BOMB: A Day in the Life of Spencer Shrike

by JA Huss

  Contents

  BOMB

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  End of Book Shit

  About the Author

  BOMB

  A Day in the Life of SPENCER SHRIKE

  By J. A. Huss

  Find me at

  New Adult Addiction

  Jahuss.com

  Cover design by J. A. Huss

  Edited by RJ Locksley

  Copyright © 2014 by J. A. Huss

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN- 978-1-936413-38-6

  Other books by J.A. Huss

  Science Fiction Series

  Clutch

  Fledge

  Flight

  Range

  The Magpie Bridge

  Return

  Rook and Ronin Series

  TRAGIC

  MANIC

  PANIC

  SLACK

  TAUT

  Non-series Novels

  Losing Francesca

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  “Spencer! Fuck, dude! Watch the fucking road!” Ronin grabs the wheel and I tap the brake to stop for the light at College and Laurel.

  “Ronin, was that Ronnie back there?” I’m trying my best to check the side view to see, but it’s no use. The girl went into the restaurant. “I think that was Ronnie walking into Anna Ameci’s.”

  “How unusual,” Ford replies dryly from the back of the surveillance van, “for a woman to be going into a restaurant at dinnertime.”

  I check the rear view so I can talk shit to his image. “Well, that woman was with a man. A man who is not me, so uh, yeah, asshole, it’s pretty fucking unusual for Ronnie to be having dinner with someone who is not me.”

  “Since when?” Ford asks as he types away on that stupid keyboard. “I see her out with men all the time.”

  “What?”

  “Ford, goddammit, what’d I tell you?” Ronin interjects.

  “You know about this?” I ask Ronin.

  “She’s not your girlfriend, Spencer. Rook says she’s got a few other good prospects.”

  “A few other… what the fuck? Since when?”

  “Since you ignore her and treat her like shit,” Ford says, still tapping away.

  A horn honks behind me and I look back to the road. The light is green so I move forward with the rest of traffic and then turn left on Elizabeth. “Eye on the prize, Spence,” Ronin says from the passenger seat. “Just focus on what the hell we’re doing. You can figure out what’s going on with Ronnie later.”

  Yeah, easy for him to say. Fuckass. He’s got Rook at home. And hell, even Ford has a fucking girl at home. And a baby for Christ’s sake. And my best booty call is out on the town with another fucking guy!

  “Turn left, turn left, Spencer!” Ronin yells. “Fuck.”

  “I was gonna turn left all along, calm down, Larue.”

  He shoots me a dirty look at the nickname but I don’t give a shit. I love calling his whipped ass Larue.

  “Spencer, you can go home if you want to act childish. Ronin and I can do this alone.”

  “Fuck off, Ford. Get your toy ready, we’re almost there.”

  “I’m ready,” he says, leaning up to the front cab. He’s holding the little robot that looks a lot like a two-pound dumbbell with antennae. “Where’s he now, Ronin?”

  Ronin looks down at the tablet in his hand. “Same place. At the bar, just ordered another drink.”

  “So we have a little buffer then, right?” I ask. “He’s gonna nurse that thing?”

  “Dunno,” Ronin says with a huff. “He’s got a shot and a beer, which means it could just be a chaser. Better get it in quick, Ford. And I swear to God, Spencer, if we get busted for this stupid shit, I will have your ass.”

  “Stupid shit? This asshole stole seven fucking bikes out of my showroom! That’s like eighty grand! It’s not some stupid shit.”

  “Allegedly stole. You have no proof. And eighty grand is not worth the attention this close to the trials,” Ford replies back. “But I’m clean on this.”

  Ronin laughs. “Ford, we’re using a military-grade robot to spy on Spencer’s competitor, you really think if we get caught we’re clean? Please. We’re the first people they’ll pick up.”

  “Anyway… we’re here. This close enough, Ford?” I pull up a few blocks down from the warehouse that Drake Cikes calls home base. “Cikes Bikes. What the fuck is that?” I ask, pointing up to the sign near the entrance to his part of the complex. “And he just has to open up shop in Fort Collins? You know what he’s doing, don’t you? Trying to confuse people. Cikes Bikes and Shrike Bikes sound the same, and if you look us up online, he comes up Fort Collins and I come up Bellvue. People think his stupid bikes are mine! He’s getting my business and now he stole from me! Hell, I bet you anything he’s chopped up those bikes and has my fucking parts on his custom shit right now!”

  “Calm down, Spencer,” Ronin says. “We don’t know any of that yet. And there’s no way anyone can mistake you for him, so just relax.”

  Well, that is true. Because I’m all tatted up in black and red. I’ve got the body of a Greek god, and I own this fucking town. Drake is one of those rockabilly types, with his skinny-ass body, thick black glasses, and white t-shirts. “Thinks he’s Fonzie or something.”

  “What?” Ronin asks with a weird look.

  “Drake. Thinks he’s Fonzie with those white t-shirts. And him stealing my bikes is his version of jumping the shark. He’s desperate, so he’s gotta steal my shit.”

  “You’re crazy, Spencer.” Ronin goes back to his tablet.

  “Crazy enough to come up with this plan, yo.”

  I might’ve gone too far because they’re ignoring me now.

  “OK,” Ford says, “I’m gonna drop it.” He opens the back door of the van and tosses the robot out. Ronin switches feeds so he has the bot cam on one side of his tablet and Ashleigh manning the Drake cam on the other. She’s new in town and no one really knows her yet, so she was the only one who could keep an eye on the guy while we tapped his shit.

  The bot’s all-terrain tires start to roll and it travels down the alley to the warehouse. The bay door is closed. We’ve been watching this place all week and it’s the same routine. Drake takes off about four-thirty and heads over to the Cat Call for dunch and a few brewskies. Then he comes back and locks the place up. We’ve looked at every possible way to get in here without resorting to the stealth and stalk we’re doing now, but the place is tight. Ford even hacked the blueprints of the building from the city, and no dice. The place was remodeled before he moved in last month and it’s like these guys are stashing guns and gold in there.

  But Drake always pulls into the bay when he comes home, he likes to work on his bike in the evenings or something because he stays late every night. So the bay will open to let the bike in and that will be our window to drive that bot right into his lair, the mechanical hum of the tiny motor covered up by the roaring of the motorcycle.

  He’s got quite the setup for a man who came out of nowhere. Warehouse, employees, production schedule, advertising. It’s like he’s got a backer or something. But Ford checked him ou
t. There are no obvious ties and no covert ones either. None Ford can see without taking risks that are not warranted for this particular annoyance.

  At least as far as Ronin is concerned. And since Ronin’s the one who has to dig us out if we fuck up, he always gets the final say on shit like that.

  The radio in back crackles and then Ashleigh’s voice comes in. “This is Mama Likes a Spankin’, come back good, buddies.”

  I look at Ronin. He shakes his head. “You don’t want to know,” he says.

  “Go ahead, Red Cheeks,” Ford replies.

  “Playtime’s over, time to get busy. ETA”—her voice is drowned out by a loud motorcycle starting up and driving away—“five. Mama out.”

  “Someone’s been watching a little too much Dukes of Hazzard.”

  Both my partners in crime ignore me now. Figures. I’m always the bored one on these jobs. I never have anything to do unless someone needs to be roughed up. And this guy can’t be roughed up. He’s too close to me. But that guy with Ronnie back at Anna Ameci’s can.

  I crack my knuckles and pat my leather jacket until I find the outline of my little Smith and Wesson Bodyguard. Love this little gun. It fits everywhere. In a pocket, in a boot—and shit, my hands are so big, I can probably conceal it in my palm. It’s always there, inside left pocket of the leather, ready to go when I am.

  A motorcycle roars by and the van shakes a little from the wind and the rumble.

  We watch the bike on the bot cam, then it inches forward into the bay with the bike. “We’re in. Now all I gotta do is find a place to park it.”

  “Find that place now, Ford. Else we’re fucking busted.” Ronin says with urgency.

  I lean over and watch the feed as Ford tries to maneuver the bot under a tool bench. The little cam picks up the bike and Ford backs the bot up and does a neat little three-point turn until it’s concealed. “One and done,” he says. “Let’s go. I can come back later when the place is locked up to reposition.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I start the van and pull out, taking the long way around the block, and then head up towards Mulberry. Ronin’s truck is parked on Laurel, but I drop Ford off first. Ashleigh is waiting for him at the FoCo Cinema where Rook was watching their kid until her job was done. Rook’s already walking down the road towards the prearranged meeting place for Ronin to pick her up.

  After I ditch everyone I park the van in the alley behind Big City Burrito and head back up towards Anna Ameci’s. I enter through the back door where the bathrooms are and sneak up towards the dining room. It’s not a fancy place, just a family restaurant, but that sure the fuck is Veronica having dinner with a dude. And they are both dressed like they work on Wall Street.

  I let out a long breath and wait it out, because the waiter just dropped off the check. They get up and the guy puts his hand at the small of her back, guiding her away from a large group who are jostling everyone near the door.

  What a player. That’s my move.

  I can’t see them after they go through the door, so I slip back out the way I came and walk the wall down the alley that takes me back out to College Ave.

  I’m just rounding the corner when the guy slams into me. He backs off, apologizing, then keeps walking. I peek around the corner and catch Veronica getting into her little Mini Cooper parked in front of Sick Boyz Inc., the tattoo shop she runs with her father and brothers. I turn back to the scumbag trying to bag my girl and walk silently down the alley. He’s looking at his phone, standing next to a dark-colored sedan. I slip the gun out of my pocket and walk up behind him and place it against his head.

  “Do not move,” I whisper.

  He freezes and I pat him down until I find his wallet, and then slip it out. I want to ask him so many questions, but I can’t. Not without risking my identity. I clock him on the head and he crumples against the car and then folds until he’s on the ground. I take his ID and throw the wallet down as he moans and starts checking his head for damage. I walk off, calmly. He never comes after me, but even if he did, he wouldn’t find me. I know this downtown well enough to make it back to the alley behind Big City Burrito without being on the street.

  I don’t loiter when I get to the van, just start it up and head back to the shop up in Bellvue.

  Fuck, what a night. I palm the guy’s ID and wonder what the hell he’s doing with my Ronnie.

  He’s not her type, but she sure didn’t look like my type tonight. Not in that tan skirt-suit and trench coat.

  This throws me. Ronnie has never looked the part of tattoo artist. She’s wild and she’s got big hair and bigger boobs, but she has no tats. Not even one. She’s got a severe blood aversion and I’ve always been surprised that she can put up with the little pinpricks of blood that bubble up when she’s working. So maybe a businessman is her type.

  I chew on this the whole ride back to Shrike Bikes, my thoughts as twisted and unsettled as the Poudre River that’s raging with an early spring thaw right alongside the road. And when I get home and park the van in a locked building at the back of the property, I come to the conclusion that Ronnie’s type just might be a businessman after all.

  But I’m a businessman too. I might not look like one, but I am all fucking business.

  And if she wants to play a game to see if I’m serious, well, I can play as well as anyone.

  In fact, I’m a damn good player.

  I’m the best fucking player this town has ever seen.

  So game on.

  Chapter Two

  I jingle my keys in my hand as I walk back up to the house. I pass by the shop and sigh. We’re moving into town for Shrike Bikes Season Two. Biker Channel has had about enough of Bellvue—too fucking small. And really, this isn’t even Bellvue. I live ten miles north of the intersection that thinks it’s a town.

  But I like it out here. It’s quiet. Too quiet for some, but not for me. I spent a lot of time here growing up because this was my gran’s house. So it’s always felt like home.

  I brokered a deal with the Biker Channel people though, got them to foot the cost of renovation of the new shop if I bought the building. They do get to put a bunch of promo material in the shop, which is fine, I guess. The more people watching the Biker Channel, the more people watching the Shrike Bikes show. That’s more money for me. Win-win.

  Last fall Rook was annihilated in the media when she took her story public and outed a huge human trafficking ring in Chicago. She got a lot of publicity for the show because she’s been part of this project since the beginning. First as my body art model for the Sturgis pilot show, then as the Shrike Bikes receptionist for Season One. But no one knew that Season One would be almost all about her. No one knew all that shit would go down and change the whole production schedule. But the publicity worked in my favor and I renegotiated the contract with the Biker Channel to get the building remodel paid for.

  I key in the security code to the house and let myself in the kitchen, throw my keys down on the granite counter top, and open the fridge. Empty.

  I haven’t eaten at home in a while. We’ve just been too busy in town getting ready for the new season. In fact, I haven’t even built a bike in over a month. I slam the fridge door closed and open the pantry.

  Mac and cheese. And Campbell’s Soup. I’m living like a fourteen-year-old who has no parents.

  Fuck. I take the businessman’s ID out of my pocket and study it. He’s got his hair slicked back, and not in that I’m dangerous way like Ford does it. No. This guy’s hair says I use product. In fact, this asshole’s hair says I have a stylist. Not a barber, a stylist. I bet he gets his fingers done while he’s there. And his toes.

  Asshole.

  I’m on fucking TV and I don’t even let the makeup girls touch my fucking hair. I just buzz that shit off when it gets too long.

  I check him out again. Banker. I bet he’s a fucking banker. He looks like one. Wearing some fancy suit like he’s important. Plus, he’s got beady eyes. Beady brown eyes, says hi
s ID. That’s a sure sign that he’s no good. Every cartoon connoisseur knows that beady eyes are a tell.

  I study him for a few more seconds. He’s even got a suit on in his driver’s license photo. I glance over to his name. Carson. What kind of stupid name is Carson?

  Last name of Reed—Veronica Reed? Nope. Ronnie Reed? Fuck, that one sounds pretty good. But Veronica Vaughn has always hated the fact that her names start with the same letter.

  I happen to like it, myself. And my name is the shit. Spencer Shrike. It’s got a nice ring to it.

  Veronica Shrike? Maybe.

  Ronnie Shrike. Better.

  Ron the Bomb Shrike? I laugh at that. Fucking girl makes me smile even when she’s not here. I sigh. Fucking Ronnie. I fish my phone out of my pocket and flop down on the couch. I press her number in my contacts and wait as the phone rings.

  Voicemail. “You’ve reached Ronnie Vaughn. I’m either working or playing. If you need me for either, leave a message and I’ll get back to you!” She makes a slurpy kissing sound and then the beep.

  “Hey, Ronnie. You should come over. Call me back.” I sigh again and pocket my phone, but it buzzes an incoming call before I can release it, so I pull it back out. I look at the screen. “Yello, baby! Wanna come over?”

  “Oh,” she says. “It’s you. I was expecting a call from the bank. I deleted your number and didn’t recognize it, sorry.”

  “What? You deleted my number? For why?” I’m stunned. Like my hand is up in the air and I’m mid-shrug with wide eyes.

  “Why? Why? You have some fucking nerve, Spencer. I haven’t talked to you since fucking Halloween!”

  She’s on drugs. She might need a blood test. “I took you out for New Year’s, you hot little amnesiac.”

  “No, you did not take me out. You saw me at Antoine’s. Dates pick up their girlfriends, Spencer.”

  “We ate, we drank, we fucked. How is that not a date?” This is what dates usually entail.

  She growls at me though the phone. “The food was free, the drinks were free, and I was too drunk to remember most of the fuck, so it hardly counts. I definitely don’t recall an orgasm.”