by Jolie Day
“Can I give you a bit of advice, love?” she asks timidly as I bring over a tray to the corner table and chairs where she’s sitting.
Quite frankly, advice is really what I want, but maybe not from Mrs. Loughty, who I highly doubt has worked a day in her life. But because I don’t want to hurt her feelings, and I’d be a lot worse off without her (she’s the one who got me into this apartment), I smile and nod and try to remain open to her wisdom.
“Skip the job hunt,” she blurts out curtly. “Find a husband instead.”
“Come again, Mrs. Loughty?”
“You heard me.” She smiles mischievously. “If you get married, you can become a citizen. You’re better off looking for a man than you are a job.”
I shake my head and take a slow, patient sip of my tea. What is it with everyone this morning? Has everyone gone mad? I have a floundering career, no job prospects, and a soon-to-expire work visa, and everybody in my life seems to think this is a good time for dating. Unbelievable.
In the background, I hear a ding, signaling a new e-mail waiting in my inbox.
“I have a few men I could set you up with.” She perks up with excitement. “My mate Linda has a son, and he’s very well off. He’s a gynecologist.”
“Oh, is he?” I try to hide my shudder at the thought of being romantic with a man who spends his days looking between women’s legs.
“Yes, and a very handsome one, too.” She takes a bite of her biscuit, and her dentures nearly fall out. She puts them back in as if nothing happened and continues on, “Well, I only saw one photograph, but that green-lime tie looked perfect with his ginger hair.” She stares off dreamily. “If I was thirty years younger. Well, make that fifty.”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Loughty.” I chuckle. She certainly is a character. “We should really find you somebody, too.”
She shakes her head. “Oh, no, child. I can’t do that to my Charles. He would turn in his grave.”
“Charles was his name?”
“I used to call him Prince Charles, like the Prince of Wales, and he called me ‘My Duchess.’ You probably know such clownery from your own parents.”
“Oh… I, my Dad left when I was small, we don’t—”
“Ah, but of course, darling, your mother told me.” She places her hand on my own. “Where is that old head of mine? I’m forgetful at times, like an ancient bat.” She giggles.
“No worries, you’re fine.” I give her a warm smile and squeeze her hand in assurance. “It’s been wonderful chatting with you, Mrs. Loughty. I’ve heard a few e-mails come through just in the time you’ve been here. If one of those isn’t a job offer, I’m certain something will come through any day now.”
As I say it, I feel a nagging feeling in my gut, and I know I’m trying to convince myself just as much as I’m trying to convince her.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it then, my dear.” She wobbles up from the chair on her cane.
I thank her again for the flowers. “Have a happy afternoon, Mrs. Loughty.”
“Goodbye, child. Let me know if you change your mind about my mate, Linda’s son, you hear?”
I suppress a laugh at her recalling his appearance. “Rest assured that I will.”
I’m almost scared to look at the computer by the time she’s gone, but I take a deep breath and try to convince myself that good news could be waiting for me.
But any shred of optimism I have left flies out the window when I sift through another string of rejection letters waiting for me in my inbox. I thought Americans worshipped Europeans in the fashion industry, such as Chanel, Dior, and Gucci. Why exactly do I seem to be so undesirable to these employers?
I’m at the height of my frustration when suddenly, I catch sight of a newly posted lead. Embry Gear, originally founded as Embry Denim, is hiring a procurement manager. Having heard of the Embry company before, of course I’m interested. I spend a few minutes researching the company and stumble upon the CEO’s name. Joel Embry. Joel. What a sexy name. Too bad there’s no photo of him. I wonder if he’s hot, I think, but I honestly doubt it. Let’s face it, most CEOs look like dorks—it’s an unwritten law of the universe. Not that it matters. To work in purchasing for Joel Embry and his company would elevate my résumé to a point where I’m certain I’d never have to scramble for a job again. I’d likely have people seeking me out with job offers.
Who am I kidding? I’ve already been rejected by twenty or more jobs that were several pay grades down from this one. Then there’s the issue that brought me here in the first place. If I was capable of handling such an important position, why didn’t one of my old employers move me into purchasing back in London?
But becoming a buyer had been a dream of mine since university. Working for a big denim manufacturer rather than a well-known boutique or chain store might be just the thing I need to breathe some fresh air into my flailing career. Most importantly, I’m desperate.
I tweak my résumé just a tad to entice them more and send it off, certain that I’ll never hear back. Companies like that probably don’t even bother sending rejection letters. They’re too important and too busy.
I keep searching and applying for hours until there’s nothing left in my field. What I’ve sent out so far has to lead somewhere, or else I’m buggered.
2
Joel
The diner sits on the corner of a busy street. There are rows of bikes parked near the front that make it obvious it’s a MC joint or for others like us. I pull my bike into an empty spot, right next to a few of my boys already inside.
The place is packed, with waitresses taking orders, the sound of dishes clanging, and the smell of coffee hits me when I walk in. Just what I need right now. Eric, Clay, and Max lean back in their seats, drinking coffee next to a large window. I see a younger-looking couple in a booth to their right—probably strangers who fucked the night before—the guy sweet-talked the chick into getting on his bike to ride out for breakfast. I know because I’ve done it a few times myself.
Most of the people here are part of motorcycle clubs, many filled with old men who look like our oldest member, Ralphie, who’s not here today. Neither is Vorn, the club’s boss. Max Stormwell’s here. He’s from the Rhode Island Chapter in Narragansett Bay, and it’s good, but not uncommon to see him passing through the city.
Me and my crew, Eric and Clay, aren’t the heart of the club. The real Hell’s Seven MC isn’t for pussies. They don’t just play hard-core bikers. They live the life. A while back, they got into some real shit, and me being in the corporate world, I can’t get too involved. Otherwise, it could hurt my business. Maybe it sounds like an excuse to some. And, truth be told, it probably is. But I won’t take that chance. Eric and Clay work at my company, and we hang out when we can, but our jobs come first.
Out of all of us, Eric’s probably the last one you’d imagine working by my side in a suit during the day, with his rock ‘n’ roll style and the five o’clock shadow he keeps on the regular. He’s got his own bike shop, and I’m sure once he gets it going, Embry will be the first place he gives the big ole “fuck you” to. But truth is, the three of us look like any other random bikers when we’re sitting in a dive like this in our blue jeans and leather jackets. You’d never know we change into fucking suits just after meeting up.
Vorn tolerates us. Only allows Clay and me a spot because of what happened to our dads—they used to be core members before they were killed. Maybe Vorn felt responsible for us or some shit, because he eventually took us under his wing. He made it his mission to show us the ways of our fathers—the “right” way—making sure we don’t make the same stupid-ass mistakes. And part of that means we stay out of illegal activities, unless we’ve got reasons.
Most of the other guys don’t know I’m loaded, and let’s just say, I’d like to keep it that way. Do I ever wonder about the future? I used to. Especially when I think about where me and the boys come from. I’m not a trouble-seeking idiot. In fact, I’m a pr
etty chill guy, but I’ve got nothing on Eric. That guy’s got a level of chill even I’ve got to respect. He’s got zero fucks to give. If a fuckin’ zombie was to walk up to him right now, he’d roll a cigarette and probably offer it to him. It’d probably work, too.
Me, though, I sure as shit don’t think I could handle comments like, “Look at the rich kid trying to play tough guy.” Nah. I’d kick a fucker’s ass, and quick. Most guys have got no clue of the bigger picture and don’t give a fuck, anyway. I’ve been arrested seven times as a teen for misconduct and violence. I was an angry kid.
Plus, it’s not like I built the company from the ground up—my grandfather did. My father didn’t give two shits. None of that matters now. If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: You can lose it all in the time it takes somebody to snap their fuckin’ fingers.
Max is the first one to nod at me when I take my seat. He’s always treated me like a brother. He’s the one who made sure I stayed true to my roots as a biker by putting in a word with Vorn, the boss, and bringing me into the MC. For all the terrible shit Max has seen, biking is in his blood. And to him, part of that means belonging to a club—even if it doesn’t carry on the notorious traditions of its past.
“Good to see ya, Joel.” He grins over his coffee mug. “Eric tells me you’re always the first one to get to work and the last to leave. Judging by how you are with us, I’d never guess you had it in you to be on time for anything.”
“You got jokes.” I shake my head with a smirk. “I got carried away on my ride over. Ended up taking the long way. The weather outside’s too nice to pass up.”
“It’s making me antsy,” Clay grumbles, eyeing a few young girls in short dresses walking by the window.
“Everything makes you antsy,” Eric wisecracks, unable to resist looking at the girls himself. He scratches his arm, lifting the sleeve of his shirt just enough to expose the tattoo of a hawk, and the skull with a star on its forehead underneath.
“Do you remember Black Lola?” I ask him.
“Hohoho. Best blowie of my life.”
Eric and I are similar in the sense that we don’t chase women like Clay. None of us are hurting for female attention by any means, but Clay just has a desperation about him in the way he goes after them.
“You boys gotta make the most of spring.” Max eyes us and then flips through the menu. “When I was a free man, it was always the best time of year. Hot women love to jump on the back of a bike and ride off into the sunset—or your bed.”
I can tell there’s not an ounce of regret in him. And you see it even more in the way he looks at his wife, Regina. Reg. She’s feisty as hell. He’s madly in love with that woman, and, according to him, she’s enough to keep him from ever missing his bachelor days.
What bonds the rest of us together is our aversion to it, even if I do think Clay wants a relationship more than he lets on. Seeing how happy Max and his lady are is enough to do that, I guess. I mean, if that’s your thing.
Me and Eric just seem to be immune to it. I sure as shit don’t want any part of it.
“We’ve got to get in as much riding as we can in the next couple weeks.” Eric nods. “We’re about to be pretty fucking busy with work.”
I pick up my coffee. “Yeah, we’ve got a big deal in the works.”
Clay nods, seeming to play it cool, but I detect a hint of nervousness. A lot of factors hinge on what we accomplish in the next month, and he’s never been able to hide his concerns well with me. Even still, we’re both pretty good at keeping our cool. I can read him like a book because we’ve been friends since we were kids.
Max shoots me a look like a proud father. “Is that so?”
“It’s time to take things to the next level,” I tell him, just before the waitress takes our order.
By the time our food’s delivered, we’re lost in talk about which routes we plan to take in our upcoming rides. It’s the kind of conversation that always seems to bore Clay.
“Well, in other news…I caught wind of some bike parts that’ll be available soon,” Clay pipes in. “Hey, Max. It could be a good time to snag them and fix up some of those old motorcycles laying around your garage.”
Max’s eyes darken at him across the table. “Oh, yeah? Available soon?” He sighs, not seeming thrilled or interested at all.
We both know “available soon” means he’s got a scheme in mind to steal them off a hijacked truck. A truck that just so happens to belong to a rival MC—Saro’s fuckin’ Sons, no doubt. Just thinking their name causes a chill to run down my spine. The carnage they caused…they’re responsible for the images I’ll never be able to unsee. All those bodies. The blood. Everywhere. It still haunts me to this day. I shake my head to get rid of the ghosts of my past.
We suspect they were responsible for a robbery at Eric’s bike shop months ago, but we don’t know for sure. Eric ran with his suspicions, though, and he’s been trying to get back at them ever since. Vorn and Max won’t allow it—not without having a plan. It’s like he thinks by tempting us with fixing up some bikes, we’ll suddenly be okay with that kind of thing.
“Come on, Max,” Clay groans. “I get why you’re reluctant to get back into the game. I get that the club’s still licking its wounds. But this is a solid lead. Low risk.”
Clay and Eric stare at him, Clay’s legs bouncing like a fucking kid in anticipation of his refusal. I just sit back and watch it all unfold, having grown used to seeing this kind of shit happen over and over again.
“You want to get your dick ripped off and shoved down your throat, Clay?” Max finally barks, before wiping a napkin across his mouth. “Don’t get greedy.”
“Doesn’t look like you’re starving, man.” Eric pipes in. “You’ve got a job that pays your bills. Unless the Wolf of Midtown really fucks up, then we’ll all be out on the streets.” Eric raises his head and howls like a fucking wolf.
Clay snorts, and of course, the jokes on me.
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave my hand at him. “One small article, and the name fuckin’ sticks with you guys. I’ve always hated that comparison, but go ahead and yuck it up, assholes.”
“Ah, come on, man.” Max slaps me on the back. “Everybody’s got a nickname.” He chuckles. “Care if I call ya Wolfy Boy?”
I narrow my eyes. “You might be one of my oldest friends, but do it, and I’ll cut you.” I can’t keep the hint of laughter from my voice. I love these guys, assholes or not. They’re my brothers. Wolfy Boy? I can’t help but shake my head at that one. Creative fuckers.
“Sure you would.” Max sips his coffee with a grin.
Clay turns back to the window, not saying a word, looking frustrated. He can be pissed if he wants. No one in this club wants for anything, so the way I see it—why risk doing something illegal just for the hell of it? But since Clay hasn’t seen the shit I have, sometimes it’s like he just needs to get off and do stupid shit, just to prove something.
Ultimately, the decision is up to Vorn (not that there’s a doubt in anybody’s mind he’d kick the guys’ asses for getting involved in stupid shit), but everybody knows we’ll always respect Max’s view on these kinds of things. They don’t understand the real reasons he doesn’t want to touch those old bikes sitting out in his garage.
“Okay. Suit yourselves.” Clay bows his head with his arms up in mock-surrender. “I’ve got to get to work. You guys coming?”
Eric jumps up to join him, but Max hangs back, giving me that look that says he’s got something he needs to talk to me about.
“You two go ahead. See ya at the office in a few.”
“Okay.” Eric pats my shoulder and waggles his eyebrows. “Are we still on for tonight? We can get some of that spring-fever action with hot women.”
“Yeah, man.” I smirk. “Catch up with ya soon.”
Max just chuckles and shakes his head when the two leave. “Hey, Wolf, I’m glad you’ve got your head on straight. Those two are always askin’ for trouble.”
&nb
sp; I nod after taking a swig of coffee. “I’ve got you to thank for that.”
“No, you can thank your mom for that…for sending you off to that fancy boarding school.”
“If it had been up to her, I’d be an elitist rich asshole.” I shake my head, wishing just for once he’d stop being too damn humble to let himself take credit for anything. “You and Vorn made sure I knew about the other side…where I come from.”
We both become quiet and stare off, thinking about the same thing even if we never say it. My father. He was a big disappointment to our family, according to my mom and grandparents. “Disloyal prick,” I heard granddad say when he talked about him. No surprise. I saw him less and less the older I got. When I was a young kid, he used to be around all the time—he was actually there for me—but that all changed. He’d be there a week or so and gone even longer, until one day, he was out of our lives forever.
Here’s what money can’t buy you. A hug from your father. Spending time with him. Hearing that he loves you. In the end, they sent me off—to make sure I had no criminal record and I’d be fit to take over my grandfather’s company.
Guess they worried that I’d end up in jail, and I probably would have. After my first arrest, they thought the other guy started it. After my second, they hired a bullshit psychologist “to get to the root of my hostility.” After my third arrest, they thought I wanted to get attention (Spoiler: I did), and after my sixth arrest, they gave me an ultimatum. When I was arrested the seventh time, they decided “that’s it,” and sent me off to some bullshit, snooty-as-fuck boarding school. That’s where I met Eric. He had similar fucking parents. Raised by his elderly uncle for the most part. But he was cool about it.
“Why bother,” he’d said. “Can’t change any of it, so fuck it.”
He had my back, and I had his. We bonded over our shitty parents, spirit animals, tattoos—that kind of thing. We got our first tattoos done together, too. The chick that tattooed us, Lola, had short black hair, black lipstick, black toenails, and a rack that still gives me a hard-on. It was me who introduced Eric to bikes. Ah, man, he was hooked. And here we are today.
