Two Princes: The Biker and The Billionaire

by Victoria Danann

  Brash narrowed his eyes. “What was that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s supposed to mean that, for all I know, you could be a professor of physics or a hog caller.”

  “A hog caller.” Brash repeated drily, but grasped Brandon’s meaning nonetheless. “I see your point.”

  “Okay. Well, I don’t exactly have a job title. My… our… Christ! That’s gonna take some getting’ used to. Our father’s organization owns businesses in Austin. I kind of float around and make sure they’re all runnin’ the way they’re supposed to.” Brandon looked a little stunned. “What?”

  He put down his fork. “It’s just that…”

  “Just what?”

  “It’s just that, that’s kind of what I do. On a different scale no doubt.”

  “No doubt.” Brash couldn’t argue. He’d seen estimates of the St. Germaine net worth.

  “What kind of businesses?”

  “We don’t own resorts.” Brandon just looked at him and waited. “A few bars. A club on 6th Street. A few wrecker and auto repair outfits. We have part ownership in various and sundry small businesses.” He barked out a laugh. “Really, I think that if Austin knew how many pies we have fingers in, they’d be worried. Pop’s baby is an auto restoration place that’s kind of famous.” His smile gave away the pride he felt about that. “And last, but not least, my personal favorite, the movie production vehicle supply.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Lot of movie companies film in and around Austin. That was just taking off in the late eighties. My, our, dad positioned himself to be the go-to for vehicles. Whether it’s a caterpillar or a 1968 Stutz Blackhawk, we make it happen and the payout is sweet.”

  “What you said about our dad’s ‘organization’. What did you mean by that? His corporation or LLC?”

  Brash raised his chin. “No. It’s not a corporation. It’s a motorcycle club.”

  Brandon let his mouth fall open then repeated what his brother had said earlier. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’m related to a biker gang?”

  As if to punctuate that, the waiter set a bowl in front of Brash that had a generous helping of spaghetti and marinara and one half pound meatball the size of a softball. He looked up at the waiter, “Thank you.”

  The waiter bowed slightly, hesitated long enough to get a nod from Brandon, then disappeared again.

  “Now we’re talkin’,” said Brash, happily diving into his giant meatball.

  “Not a vegetarian I take it.”

  Brash smiled around a big bite of sauce-covered ground beef. “Hardly.”

  “So. Where were we?”

  “I was just about to tell you that the organization is not a gang. It’s a club. In this case it also happens to be a business enterprise. Instead of board members, we have club members.”

  “Uh-huh. Who ride motorcycles.”

  “Ever tried it?”

  “No.”

  “Almost as good as fucking.” Brash looked up. “Don’t tell me you haven’t tried that either.”

  “Funny. So how many, uh, board members are there?”

  “Thirteen. There are a couple of kids who may be inducted someday if they prove themselves to be useful. And loyal. But just thirteen who get to vote.” Brash chewed for a minute, looking thoughtful. “If you’re gonna be me, you’re gonna have to learn about all of them.”

  “Let’s just set that aside for now. Right now we don’t look enough alike to pass for each other. You’ve got all that hair.”

  Brash jerked his chin toward Brandon. “Yeah? Well, cuttin’ off my hair wouldn’t hurt me nearly as much as the pain you’d be feelin’.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Brash grinned. He stepped out from the booth, looked around to make sure they were alone, then unzipped his hoodie and pulled his Henley over his head. He laughed as he watched Brandon go pale. Brash’s right arm and shoulder were completely covered with brightly colored tattoos.

  Brandon swallowed. “Forget it.” He turned toward the garlic bread, while Brash put his clothes back on and acted like he thought the subject was closed. “I’m not doing that. Nobody I know would ever buy that I just decided to become a walking mural one day.”

  “Walking mural.” Seeing Brandon bite into the garlic bread made Brash want to try it. He tore off a piece with his teeth and hummed his approval.

  “What was that?”

  “What?”

  “That humming thing. My… our mother does that when she eats sometimes. When she really likes something.”

  Brash didn’t know how he felt about that. He’d spent more than two decades with unpleasant feelings directed toward some faceless woman who birthed him into the world and then left him because she didn’t want him.

  “Don’t read into it.”

  “Okay.” He eyed Brash. “I guess it could be worse. I should be glad you don’t have piercings.” Brash stopped eating and grinned again. Brandon groaned. “Where?”

  Brash just continued to grin and shoved half a meatball into his mouth.

  “No. You didn’t.” Brandon was scandalized.

  “What can I say? I like the women. They like me. And they like me even better as the enhanced version. Brash 1.2.”

  “You are killing me.”

  “Come on. You wouldn’t need to worry about the piercing. We’re never going to fuck the same woman. That kind of brotherly love has no appeal for me.”

  “No. I’d just have to get half my body inked!”

  “I can’t have a brother who’s a pussy. Maybe we need that DNA test after all.”

  “If you call me that again, you’ll be going to the hospital and it won’t be for a DNA test.”

  Brash laughed. “Good to know you won’t take shit. You really know how to handle yourself?”

  “If I have to.”

  Brash grew solemn. “Good to know. That’s one less thing to worry about.”

  “How long did it take you to get all that done?”

  “The ink? Hmm. A year maybe, but I wasn’t on a time sensitive schedule.” Brash took a swig of wine. “That shit’s good.” He looked at his brother. “You’re thinkin’ about it aren’t you? Curious about Pop and our life in Austin.”

  “It would be hard to not think about it.”

  “I think we should do it.”

  Brandon smiled. “I know you do.” As he took another sip of wine he was thinking that it amazed him how much he felt like he’d always known this other version of himself sitting across from him in a red leather booth. Brash was so like him, but learning to be him would take some doing. On one level, that was part of the appeal of the whole idea. “How much money do you make?”

  “Me, personally? Why?”

  “I want to know how much of a lifestyle change I’d be making.”

  “If we’re seriously considering, I think one of the things we need to agree on is how long. How long would we pretend to be each other before we come clean with the, uh, folks.”

  “The folks? I’d have to undergo a serious personality makeover before it would occur to me to call my parents ‘the folks’.”

  Brash scoffed. “You strike me as a smart guy. I think you’ll pick up the ins and outs of being me without too much trouble.”

  Brandon smiled. “You do, huh?”

  “I think one of the big questions for you is, you gonna trust me with makin’ decisions about your billions?”

  “That’s not as much of a factor as you might think. When you’re talking multigenerational wealth, well, at some point investments kind of take on a life of their own, so that you’d have to be trying to destroy it. I guess an heir with a big enough gambling problem could do it, but it wouldn’t be easy. You’d have to spend a long time and try really hard to get rid of everything.”

  Brash turned his wine goblet thoughtfully. “Almost wish I could say the same. But keeping our businesses in the black takes concentrated effort and constant monitoring. A big part of my job is mentoring entrepreneurs
.”

  Brandon smiled. “So you’re saying that I could lose everything you’ve got. Then I guess you’d be facing the biggest risk.”

  Brash rolled a shoulder in a display of unconcern. “Nah. If you lost all the club’s assets, I’d just write a check as you. I bet we have the same signature. Then I’d sill an SUV full of cash, leave the suits behind, and start over.”

  Brandon laughed. “Looks like we’re both covered. Cash wise. Now business relationships. That’s something else.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s this guy on the board, mid forties, named Thomas.”

  “Say no more. A guy who would go by Thomas has to be a douche.”

  “Exactly. He’s the sort who baits and needles and makes trouble.”

  “I’ve got a counterpart. Hell, maybe everybody in the world has got a Thomas. Maybe each one of us is paired with a needler at birth.”

  “That’s deep. What’s his name?”

  “Edge.”

  “Somebody named their baby Edge?”

  “No. Of course not. Just like I’m not really named Brash. His name is really Edgar, but one of the club members is dyslexic or some shit like that. He saw it in print and pronounced it Edger. People started calling him that and eventually it got shortened to Edge.”

  “What’s Pop’s name?”

  “Brant.”

  Brandon chuffed out a breath. “Our mother must have liked him or she wouldn’t have named us Brandon and Brannach.”

  Brash’s head was bobbing in a slight but repetitive nod. “Yeah. They almost got away with it. If it hadn’t been for that magazine… What?”

  “There’s some irony. I didn’t want to do that bachelor piece, but Mom wanted it so bad I ended up agreeing just to please her.”

  “Life is strange.”

  “Concur. Hundred percent.”

  Plates were cleared away and Brandon was reaching for a credit card.

  “Let’s split the tab,” Brash suggested.

  “I got it.”

  “At least let me get the wine.”

  Brandon looked up from the bill and gave his brother a broad smile. “The wine was more than dinner.”

  Brash’s eyes widened slightly. “I’ll get the dinner. You get the wine.”

  Brandon chuckled. “Deal.”

  When the waiter left with the check, Brash said, “So we’re decided?”

  Brandon stared for a few seconds without answering. “The rational side of me says we need to slow down and think this through.”

  “What’s the other side say?”

  “That, no matter how long I take to think about it, I’m still going to do it.”

  Brash reached across the table and gave his brother an affectionate slap of affirmation on the shoulder. “So what’s next?”

  “If we’re doing this, we need a serious plan. How long would it take me to…”, he fake shuddered, “…get that much tattoo?”

  “You’re tough. I think you could do it in a month.”

  “That’s a long time to be away. Do you have that kind of time available?”

  “Not really. You know if we found a good artist, I think he could do a lot less and nobody would notice. We might trim it down to… three weeks, but we won’t know until we ask. Better plan on a month.”

  Brandon grimaced. “It would take some planning, but I think I could manage it. If we went somewhere remote for four weeks, we could do a crash course on learning each other’s lives.”

  Brash nodded. “Serious catching up. It’s a plan. When we leave from wherever we decide on, I’ll come to New York as you.”

  “And I’ll go to Austin as you.”

  They both grinned at the same time.

  “How long do you need to get ready?”

  “A month?”

  “Okay. I’ll start hunting down a place where we can hide out and get you inked.”

  “And get you a decent haircut.”

  “And teach you how to ride a bike.”

  “Hold on. Who said anything about that?”

  “How do you think I get around at home? Motorcycle Club? Remember?”

  “What’s the name of it?” Brandon’s high was short-lived. He was pouting about the prospect of learning to ride.

  “The Sons of Sanctuary. Don’t worry, brother. You’ve got the genes of a badass. Guaranteed.”

  “Right. So you’re heading back to Austin.”

  “Done what I came for. You got my number.”

  “What?” Brandon asked when Brash hesitated.

  “Are you kind of, I don’t know, mad at them?”

  Brandon sighed and looked away for a minute. “They definitely have some explaining to do.”

  They stood up and looked at each other for a minute, finally deciding on a semi-awkward man hug.

  “I’ll leave first.” Brash pulled his hood up over his head and walked away.

  Chapter 2

  Brigid Bailey dropped her backpack next to the corner table in Starbucks where the SSGM met nightly at ten o’clock. Or thereabouts. Members of The Society of Social Sciences Graduate Students Meet Up, affectionately known to themselves as Bitch Out, met when they could to support each other through the nightmare of sleep deprivation and the cross-eyed existence of being expected to devour six books a week.

  Lots of places close to campus in Austin stayed open late. It would probably work for students if first classes started at noon.

  The tiny support group found that a ten o’clock boost of venti concentrated caffeine and a little support from others in the same boat helped get them through the wee hours. Within a second of hitting the door, she had scanned the corner for who was there. Everybody. Jeff, the psychologist, whose baby face was masked by a dark thick beard. Tara, the researcher, who struggled daily with two annoying roommates, which was all she could do with her tiny housing stipend. June, the social worker, who never complained and wore a beatific serene smile to a fault. Mark, the funny political scientist, who wished he could draw cartoons. And Rausch, the economist, who claimed that his professors knew less about economics than anyone.

  It was elite company if you were talking about academic achievement. A tiny percentage of graduate school applicants received acceptance to the hallowed halls of the University of Texas.

  Brigid was a social anthropologist. The demand for social anthropologists has never been high and she knew that wasn’t likely to change. In fact, the scope of prospective employment was pretty much non-existent, but she’d made her choice. Against the concerned advice of every practical minded person she’d ever met.

  Everybody looked up when she slumped into the empty chair. Six chairs were always reserved even if only two people showed.

  “S’up, Bright Eyes?” Mark asked. He, like the other two males, had an interest in Brigid that went beyond the boundaries of peer support group functions. It would be impossible not to notice her copper-colored hair or the intelligent flash of her wide amber eyes. But her reserved manner and refusal to respond to flirting had left no doubt that she was all business. So they had settled into the role of friends and kept their fantasies to themselves.

  “I can’t find a motorcycle club to talk to me. My thesis is approved and I’m running out of time.”

  “My dentist is in one of those clubs. He even wears a Sturgis tee shirt.”

  It was only the fact that June was so sweet and trying to be helpful that kept Brigid from giving her a dirty look.

  “Thanks, June, but the kind of club I’m trying to get inside of is different.”

  Jeff laughed. “You’re insane, Bridge. After what happened in Waco, I’d think you’d want to be hundreds of miles away from that shit.”

  Brigid scowled. “Even if I thought you were right, I’ve spent too much time on this. Changing my thesis topic at this point…”

  “Yeah. We get it,” Mark said.

  “What are you gonna do?” Rausch was rarely interested enough in other people’s problems to ask
that kind of question.

  She sighed. “I don’t know.” A small smile touched her lips. “But, hey, if you wouldn’t mind learning to ride and pledging your life to a club, say, in the next forty-eight hours, I’d owe you one.”

  “Sure. No problem. You buy the Harley and the clothes. I’ll supply the attitude.” Everybody laughed a little too hard. “What? You don’t think I have a badass persona? You want to see my James Dean?”

  “Who?”

  Brigid tossed her cup on the way out and stepped out onto 24th Street. She was lucky enough to have an apartment a couple of blocks from campus, close enough to walk. She pulled on her backpack and went round the corner toward her place when she heard Tara call to her.

  “Hey. Wait a second.” Brigid turned and waited. Tara was a little out of breath even though she’d only jogged half a block. “One of my roommates… well, her uncle is in a club. You know, the kind that don’t cater to dentists.” She rolled her eyes. “I could ask her if she’d introduce you.”

  “Tara. I’m not into girls, but I could really kiss you right now. Yes! Please! And thank you! This is the closest I’ve gotten.”

  “No promises. And don’t get too excited. You’re gonna owe me, because that bitch will make me do her grocery shopping forever. Or worse.”

  Brigid threw her arms around Tara. “Anything. Make it happen, Fairy Godmother.”

  “Dinner tomorrow night. On you.”

  Brigid couldn’t stop nodding. “Yes. Anything.”

  Tara smiled. “I’ll text you where and when.”

  Brigid felt a hundred pounds lighter walking the rest of the way home.

  The next day, monitoring a freshman class that she T.A.’d, she got a text from Tara.

  8:30. Trudy’s Texas. She had to smile. She’d expected Tara to pick some place exorbitant. Dinner WITH Margaritas. You pay.

  She checked around before answering. Reading a text in a class she was supposed to be monitoring was one thing. Returning a text was something else.

  Yes. I pay. C u there.

  At 8:15 she was standing inside the door at Trudy’s shifting her weight from foot to foot with nervous energy. The hostess had already told her she wouldn’t seat the party until they were all there. So she decided to wait in the bar.