“What?” His eyes go wide. “Your bike’s not a fucking model. It’s a prop.” I lean forward and my fingers hover over the push button start. When he’s quiet, I push it hard. “No, wait a minute,” he yells over the sound of the engine.
I turn it back off as he eyes my bike once again. If he wants an example of a tricked-out Harley, he’ll have a long way to go to find one better than mine. And find some asshole who’s prepared to have him take photographs of it for nothing.
I wait, my face turned toward him with one eyebrow raised.
He pinches the brow of his nose and then walks around the bike. “Look, how about I give you a hundred dollars for each picture sold?”
“How many will you sell?”
“Maybe none,” he replies, honestly. “Your bike on its own won’t help sales. It depends on the appeal of the models. If they prove popular, then we’re looking at single or double digits.”
So, I may get nothing, or I may get a hundred dollars if I’m lucky—maybe even get up to four figures for doing nothing at all.
“Let me get this right. I bring my bike to a photoshoot, you take pictures, then I sit back and wait for the money to roll in, or not, as the case may be.”
“That’s right, man.” He looks overeager, as if he’s got me on the hook now, and to be honest, he probably has. I’m proud of my baby and enjoy showing her off.
I’m assessing the situation and really can’t see any harm in it. My brothers are unlikely to find out. The types of books the picture of my bike would appear on aren’t ones that would interest them at all. Why read about the life when you’re actually living it? We’d watched Sons of Anarchy, sure, but only for a laugh. All that violence and death was unrealistic.
Hmm. That was before the business with Snake, our ex-president who betrayed the club. Living through that had shown perhaps our life is just as treacherous and brutal. Things have settled down now, of course. Though I suppose recently stopping a trafficking pipeline across the border isn’t exactly quiet, but we don’t often do shit like that, thank fuck.
That last escapade had my current prez, Lost, finding his old lady as a result. The only downside was that Smoker had been a casualty.
A cough brings me back to the present. As I come back to myself, I realise, like the old man I am, I’ve gone down the rabbit hole of mental reminiscence.
I turn to the photographer and give him my terms. “Two-fifty per sale.”
His mouth opens wide. “Man, that’s going to break me. I’ve got to pay the models as well.”
“How long does the photoshoot last?” I query. “An hour, two?” When he nods, I say, “And for two hours work you just sit back and let the money roll in?”
“There’s the editing, the loading of photographs onto my website, promotion, running ads. There’s a lot more to it than just taking shots with my camera.” Twin spots of red appear on his cheeks as though I’ve insulted his manhood.
Once again, I reach for the start button. I’m not bothered one way or another, he’s the one with the most to lose.
“Two hundred, and that’s my last offer.”
There it is. I turn and grin at him, giving him a chin lift. “Two hundred.” I spit on my palm, then hold out my hand for him to shake.
He stares at it as though it’s a poisonous snake, then tentatively reaches out to take it. His grip isn’t firm, allowing me to take the opportunity to show him I might be old, but my strength hasn’t gone.
“Give me your cell, and I’ll call you when I’ve got the models lined up.”
Rattling off the number I know by heart, I wait until I’m sure that he’s got it. Then I don’t dally, starting the engine, kicking down into first, and pulling away with a loud roar of my exhaust.
On the way back to the clubhouse, I’m grinning. If this comes off, there might be some easy money for me in it. I take my hand off the clutch and stroke the tank of my baby. After all, she’ll be doing all the work if you can call it that. All she’ll need to do is sit there and look pretty. And boy, she can certainly do that.
Chapter Two
Grumbler
“Moving to the next point for discussion. Alder.” Lost, our prez, looks around at all the members gathered in church. “Those loose ends we thought might be hanging? Well, Utah assures me there’s nothing more to worry about. I’m tempted to now remove this item from the agenda.”
“While we might not want to discuss it weekly at church, we should still keep our ears and eyes open.” Wearing my sergeant-at-arms hat, I look out for all the members of the club, and that includes old ladies. “I’m not sure I trust our Mormon brothers.”
Dart, the VP, barks a laugh. “They’re based in Utah, that doesn’t mean they’re Mormon.”
I shrug, reserving judgement about anything to do with that club. Whatever that chapter is, they aren’t normal, or not like us anyway. We’d always thought they weren’t any different, but as it turned out, what we’d assumed had been wrong.
That all came to light a few weeks back when Prez and the VP had flown to an emergency meeting in Utah called by Drummer, the mother chapter prez. When they’d returned, what they had to say had blown our minds.
Our Utah brothers, who to my mind are lucky to be able to still call themselves that, have been pulling the wool over all the other Satan’s Devils’ chapters’ eyes. Having led us to believe
