Honestly, I’ve been giving the bird to so many people this week, I’m starting to worry I’ll get repetitive strain injury. I was hoping that I’d have found the photographer, taught him he shouldn’t mess with a biker, and be done with all this by now. But Friday’s come around, and Token has repeated that Devon Starr is a man who doesn’t want to be found.
He’s done what he does best, and I’ve contacted authors. I’d tried to call him again, only to find his number is no longer in use. I think we may have made him suspicious when Mary rang him last weekend, or maybe it was my subsequent call to Owen.
Mary, I’ve spoken to her a couple more times. Strangely, our conversations veered off the subject of models and photographs, and I’ve discovered more about her and her life, finding much to admire about her seeing as she works a full-time job as well as bringing up her child. Alicia, well, she’s a handful, but I hadn’t lied when I compared her to some of the prospects I’d seen during my time. Those that joined when they were eighteen had been know-it-all brats who needed to have common sense knocked into them.
Our phone calls had all lasted some time. Even when we got onto a topic where are views didn’t coincide, I’d enjoyed having an adult discussion with her, without coming to verbal blows. In truth though, most of her thinking aligns with mine. I can’t remember when I last really talked to a woman and enjoyed it for what it was. I’m a grumpy old fucker who’s lived and played in the company of men for years, but I find talking to her surprisingly refreshing.
I take my seat, knowing I’m going to be the butt of more jokes when I call up the other business I need to discuss.
Lost kicks it off. Salem gives a report about how the custom workshop is doing. It’s unsurprising that with the extra space, Salem’s been able to take on more jobs.
“Connor’s doing well,” Salem finishes up. “He’s picking up a lot and putting his college education into action.”
“He need a stint at the auto-shop?” Pennywise, who still manages our main shop in town, asks. “Get some of the basics down?”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” Salem agrees.
Blaze is next to raise his hand. “Had a local paper want to do a piece about the tattoo shop. Apparently, we had some good recommendations for our work.”
“I hate to bring up something not so good.” Deuce gets our attention with his words. “There are a few bikers that have been coming to the bar. I’ve seen little baggies changing hands.”
“Dealing?” Lost asks, sharply.
Deuce sighs. “Yeah.”
“We don’t want their types around,” I say sharply. There are good reasons why we don’t deal in drugs and don’t want that business conducted on our premises. Not to mention, it might bring us to the attention of the cops. While we’re not the ones doing it, we’ll find it hard to defend ourselves. Feds are always looking for a reason to take an MC down.
“What d’you need, Brother?” Prez asks.
“Couple of brothers coming to help me sort them out.” Deuce responds quickly, as though he’s already thought about it.
“Who are the bikers?” I ask. “Another club?”
“They’re not flying colours.”
It still doesn’t rule it out. We don’t hide that the bar is owned by the Satan’s Devils MC. The clientele we attract are often weekend warriors who like chewing the ear off anyone who’d listen to them talk about their rides, or members of the public feeling tough for taking a walk on the wild side. Local friendly clubs, including members of the dominant—the Wretched Soulz—are welcome as long as they behave themselves. But we’re always aware we might attract a criminal element.
“I’ll go,” I offer.
“Me too.”
I give the enforcer a chin lift.
“I’ll be there.” I’m unsurprised when Niran offers.
“Anymore?” the prez asks. “If we’re going to nip this in the bud, we want to make sure we’re not outnumbered.”
The VP raises his hand. “I’ll be there.” After cracking his knuckles together, he adds, grinning, “Been a while since I knocked a few heads together.”
“Put like that, count me in,” Kink offers.
Scribe leans forward and points to him. “No naked pets.”
For some reason, that cracks us up.
Lost bangs the gavel, as much calling for quiet as anything else. “Sorted.”
Brakes reports the strip club hasn’t any problems, and his suggestion that we might want to go along the following weekend to see a new dancer is met with unanimous support.
Bones, after sniffing loudly, says the finances are fine, and then, at last, we’re onto other business.
Token stares at me. I clear my throat, and then I start. “You all know that my bike was used in a photoshoot.”
“And that you’re missing out on at least a grand,” Token puts in, staring around the table, letting the brothers know how serious this is.
Brakes, one of the brothers who’s given me the most shit this week, widens his eyes. Up to now he’d thought it too much of a hoot to pay attention to the details. “So you did what, stood and watched someone take pictures of your bike and that earned you a fuckin’ grand.”
Token supports me again. “They’re the ones we know of. More photos could have been sold, but the covers haven’t been revealed as yet. So yeah, Grumbler pimping his ride earned himself at least a thousand bucks, maybe more.”
Bones snorts. “Well, there you go. Grumbler wasn’t as crazy as we assumed.”
“Er, any chance I could get in on this gig? Mine’s a good ride.”
“Best get the prospects to give it a shine first, Snips.”
