“Fishtail exhausts,” I tell him, having decided.
“You added new pipes when your bike was rebuilt.” I just shrug. It’s my bike and my money, I can do what I want. I don’t need to explain myself to anyone.
“Leave him alone, Pennywise,” Salem admonishes him, which is alright for him to say, he was just criticising me himself. Brothers. Got to love ‘em.
My phone pings. As I take it out of my pocket, my eyes crease as I see a number I don’t recognise. Pennywise and Salem start discussing the paint job the enforcer is working on. I open the text. A light bulb goes off in my head as I realise who it’s from. It’s the photographer I met a week or so back. As he hadn’t contacted me, I’d forgotten he’d wanted to take pictures of my bike, and, as time had passed, thought he was no longer interested. It seems I was wrong.
The message asks if I can meet him this afternoon at three. He names a scenic spot coincidentally up the road from the old airfield where our compound is situated. It’s a good place, views out over the Pacific will make a good background, and, unlike the beach idea, a bit of gravel, but no fucking sand.
I purse my lips, considering it. I can still stop off at the store and have plenty of time to make the meet. What have I got to lose? Can’t see a downside to this, and the upside is, that for a nice ride out and an hour or so standing around, I might end up with some dollars in my wallet. I stab at the keyboard and laboriously tap out my reply.
Grumbler: I’ll be there
“I hear that you’re heading out to the store?” Niran’s deep voice barks from behind me.
“Yeah. I’m heading there now. You wanna come with?”
“Not that I can afford anything,” Niran laughs, “but I’m up for a bit of window shopping.”
Standing, I slap his back. “You’ll end up buying something.”
He gives that throaty chuckle of his. “You’re a bad influence, old man.”
I show him my middle finger at the reminder.
It’s a pleasant way of wasting a couple of hours on a Saturday morning, though the outcome is surprising. I can’t find the exact exhaust, which I think would enhance my bike. Niran though, he ends up with a black cam cover for his hog. I yank his chain that my love of customising my bike has rubbed off on him.
We drink the free coffee and have a chat with a couple of bikers who’ve stopped in, taking the opportunity to slip them one of the club’s auto-shop cards while singing Salem’s praises and showing them some pictures of jobs that he's completed. Niran also plugged the store we own next to our auto-shop for non-branded apparel and parts which work out cheaper. Then we finish up by discussing some of our favourite rides in the vicinity. We’ve had a nice chat with like-minded folks and maybe have drummed up some business for the club. Niran and I exchange satisfied grins as we go out to our rides.
“What are you doing now, Brother?”
“Going back to the club. You?”
Niran looks down at his tank for a moment. “I think I might take a ride. It’s a nice day to get the breeze on your knees. Sure you don’t want to come?”
I would, if I hadn’t got that darn photoshoot this afternoon. I consider blowing it off, but if I give my word, I normally keep it. But I won’t be sharing what I’m doing with Niran or any of the other nosy assholes. Brothers will be brothers and I can just imagine what they’ll say if I let them know pictures of my bike might end up on covers for romance novels of all things. So I content myself with a non-explanation.
“Nah, I’m good, Brother.”
Amicably, we part ways. Niran zooming off, with me looking longingly after him, thinking for a moment perhaps a good ride out with my brother might be preferable to the unknown, or what I suspect will be standing around, watching a photographer take pics.
Still having time to spare, I return to the clubhouse. Heading to the kitchen, I make myself a sandwich, then return to the bar area to eat it. Scribe, Brakes and Reboot are there, playing cards. They offer to deal me in, but on checking my phone, I see I haven’t got time to get involved in a game, so I settle myself by just watching on, keeping an eye on the time to ensure I’m not going to be late.
When the digits show me it’s time to leave, I stand and stretch, bouncing my bike key in my hand.
“Where you off to?” Pennywise, entering the room calls out.
I pause, when directly challenged, I don’t want to be evasive or lie. So I tell him the truth, yelling back my answer while grinning widely. “I’m going to pimp my ride.”
Pimp my ride. I’m still chuckling to myself as I go out of the clubhouse and swing my leg over the saddle.
Pointing my bike up away from the city, I settle back to enjoy the short journey, the feeling of the wind and sun on my face, and the pavement rushing past beneath my wheels spells freedom to me. When I arrive at the scenic overview, it’s with time to spare. Pulling a rag out of my pocket, I go around my baby, making sure there’s not a speck of dust or a smear of grease on it. Stepping back, I view it with critical eyes. It’s gleaming and perfect, even if I say so myself.
A car pulls up. I half turn my head that way, seeing a girl who looks very damn young getting out of the passenger side. She slams the door, making me wince. My attention caught, I watch her stomp stubbornly away with folded arms making me wonder what’s got her goat. Intrigued, I focus
