“Hey! Hold up.”
At the man’s shout I raise my head, looking around to see whose attention the voice is trying to attract. There’s no one around but me and the hippy type, one of the many we get in Southern California, running down the road heading straight toward me, a card of some sort held in his hands.
I frown, wondering what he could want. I could ignore him, press start, then kick down into gear and leave him in my dust but admit I’m curious as to why he’s yelling at me. I’m blocking no one in, and am, for once, legally parked.
When he gets close enough to speak, I say nothing, just lean my arms over the tank and raise an eyebrow.
He’s out of breath as he pants out, “This your bike, man?”
I admit to feeling a sense of pride as he’s all but drooling. “She’s mine.”
“She’s a real beaut.” His eyes take in everything from the eagle on the front fender, to the ornate license plate holder on the rear. “Must take you ages to keep the chrome gleaming like that.”
I admit I prefer to keep her neat myself, but if I don’t have the time, one of the prospects will do it. They know if there’s as much as a smear of polish left when they’ve finished, they’ll be in for a world of hurt. I tell him none of that. He can look and admire, but he’s not going to get anything else.
By now he’s realised I’m not the talkative type and stops waiting for me to answer. “The name’s Devon Starr.” He puts the card he was holding in his other hand and stretches out his right. I stare at it, but I don’t take it.
The man doesn’t look like a fed or a cop, but you can never be too careful. I haven’t lived the biker life for thirty years without becoming ultra-cautious.
For a moment, he looks dumbfounded, but he recovers fast, now shoving his card toward me. Idle curiosity makes me take it.
Devon Starr. Photographer.
Hmm. Perhaps he wants to take pictures of my bike? In my head, I have an image of my beloved machine on the cover of a magazine, or perhaps a centrefold spread. My heart starts beating faster—now, that, I could go for.
I raise my eyebrow again.
“My photos are used on the covers of novels.” He preens a little. “Many authors come to me for the right picture.”
“Novels?” I frown, my dream of seeing my Harley in a magazine for bikers disappearing. “What kind of fuckin’ novels?”
The photographer shrugs. “Anything they want. Some action and adventure, but mainly they’re romance.” He must notice my perplexed expression. Why the fuck would he be interested in my bike? I can’t see how that can sell love stories to women until he adds, “MC, motorcycle club romance is all the rage at the moment. People are crying out for pictures of hot bikers and hot bikes. And your bike is hot, man.”
My lips curve slightly. “You want to take my picture? You think it will sell books?” Jeez, I haven’t had a compliment like that in years, if ever.
“Er…” Devon looks a bit taken aback and shifts from one foot to the other. “Ah, no. C’mon, man, you’re not exactly the ideal of what young girls go for. Your bike, yes. Fuck, hell yeah, but you? Nah. The age bracket isn’t right.”
Raising only my eyes, I look up at him through my hooded lids. “So, let me get this right. You want to use my bike. Presumably with another model.”
His head bobs up and down. “Yeah. That’s right. That’s what I want to do. I’ve thought of the perfect place to do it, the beach. We can roll it onto the sand and…” his voice trails off, probably at my expression of what blown sand could do to my tank, and as for rolling darn near seven hundred pounds of bike over soft ground, there’s no telling what damage it would do.
Devon hastily backtracks. “On the sidewalk, with the sea in the background. I’m sure we can find somewhere to show it off.”
“And this other model? What would he do?”
“Sit on your bike—”
Seeing red, my tone reflects it. “Ain’t no one going to be touching my bike except me. Big fuckin’ disrespect right there. No man ever touches another man’s ride.”
The photographer seems unfazed. “Well, perhaps he can just stand beside it. That would do. We could make it work. What do you say, man? This motorcycle is wonderful. I really must get it in a shot.”
I haven’t survived being sergeant-at-arms for the Satan’s Devils MC without having a few wits in my head. Even if my body’s a bit slower nowadays, my brain still works fine. Pulling a pack of cigarettes out of my cut, I tap one out. Nowadays, I rarely smoke, but it helps me think when I do.
Cupping my hand around my lighter, I put the flame to the tip and breathe in deeply. As I’m putting my Zippo back in my pocket, I ask lazily, “These models of yours, they get paid?”
“They wouldn’t do it for anything else,” Devon scoffs. “They don’t get a modelling fee per se, but when a photo is sold, we share a fifty-fifty cut.”
“Yeah?” I take another drag, then blow smoke out. “Okay, I’m interested. What do the photos sell for?” My new smartphone takes some darn good shots. I’m half considering if that’s something I could do myself. Our computer guy Token would help me set up a website, I’m sure.
The photographer goes quiet.
I nod and tap the pocket where I’d placed his card. “Presumably your rates are on your website.”
He sighs. “Six hundred dollars for a single model. Eight hundred for two. I take fifty percent, the model or models get the rest.”
That sounds quite lucrative for not
