Two Princes: The Biker and The Billionaire

by Victoria Danann

  “They do not.”

  “Swear to Jesus. You watch today. See which one of us gets the most lingering looks of lust.”

  Brandon laughed. “Lingering looks of lust, huh? I submit that the most eligible bachelor has shorn locks.”

  “Just goes to show we’re so good-lookin’ the sex appeal can’t be completely destroyed even with butchered hair.”

  They found the tat shop and parked on Main Street. It wasn’t open yet so they decided to walk around for twenty minutes. A young woman was setting a pot of flowers outside her boutique as she was opening up. She looked up to smile and say good morning, but did a double take when she saw the twins.

  Brandon stopped and gave her his best killer smile. “Hey. I was wondering if you could tell me the best place to get hair cut in town.”

  “You mean a barber shop?” She looked between the two men and seemed to be having a hard time deciding who she wanted to focus on.

  “No. I mean, who do people go to when money isn’t an object and they want to look spectacular?”

  “There’s a woman from L.A. at Bliss and Bang Bang. I’ve heard people like her.”

  “Where would we find, ah, Bliss and...”

  “Bang Bang.” She looked as happy about her answer as if she’d just won Jeopardy. “Two blocks down on Colorado Avenue.”

  Brandon thanked her, thrilled her with a wink, and walked on.

  Brash gave her the ghost of a smile and a dip of his chin as they walked on by. After they were a couple of doors down he said, “She definitely preferred me. No doubt about it.”

  “You’re delusional. She couldn’t take her eyes off me. I think she forgot you were there.”

  Brash snorted. “Like it would be possible for a woman to forget I’m there.”

  As he said that, Brigid came to mind. He hoped like hell it wasn’t possible for her to forget him. He made a mental note to tell his brother about Brigid. Just as soon as he figured out how to reconcile Brigid’s expectations with telling Brandon he’d die if he went near her.

  When they got back to the tattoo shop, the neon OPEN sign was lit up in electric blue. Sitting behind an old reception unit was a girl who had clearly been hired, at least in part, as human advertising. She had coal black hair with streaks of red above a body that had been turned into a colorful mural. Designs covered her arms, chest, neck, and black tipped tendrils licked up her jawline stopping just below her ears, which were accented by silver ring piercings around the outer edges. Lots of them.

  It was Brash’s turn to talk since Brandon couldn’t seem to do anything but stare. He was actually busy trying to count the number of silver rings in her ears.

  “We’re here to see Axle,” Brash said.

  “He’s busy. Would you like to make an appointment?”

  Brandon had gotten bored with piercings and had started looking around the “lobby”. The walls displayed an impressive series of photos of work done by the owner/artist along with some framed newspaper and magazine articles mentioning or featuring him.

  “Yeah. I want to make an appointment, but I also want a quick consultation.” He pulled out two hundred dollar bills and set them on the desk. “Now.”

  She stared up at Brandon for a few beats before appearing to come to a decision. “I’ll ask.” When she rose, she took the two bills with her and disappeared down the hallway behind her station.

  “See anything you like?” Brash asked his brother.

  “Seems like my choices are either get disfigured like you or forget the whole thing.”

  “I can see you need an attitude adjustment.”

  A deep voice said, “What’s this about?”

  Axel Gunn had only slightly less ink than the receptionist. He appeared to be around forty, with intense gray eyes and a hard set to his jaw. He was holding up the two bills.

  Brash walked toward him and stopped two feet away. “That’s a way to convey the urgency of our business. We’ve come a long way to see you. We don’t mean disrespect and don’t want to keep you, but we need a couple of minutes. In private.”

  Axel raised his chin as he looked from Brash to Brandon, nodded and motioned them to follow. He led them into a room that was white, meaning everything in the room was white. If Axel Gunn was going for a clinical, sterile feel, he’d succeeded.

  Once inside, he closed the door. “You bought yourself two minutes.”

  Brash didn’t waste any time. He pulled his shirt over his head

  Axel whistled. “Nice work.”

  Brash just nodded. “We need to know how long it would take to do the exact same on him.” When Axel looked at Brandon, Brash said, “He’s a blank canvas. We need to give him enough that, if somebody saw him shirtless, they would think it’s me. So maybe it doesn’t have to be exactly the same.” Brash glanced at Brandon. “I’m kind of tempted to tell you to do it on his other side. Just to fuck with people.”

  “Brilliant. What if somebody has a photo?” Brandon quipped.

  “Yeah.” Brash agreed and turned back to the artist. “So how long?”

  Axel nodded thoughtfully, lifted Brash’s arm, and said. “Depends partly on his pain threshold.”

  “If that’s not a factor…”

  “If that’s not a factor, one month.” Brash looked at Brandon. “If he’s tough, we could do the outline in one five hour session. Wait ten days, do some of the color. Wait ten days, do some more. That’ll get us to about seventy five percent, which would fool anybody but a wife.”

  “A month? That really the best?”

  “That’s got to be my limit. All good conscience.”

  “Okay, then.” Brash glanced at Brandon. “Can you start today?”

  Axel shook his head. “No. I’m booked. I might be able to reschedule something tomorrow. For a premium.” At that he smiled for the first time.

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred more.”

  Brandon could see that Brash was about to negotiate the biker way. He stepped in front of his brother and said, “That’s fine. When should I be here tomorrow?”

  “One o’clock.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  On the sidewalk outside the door, Brash said, “That bastard just stung us. You know that, right?”

  “You’re the one who let him know there was urgency and money involved. I could see that coming as soon as you flashed grease at the walking billboard.” Brash couldn’t argue with that. “So forget it. Let’s move on to the ‘salon’.”

  Brash didn’t like the way Brandon wiggled his eyebrows. “If you’re talkin’ ‘bout the haircut, there’s no reason to get off into that until it’s time to go our separate ways. From what that shyster said, I’ve got a month.”

  The following night, on the way back to their hideaway, Brandon described his tattoo session as the worst experience of his life, like a billion bee stings.

  “How long did it take you to get all this… ink?”

  “’Bout a year, I guess.”

  “A YEAR!” Brandon practically yelled. “And I have to do it in a month?”

  “Relax and stop bein’ such a pussy. You’re not gettin’ the mirror image. Just enough to get by.” Brandon pouted and looked sullen. “Look. I’m gonna treat you like the little princess you are tonight. I’m makin’ lasagna Hamburger Helper. I even got some fresh parmesan and red wine.”

  Brandon managed a little smile. “You bought wine? This ought to be good.”

  Brandon was happy to sit on the couch in front of the fire and sip the wine Brash had bought at the San Miguel County Wine and Liquor.

  “This isn’t bad. I’m surprised.”

  Brash set a bowl of peanuts down next to Brandon and said, “Full disclosure. I asked the owner what goes good with lasagna Hamburger Helper. Told him my brother’s a wine snoot. He tried to sell me a bottle for twenty-four dollars. I’m telling you. People in this town are thieves.”

  “How much did you end up paying?”

  “Eighteen do
llars. It was still highway robbery.” Brandon laughed. “What’s funny?”

  “You remember when we had dinner in New York? If I told you how much I’ve paid for a bottle of wine, you’d probably make me sleep in the truck.”

  “Well, now you have to tell me.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “If the whole right side of your body wasn’t on fire, I’d throw you down right now and sit on you until you talked.”

  “If you think that’s possible, claim a rain check.”

  “Rain check.”

  “Done.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  “Not as much as me.”

  “As much as I.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  After a few seconds they grinned at each other. For no reason. At all.

  The days were cool. The nights were cold enough to justify building roaring fires every night and found that they were experiencing a companionship that transcended all relationships between people who didn’t originate in the same egg. At times each thought he could almost hear what the other was thinking.

  During the day they fished for rainbow trout in the blue mountain lake just outside their front door. When they caught enough for dinner, they had fresh fish, pan sautéed, with baked potatoes and salad. Brash objected to the greens at first, calling it girly food, but Brandon lectured him on the merits of fresh organic vegetables until he became a convert. Or as Brash claimed, until he’d been thoroughly brainwashed by a yuppie.

  While they fished they traded stories, slowly weaving pictures of their lives, recreating their biographies. They talked about school, extended family, travels, and a litany of ‘firsts’. They shared music and movies that they liked and were stunned to find out that their tastes in both were similar if not dead on.

  Many of the stories sparked questions about their parents.

  Brash had an insatiable curiosity about their mother that Brandon tried to fill with his own childhood memories. Like the fact that she loved to tell tales from Greek and Roman myths. He’d said that every year on their birthday, March 31st, Garland had told him about the astrological symbol of Aries, Chrysomallus, the flying ram whose wool became the Golden Fleece and how many adventures it had inspired through the millennia, including quests by knights of the Round Table.

  Likewise, Brandon wanted to know everything there was to know about their dad. Brash told him about everything from whippings with the belt to canoe trips on the Colorado River.

  At night, during and after dinner, they talked about business. Or beer. Or wine. Brash had learned which white wines go best with rainbow trout. Brandon learned which Austin breweries made the best local labels. Brash’s description of barbequed pork with Pecan Porter made Brandon’s mouth water.

  Brandon took a sip of one of the wines they’d stocked in and said, “Has it struck you as strangely coincidental that we both ended up managing business interests? I went to an Ivy League school for a degree in business administration. You got a GED and I get the feeling that you probably know everything I know. Really, I’m not sure that your hands-on experience didn’t give you an advantage.”

  “I spent ten years shadowing our pop. You might say it was on-the-job training. He didn’t care about the GED because he knew that ninety percent of school is bullshit. But he did think education has its place and he does care about laziness. I’m not sayin’ I was home schooled, but he gave me things to read, mostly about business, then he’d quiz me while we were drivin’ around.” Brash got up and stirred the fire. “It wasn’t Harvard, but he could be tough. Nobody’d ever accuse him of low expectations.”

  Brandon nodded. “Sounds like he loves you.”

  “Never a minute that it was a question in my mind.”

  “Mom is the same. You’ll see.”

  Brash felt a little flutter in his belly, anxiety about seeing his mother and having her believe he was the child she’d raised.

  As the days progressed Brash and Brandon came to know each other so well, it was as if they had never been separated.

  Each knew that they had to get very clear about the people who occupied the other’s immediate environment. In Brandon’s case, that would be those who worked closely with him at Germane Enterprises. In Brash’s case, that would be the Sons of Sanctuary MC.

  During the planning stages, they had agreed to bring photos of people and places along with floor plans and diagrams. Brandon had to learn, not only the names of the club members and their families, but the names of the business owners, where their offices were located and Brash’s professional history with each one.

  The two of them sat at the dining table while Brash gave a detailed rundown of club members.

  “Sargeant at Arms. Name’s Rock and that’s not a road name. His mama named him Rocky. She liked that old movie about the leg breaker turned champ. Rock proves that people really do become what they’re named. He’s hard as hard gets.

  “This is Nam. He’s the club historian and the oldest active member. He was one of the originals with my… our granddad. They came back from Vietnam and started the club. That’s where it got its name, Sons of Sanctuary. They didn’t feel at home anymore after the war. So they sort of banded together.

  “E.R. It’s an abbreviation for Easy Rider. He rides a fifties Harley police bike choppered up to look like the one in the movie. He’s treasurer, got a head for books like a real genius.

  “Car Lot and Eric work together to make sure we have security at the businesses that need it, that would be the bars and the club on 6th Street.”

  “Why is this guy named Car Lot?” Brandon pointed at the photo on the table.

  Brash smiled. “His real name is Dodge Ford. His mother claims to be related to both auto families and is real proud of that, I guess.

  “This is Crowley. He’s our cousin. Also known as Crow. Tell me what you know about him.”

  “His mother is our Aunt Joanna, Pop’s sister. He’s married to Bethany Lynn and has two daughters. Gidget and Gellis.” Brandon reached for another pile of photos and pulled out a recent one of the girls together in pink sundresses. “Ages five and six?”

  “Close enough. Now this here is Arnold.”

  Brandon laughed. “This guy looks just like the Terminator. Like a young Arnold Schwarzenneger, but without the bulk.” Brash nodded. “He could be one of those celebrity impersonators who work parties.”

  “Yeah. He’s handsome. Women buzz around him like flies. But he’s even smarter than he is pretty. He’s super good with high tech stuff. And enterprising folks can always find a good use for somebody like that.” He gave Brandon a look that said, “You know what I mean?”

  Brash fingered a photo. “Here’s the guy I was tellin’ you about. Watch your back because he’s gonna think you’re me. The fucker has an issue with that.”

  “Why?”

  “Not sure. Maybe because he’d like to be me.”

  “Well, that’s not happening because you’re one of a kind.” Brandon chuckled.

  “Funny. He’s only been patched in for two years. Here’s one that’s worth remembering. Rescue.

  “Aunt Joanna was torn up after she lost her husband in Desert Storm and Pop couldn’t stand seein’ her that way. They were close. Irish twins is what Gram calls ‘em.

  “Pop was down on 6th Street one night and saw cops pickin’ this guy up for vagrancy. He intervened, brought him back to the club, and fed him. When he found out that Rescue was a Desert Storm vet, Pop took on that problem like it was his own. Now we call it PTSD, but they didn’t name it back then.

  “So, at the time, Gram had a German Shepherd named Bullet after some TV show from the fifties. Bullet was the only creature Rescue would talk to at first. He wanted to eat with the dog, sleep with the dog, and Gram let him.

  “She’s got a big heart. You’ll like her. Everybody does.

  “Anyway, it didn’t escape Pop’s notice, as time went by, that Rescue was gettin’ b
etter. Like the dog was bringin’ his humanity back or somethin’. Remindin’ him of who he’d been before.

  “Now Rescue runs K9 Keep. People come from everywhere to buy our German Shepherds and it’s fairly lucrative. The tagline is, Deadly to predators, but safe for toddlers. He started out by rescuin’ them from all over Texas and repurposin’ them as family guard dogs. We still take rescues, but we’re also a breeder now. Treaty Oak Shepherds. That’s part of the reason why the club is out past the city limits.”

  “What’s the other part?”

  Brash grinned. “Parties get loud sometimes.”

  At the end of the second week, Brash gave his pop a call.

  “Everythin’ okay there?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay.”

  “By everything, do you mean the brainy woman?”

  Brash was surprised that his dad read between the lines, but knew he shouldn’t have been. Brash still couldn’t manage to get anything past him.

  “Yeah. That’s what I mean.”

  “She goes about her business. Asks a lot of questions. Does a good job of keepin’ the bar stocked and clean. People like her and they’re gonna miss her when she leaves to go tell the world about the primitive society of motorcycle clubs.”

  When Brash ended the call, he was thinking the same thing, that he was going to miss Brigid when she left to go back to her real life. He reminded himself again to come up with a plan on how to handle the issue of Brigid and Brandon.

  Brash had to admit that Brandon had the biggest adjustments to make, between the tattoos and learning to ride a motorcycle like he’d been raised on one. He backed the Harley out of the trailer, familiarized Brandon with the throttle, clutch, and brakes. Since Brandon was a beginner, he taught him the one down, five up shift pattern. The real problem came with Brash’s explanation of turning.

  “It’s easier than it sounds.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Well, I know, but just do it and you’ll see. Like I told ya, if you want to turn right, lean just a little and push the right handgrip that direction.” Brash tried demonstrating, but reached the conclusion that, in the end, people have to ride to learn.