and had changed the subject.
Glancing down at my phone and the pictures I’d taken of the book on Patsy’s e-reader, I wonder if there’s something else I could do to locate the photographer without emailing him direct. Then I see something else I could try. Fara Weir, the author, has a website, perhaps she might know more.
Not holding out much hope, painfully slowly, hunting and pecking out each letter, I compose an email.
Dear Ms Weir (well I suppose I should be polite)
I’m looking for some fucking help. My motorcycle is featured on the cover of your book ‘Death Ride’. I am trying to locate the photographer, Devon Starr.
Do you know where I could reach him?
The bastard hasn’t paid me what we fuckin agreed. Any help to locate him would be appreciated.
Fucking Warmest regards
Grumbler Bart Winslow
After removing some of the words that I’d typed, I take a breath and press send.
Having no expectation of a speedy response, I stand, stretch, and move to the window. I’m so wound up, if I were to go downstairs, anyone would be able to see that I’m grumpier than normal and all the nosy fuckers would want to know why. Right now, I don’t want to tell them.
A ping from my laptop gets my attention. The author couldn’t have replied so fast, could she? Nah, it’s probably a spam email of some fucking sort, the kind Token sometimes warns us about. No one’s going to make me rich quick, and I’m not related to a long-lost Nigerian prince.
Not feeling particularly hopeful, I sit and look down at my emails again. Top of the list is one from Fara Weir.
Hi Bart
Your motorcycle is stunning, and with the models was so right for my book. As for Devon Starr, I’m sorry, I know little more than you. All my dealings have been via email. Being his friend on Facebook, I think he’s based in California, but that’s all I know. I bought the photo a few weeks ago now and have heard nothing further from him. As I paid in full, I don’t expect to. Sorry.
All the best
Fara xoxo
What the fuck does xoxo mean? Is it some secret code? Shrugging it off, I sit back, linking my hands behind my head. My gut tightens telling me I won’t be able to let this drop. No one takes the sergeant-at-arms of an outlaw MC for a fool, especially not some skank of a photographer.
But without more detail, my hands are tied.
So, I muse, closing my eyes. I’ve got three choices. Contact him directly by email, which I’m sure wouldn’t work, but maybe it would be amusing to show him I’m onto his game and that he’s been caught out. So, he might come up with the money he owes, but what’s stopping him doing it again? How many other pictures will he sell? I’ll never find out, unless Patsy reads all of them.
Or I could let it go, learn a lesson not to pimp my bike out again, and let Starr get one over on an ignorant biker. It’s not my favourite choice.
My final option is to involve Token, a man who keeps our data secure but when it comes to verbal information about any of us, cannot keep his fucking mouth shut. If I come clean and let him know why I’m tracking the photographer, it will be all over the club before I’ve finished my explanation.
I view the screenshots of the book’s information once more. Alicia Styles and Owen Leesom. Maybe I could find them instead? Maybe they got their payment from Starr, and maybe there is some way to track him down that way. At the very least, they might provide me with more information.
I don’t feel particularly comfortable chasing down kids, but there is an adult I can try to find. But what was the mother’s name? My eyes narrow as I think back to the brief conversation we had. Marie? Martha? Mary, that was it. Mary Styles, if she still has the same name as her daughter. I recall she’d mentioned an ex. If it had been an acrimonious parting, she might have returned to her maiden name, but for now, I could work on the principle that she’d hadn’t. Hold on, hadn’t she said he was dead? She had, and in that case, it’s probable she kept his name.
My hands still linked behind my head, I tap my fingers together. Now surely, I can come up with something plausible to get Token to track her down. I’ve just got to
