Grumbler's Ride: Satan's Devils MC San Diego #2

by Manda Mellett

  “Grumbler’s off to the store again.” Salem nods at me.

  Pennywise rolls his eyes. “What are you looking at now?”

  “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 now on the driver’s side. A moment passes, then another, then that door opens, and an older woman steps out. I notice her face is flushed and red. When she catches my eye, she looks away fast, but makes no move to follow the girl.

  Not my business.

  Spying a bit of dust that’s dared to land on my bike, I take out my rag once again.

  Another rumble of tyres on gravel makes me look up. As I do, I see that it’s Devon Starr. His car is newer, posher and what somehow doesn’t surprise me, flashy. When he gets out, he’s wearing khaki shorts and an open-necked shirt. He walks over to me, eyeing my bike, then the location he’s chosen.

  Without a ‘thanks for coming’ he’s all business from the get-go. “Can you park your bike over there?”

  I glance at the ground, then at the space he’s pointing out. “Sure.” It’s only a few feet away, so I paddle walk my bike over, kick down the stand, and dismount it again.

  As I do, I notice the young girl watching me with something now akin to horror on her face. She takes a step toward Devon, her eyes wide. “Is this him?”

  “What?” Devon follows the direction of his eyes, then barks a laugh. “No, pet. This isn’t who you’re posing with. This is just the bike’s owner.”

  The look of relief on her face is almost comical, making me chuckle as I realise, she mistook me for a male model. Well, I suppose that I could be, were it a May/September romance. Fuck it, I could be this little thing’s grandfather, maybe even able to add a great before that.

  Devon glances at the expensive watch on his wrist, and frowns. “Where the fuck is he?” he mumbles. He taps the device as if it could be showing the wrong time.

  I take out my pack of cigarettes, tap one out, then spying the older woman glaring at me, walk over to the guardrail to light it up. The smell from the cloud of smoke surrounding me reminds me of Smoker. Days like this, we’d often take off and ride to nowhere in particular. Of course, he’d have probably been on his third or fourth cigarette by now—one at least smoked while he was riding, the wind taking more of the nicotine than he drew into his lungs. For a moment, I stare out at the view, lost in my memories. I miss the old bugger. Tapping my fist against the railing, I mentally ask, why, Smoker, why? Our time was cut short too soon.

  Spitting gravel pulls me out of my head. Turning, I examine the new arrival who’s just getting out of a Honda Civic. It’s a young guy, not much older than the girl. He’s wearing jeans and a shirt that’s flapping open, allowing a sculptured chest to show, sugge
sting he works out but has only managed baby muscles so far. My expert eyes tell me he’ll need a few more years under his belt before his body matures. Still, perhaps it’s the look the women go for.

  Devon walks over to meet him, his gesticulations suggest he’s berating him for being late, then he turns and waves toward the girl. “Come on, let’s get started.”

  Thank fuck.

  Devon sets a camera up on a tripod, then positions the girl and the kid to stand next to my bike. Instantly they do. I see the kid’s hand reach out toward the handlebars.

  “Don’t touch the fuckin’ bike,” I growl, in my best sergeant-at-arms voice. I swear the kid jumps back at least a foot.

  The photographer turns to me and glares. When I raise my eyebrow, he turns back. I place myself with my back up against the trunk of a tree, one leg bent with my instep against the bark. I’m near enough to see if anyone so much as breathes in my bike’s direction. It’s then I notice the older woman again. She’s staring as avidly as me, but not on the same bearing. No, her eyes are fixed on the girl, and specifically the arm the young guy has just placed around her.

  Her reaction is as fast, and much the same as mine, when the boy’s hand strays too close to the girl’s tit.

  “Mom!” the girl admonishes. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  Devon raises his eyes to the sky as if asking for divine intervention. He turns, spares a disdainful look at both me and the woman, then brings his attention back to the models. “Turn to face each other, lean in as though you’re going to kiss.” He casts another glance in who I know now is the girl’s mother’s direction. “But don’t let your lips touch. Close your eyes, Alicia, lift your face, that’s right, give a little smile, purse your lips as though you’re really anticipating this. No, Owen, don’t close your eyes. Put a little heat in them.”

  While keeping a close eye on what they’re doing, I move until I’m standing next to the girl’s mother.

  “Name’s Grumbler.” I tip an imaginary hat as she glances toward me.

  Just as quickly, she looks back to the scene playing out in front of us. “Mary,” she offers. Then confides, “I hate this.”

  I kind of got that impression. “Your girl do this often?” She frowns. I nod to the pair. “Model.”

  “First time,” she admits. “I tried to dissuade her, but Devon Starr there was most persuasive. Apparently, she was just the type he was looking for. He turned her head. Wasn’t much I could do about it, except come along to make sure it was all above board and that she was safe.”

  The actions of a good mother in my eyes. But I frown a little. “Starr approached me much the same way. Well, not that he wanted me, but my bike.”

  “Hey, Grumbler.” Devon’s walking across the gravel, making a beckoning gesture with his hand. “Lend Owen your vest thing for a moment, will you?”

  What. The. Fuck? I go completely still. “My vest thing?”

  “Yeah, this.” His finger reaches out to touch my cut. He screams like a bitch when I grab his offending digit and my hand pushes back hard.

  “No fuckin’ way. No one touches my cut,” I spit out, and certainly not a pimply faced kid.

  Chapter Four

  Mary

  Earlier…

  “Mom.”

  Just one word and I know exactly what mood my seventeen-year-old daughter is in. She’s at that age when she knows everything and can do anything she wants—in her own head, anyway.

  Trying to stay calm, clenching my hands to keep myself from screaming, then, as patiently as I can, I explain, “A photographer approached you on the street, Alicia. He told you, you’re an attractive girl. He said very flattering things about you…” I hold up my hand, “and I agree with every word. You are photogenic, and I’m sure would make a good model. But you have no idea who this man is.”

  “He gave me his business card.”

  I refrain from rolling my eyes. My know-it-all daughter can be very naïve, especially when she wants something. “Anyone can have cards printed, darling. Doesn’t mean they are who it says they are.”

  Her face is set and sullen. Lips forming a pout, she tosses back her hair. “I trust him, Mom.”

  There we have it. My daughter can’t possibly know enough about the man to know whether to trust him or not. I was incensed that a stranger had even talked to her, let alone her giving him her cell. A number that was called a couple of days ago, and it seems we’ve been arguing ever since. Well, not that it’s particularly unusual, I suppose if it wasn’t about that, it would be something different. My sole purpose in life is to ruin hers it would seem.

  It had been Devon Starr who’d called her. I wish I knew someone who could investigate his background for me, but I do not. Limited as to what I can do, I’ve googled his name, and sure, there is a photographer with that handle. He’s got a legit looking website, an Instagram account, and a Facebook profile. His pictures range from fairly innocent to suggestive poses which I wouldn’t countenance Alicia modelling for. There’s no full nudity that I could see, but certainly models in their underwear. He doesn’t seem to have any physical premises, so I presume he hires a studio when he needs to.

  This is the man who’s set up a meet with my daughter. Unlike her, I’m unfortunately well-versed in the ways of the world. You tend to be savvy when you’ve got sole responsibility for bringing up a child. There are bad people to be found anywhere, and it’s my job as a parent to keep her safe from them.

  My daughter is pretty, her face expressive, her eyes large, and her lips full. While I agree she’s the perfect candidate for being photographed, she could also easily be a target for being abducted and stolen away.

  All this I’ve tried to explain to her, but, to her mind, I’m being overly cautious.

  “I can’t see the problem. I haven’t said you can’t do this, Alicia. All I’ve said is that I’ll drive you there.”

  “Mom. I’m seventeen. I can drive myself.” She gives another toss of her blond hair. “What’s it going to look like when I turn up with you in tow?”

  Some days I regret her learning to drive, but I’ve still got control when it’s my car she’s driving. “You’re going nowhere without me to chaperone you.” My voice is now firm. Don’t lose your temper, I remind myself. “I either come with you, or you don’t go at all.”

  “You can’t stop me.” Again, I’m afforded a head toss. “I’ll get an Uber.”

  Oh no, she won’t. I breathe deeply and keep my voice even. “You’ll need a parent or guardian to sign any modelling contract on your behalf.”

  Her eyes go wide. “You wouldn’t say no.”

  “Try me.” I can’t stop the challenge coming out of my mouth. Damn. I didn’t mean to come over as forcibly as that, but reasoning isn’t working.

  She stomps her foot. “I hate you.”

  “Seriously? Alicia, I know you hate me right now, but I’m only doing this because I worry about your safety.” Again I make an effort to swallow my annoyance down. “What’s the problem? I’m coming with you. I’m not going to interfere,” unless someone puts their hands where they shouldn’t be. “I’ll keep in the background, and you won’t know I’m there.”

  “You’ll embarrass me.”

  “What? By just standing watching?” I really can’t see why she’s so upset.

  “This is my chance, and you’re going to blow it for me.”

  Her chance? I could explain her modelling for a romance novel cover is not her ticket to Hollywood, but I’m sensible enough to keep my mouth shut.

  If Devon Starr is legit, if he doesn’t pressure her into poses which are too suggestive, or wants her to take off her clothes, then honestly, I don’t see there’s too much of a problem. If her photos sell, then she could end up with some pocket money. I’m realistic to know that there are a lot of ifs, and that this isn’t the start of a career.

  I’ve done my best raising Alicia, trying not to impose my dreams over hers, and instead encouraging her to be her
own person. It’s been hard raising her for the last seven years on my own, but I’ve tried my best to raise an independent thinking girl. Sometimes I think I’ve been almost too successful. It would have been nice to share the burden at times instead of always having to be the disciplinarian, but in that, I’m on my own.

  I love her so freaking much, but that doesn’t mean we don’t clash at times—times, like now.

  “Oh have it your own damn way. Come with me then.” Alicia stomps her way down the hall leading to her room, mumbling something I expect I’m glad not to be able to hear.

  Half an hour later, I blink, half-close my eyes, then open them fully. She’s standing, one hip jutted out, her mouth set, her eyes sparking a challenge. She’s wearing a sports bra, her midriff is bare, and she’s got on shorts which can only have been made by cutting off too much leg from a pair of old jeans. It’s not the damage to the pants that worries me, I know they’re an old pair that got ripped, it’s the fact you can see her ass cheeks.

  She could end up on a book cover just like that.

  Why should I care? Clothes shouldn’t define you. During my younger days, my parents would tell me of all the dire things that could happen to me based on the clothes that I wore. Unfortunately, that seems to have become fixed in my head, warring with the eternal question of why young females should be responsible for the apparent uncontrollable urges of men.

  What Alicia is wearing makes her look sexy, something to be objectified. But isn’t that exactly what the photographer wants? For women not so blessed, or perhaps wizened with age, to see her and dream of themselves in her image? To be someone attractive to men?

  I can’t think of my daughter in that way. Underneath the makeup and the clothes she’s chosen for today, she’s still my little girl, the baby I once held in my arms. Often I wish, I could have kept her that age. It was far easier.

  She raises an eyebrow, making me realise I haven’t said a word, but I find it impossible to tell her you look nice. Contenting myself that I’ll be there with her, I pick up my keys. “Come on, we better leave now if you don’t want to be late.”