“This is so freaking embarrassing,” she says, storming past me, then opening the front door and exiting the house. “Stupid. I’m not a child.”
Oh but you are, I reply in my head.
It’s a fine balance not wanting to scare your child but wanting them to be aware of the many evils in the world. Perhaps I haven’t adequately set the right balance. Am I a failure or just the typical parent of a wilful teenager?
Backing the car off the driveway, I make my way through the city then up and out into the countryside that surrounds it. The temperature starts to rise as we begin to climb, as shown by the digits flicking up on the console, and the air conditioning starts to work harder. In direct correlation, Alicia’s mood, which had commenced poor, sours the more miles I drive. After I’d made one comment about how it was nice to get out of the city for a while, and she’d refrained from answering, I stay quiet.
Eventually, my GPS tells me I’ve arrived, and I pull off into a paved parking area, immediately spying I’m not the first to have arrived. There’s an impressive gleaming Harley parked up, and an older, weatherworn and heavily tattooed biker standing beside it. At first glance, he seems quite harmless. As he turns, presumably to check out who’s in the car, then when he swings back around to look out over the scenery, I see his leather vest has patches on the back of it. Satan’s Devils MC, says the top one, the bottom, San Diego, and the middle patch is an emblem of some sort, the grim reaper with a scythe looming over what looks like three demons.
It's scary as hell. I swallow, wondering whether it’s best to turn around and make a run for it.
But any chance of escape is soon lost. Alicia, completely oblivious to any danger, gets out of the car and storms off as though wanting to put distance between us. Telling myself I’m overreacting, I decide the best thing to do about the biker, who’s clearly in some sort of club, is to ignore him. Maybe he’s just stopped off to look at the scenery and will soon move on.
I start hoping Devon Starr arrives quickly, and then the biker will be gone. I find his presence unnerving. I know nothing about motorcycles or the people who ride them. Alicia’s father was into muscle cars.
Ah, another car is pulling in. Alicia’s face brightens when she sees the man driving, and I recognise him from his Facebook profile. It’s Devon, the photographer. He greets Alicia with a nod of acknowledgement, then goes over to talk to the biker, who’s soon moving his motorcycle to a spot that’s just been pointed out. It dawns on me it must be a prop for the photo shoot. My mind’s eased that the biker has a good reason to be here.
Then we seem to be waiting again. Devon’s getting impatient, tapping his watch, while the biker smokes a cigarette, politely moving downwind of me when he reads my disgust.
At last it becomes clear who the delay is for.
My eyes fall on the newcomer and I can’t stop the roll of my eyes. Jeez, does this kid think the sun shines out of his rear or what? Every movement seems practised, starting with the way he exits the car. His walk is fluid, the way his hips flex looks like he’s been coached on how to move sexily as he saunters across to Devon and my daughter. Warily I watch Alicia’s face, seeing her eyes are wide, her mouth open, and her cheeks flush. The kid’s demeanour might be wasted on me, but not on her.
Devon exchanges a few words, presumably about the newcomer’s tardiness, though the kid doesn’t look very contrite. Then he kicks into professional mode, posing his models as he wants them. My eyes are sharp, watching for any impropriety. It’s undeniable there’s chemistry between the pair, or on Alicia’s part, definitely. The photographer seems to know what he’s doing, and positions them just right, telling them what expressions to wear, making heat beam out of them.
I suppress a smile as it becomes clear the biker is very protective over his motorcycle. I do grin at the way he snaps when the kid tries to touch it, but soon I’m frowning, feeling a similar emotion.
“Hey, watch where you’re putting your hands.”
“Mom, you’re so embarrassing.” Alicia’s not impressed at my interruption, but that kid, who appears to go by the moniker, Owen, had been about to caress her breast—not on my watch.
So intent on viewing her, I don’t notice the biker’s moved closer, until he announces himself. “Name’s Grumbler.”
I glance at him quickly, then put my eyes back on my daughter again, but I do respond politely. “Mary,” I tell him. Then to explain my rudeness in not paying attention to him, I confide, “I hate this.”
“Your girl do this often?” When I frown, confused, he points toward his bike. “Model.”
“First time.” Then it all comes rushing out. “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.”
His eyebrows draw down. “Starr approached me much the same way. Well, not that he wanted me, but my bike.”
“Hey, Grumbler.” Devon’s walking across to us. He’s making a beckoning gesture with his hand. “Lend Owen your vest thing for a moment, will you?”
The biker beside me freezes and repeats in a voice dripping with disdain, “My vest thing?”
“Yeah, this.” The photographer’s finger reaches out to touch the vest of the man standing beside me, then screams when Grumbler grabs hold of it and twists it away.
“No fuckin’ way. No one touches my cut,” Grumbler spits out.
Devon raises his hands in defeat. “Fuck, man. What is your problem? I only asked.”
“Well keep your fuckin’ questions to yourself, or I take my bike out of here and ride.”
My mouth quirks as I watch the scene play out, wondering if the biker will make good on his threat. It’s obvious that Devon doesn’t like not being in the driving seat. It’s also blatantly apparent that he wants the motorcycle as part of this shoot, as with a shake of his head, he walks back to what he can control, the human models if not the mechanical ones.
“Why didn’t you let him borrow your vest?” I ask after a moment for conversation as much as anything else. I’m starting to get bored as shot after shot is taken.
“It’s called a cut.” His voice is deep, gravelly, as he speaks from my side. Like me, he’s staring avidly ahead, keeping as careful an eye on his bike as I am on my daughter. “I earned the right to wear it, it’s mine. Big disrespect to even touch it.”
“Like your bike?”
“Yeah, babe. Never lay your hand on a man’s ride.” He spares a glance for me, waiting for some reason for that statement to sink in. Eventually I nod, duly noting that if I ever come across another biker, I’ll make sure to keep my hands away from his motorcycle.
“It’s something else, isn’t it? Your bike?” Even I, a non-rider, can appreciate it for what it is.
“You like motorcycles, darlin’?”
Risking a quick glance to the man at my side, I notice he’s also turned assessing eyes in my direction. “No,” I reply honestly. “I’ve never had anything to do with them. But the way the sunlight’s gleaming off yours, it looks special.”
“Why, thank you, ma’am.”
I’ve pleased him by saying the right thing. After that, a few minutes pass in silence. Surprisingly, they’re not uncomfortable.
It’s finally him who speaks first. “So this was your daughter’s idea? To get into modelling?”
My eyes narrow as Owen pulls Alicia into him, but this time my nonverbal warning is sufficient, as the pair are posed decently enough, even for a mother’s critical viewing. “Hopefully this is just a one-off.”
“I like that you’re chaperoning her,” he tells me, seriously. “Girl her age could get into trouble without someone watching out for her. Her dad have anything to say about this?”
“My husband died a few years back.”
“I’m sorry,” he commiserates automatically.
I shrug. So am I, but I’v
e had to learn to deal with it. “Maybe it makes me overprotective, knowing I’m all that she has.”
“That you’re here with her shows you’re a good mother. How old is she?”
“Seventeen.”
I hear him chuckle. “I don’t envy you that. She’s strong-willed, isn’t she? Got attitude. Saw that as soon as you arrived.”
He’s got that right. “She’s pushing boundaries, thinks she can run before she can walk.” He seems to understand kids. “You got any children?”
“No, thank fuck.” Those three words are filled with heartfelt relief.
“Okay, that’s a wrap,” Devon calls out. “Got everything I need for today.” He turns and stares straight at the biker. “Fucking shame I couldn’t get any shots on the bike, you sure you won’t reconsider?”
Grumbler’s expression is all the answer he gets and needs. Devon sighs and shakes his head.
“What happens now?” I ask, looking out for my daughter’s interests.
“The photos will go on my website. If one is purchased, I’ll be in touch.”
Alicia comes bounding over, her eyes sparkling. “Will it be soon?”
Devon’s shoulders rise and fall. “Could be, I took some nice shots. But I have to prepare you, it may be never. It depends if someone’s writing a book that’s got the likes of the two of you as characters. Authors like to match the models to the people in their books.”
Owen taps my daughter on the shoulder. She moves around me to our car, reaches in and takes her phone out of the glove compartment where she’d left it. She hands it over to Owen, who taps something into it.
He’s giving her his number.
As I’m trying to process what I think of them exchanging contact details, Grumbler nods toward Devon. “You’ve got my cell. I’ll wait for your call.”
“Might not sell any at all,” Devon warns again.
Ignoring him, Grumbler’s eyes narrow as they settle on the two youngsters, then he turns to me. “Nice to meet you, Mary.” He glances back at Alicia once more, then leans in, saying with a chuckle, “Good luck.”
He strides away, and it’s then I notice he’s got a slightly uneven gait, but it doesn’t seem to hold him back as he goes to his bike and swings his leg over it. Then an ear-shattering roar pierces the air as he starts the engine. With a salute, he turns the bike, eases out onto the road, then accelerates and disappears.
Chapter Five
Grumbler
Club life continues as normal. My phone has remained quiet with no texts or calls from the photographer, so I guess that means I won’t be making a fortune from pimping out my bike. I often smirk as I remember how he’d assumed I’d let a pimply faced kid borrow my cut and sit on my ride. Hopefully he learned his lesson.
The shoot itself hadn’t been much bother, just meant I’d been hanging around for an hour or so, and it had been an experience seeing how photographers worked. I had checked out his website and had been impressed by some of the pictures he’s taken. My bike had looked damn hot. If I hadn’t kept the whole affair secret, I’d be tempted to ask Token if he could download one and take off the watermark so I could keep it and frame it. Surely I was entitled to something? But it would open a huge can of worms were I to ask him.
So I keep quiet. Now, once again, Friday’s come around, and we’re seated in church.
“What’s the latest from Utah?” Salem asks once the formal business items have been discussed. “Any sightings of Stormy?”
Lost wipes a hand over his face. “Spoke to Drummer a couple of days back. There’s still been no sightings of Stormy. He hasn’t gone back to the club.”
“They gave him three months, didn’t they?”
I seem to remember discussing that a few weeks back. Three months was too long in my view. As soon as Stormy had dropped out of sight they should have declared him out bad. Last time this topic had come up must have been about the time I pimped out my bike, and that was what, six weeks or so back?
“So he’s got, what? A couple more weeks?”
As Salem’s voice booms again, I realise I’ve been lost in my head, and completely zoned out of the meeting. I try to look as though I was paying attention the whole time, and prompt, “So, then…?”
“He’s out bad, and everyone will be on the lookout for him.” Lost nods my way.
I might have felt sympathy for the man who’d been bounced back to prospect if it wasn’t for the fact he’d taken a kill which should have been ours. Also, who could have respect for someone who’d run rather than stay and face a beatdown? Not me, that’s for certain.
“Snatcher hasn’t got a choice,” Lost continues. “Drummer’s still keeping a close eye on Utah. If Stormy’s not kicked out, then Snatcher will be going against the Satan’s Devils’ conditions for them continuing their charter. He won’t sacrifice his club for the benefit of one rogue member.”
“They keeping their noses clean in everything else?” Pennywise asks, tucking his shoulder-length dark hair over his shoulder.
“Seem to be,” Lost confirms.
Bones sniffs and rubs at his nose. “How’s their new enforcer doing?”
His query makes us all grin.
Lost smirks. “Apparently scaring the shit out of everyone.”
Now there’s outright laughter. I sit shaking my head. If nothing else, that alone proved that the Utah club were out of their fucking heads. Not only did they patch a woman member, they made her their fucking enforcer. Bunch of fucking pussies if you ask me.
Dart raises his hand. “Alex was asking—”
“She’s not joining,” Salem says fast, his eyes widening in horror.
Dart rolls his eyes. “Alex was asking about that beach run that was suggested the other week. That still in our plans.”
“Fuck yeah,” Reboot says, thumping his hands on the table.
“Could do with a club ride,” Niran agrees.
“I’m down for that.” Brakes gives a thumbs up.
“Okay,” Lost looks around, “Patsy and Alex will take the lead on getting the food sorted, and we’ll set a date now. Weekend after next work?”
From the nods of agreement, it does. Sounds good to me. A club ride topped off with a beach barbeque. Exactly the kind of shit that a man joins the club for. I’m looking forward to this—me, my bike, my brothers. Good food, good company and if we go to the beach that we normally do, a good fucking location with a paved parking lot.
Another church meeting done and dusted. The weekend proceeds like others before it. This time I do ride out with Niran when he suggests, which puts me in a good mood for the work week. Monday to Friday I’m a mechanic working at our shop. I get my head down like any other employee, but truth be told, I love my job. It’s not work when, as a member of the Satan’s Devils, I’m also my own employer and invested in making this business a success.
When Salem opened this workshop in the second hangar, it was so he could work on the customisation jobs, but truth be told, our auto-shop in town has proved so popular, having the space here, we also use it for overflow work. I prefer working at this location. It’s only a short walk from the clubhouse, preferable to riding through traffic.
In the seven weeks since my bike’s been photographed, not a lot has changed. I’m still toying with the idea of replacing the exhausts, but the ones I’ve got now do the job fine. Still, I do love tinkering with my ride. If I’m not working on it, I’m reading about parts and what difference they’d make to the look or the performance.
Though each day in the club is much like another, Friday comes around once more. Like anyone else, I’m already starting to wind down, which is why I’m sitting, flicking through a magazine, drinking a cup of coffee having just completed replacing a burned-out clutch on a car. It was a bit of a pig of a job, and so I had given myself a few minutes off. A scuff of a boot on the floor gets my attention.
Looking up, I roll my eyes. “I take a breather and get caught by the boss.”
P
rez barks out a laugh. “So this is how you spend your days. Always suspected you slacked off on the job.”
I raise my middle finger toward the prez. He knows I put in my hours. “You need anything, Prez?”
“Nah, just dropped off Patsy’s car. Needs an oil change and one of her tyres is wearing a bit low.”
He’d be worried about that. Lost would do anything to keep his old lady safe.
“Hi, Grumbler.” Patsy puts her head around the door, doing that little finger wave women are apt to offer.
Lost turns and directs himself to her. “Wait here for me, babe. Just need a word with Scribe about your car.”
When she nods, Lost disappears. Then Patsy’s eyes sharpen as they turn toward me. “I thought Salem did a custom job on your tank.”
Tilting my head sideways, I put aside the parts manual and look up, surprised by her statement. “He did. Why?” I get to my feet, grimacing as my leg’s stiffened in just the minute or so I’ve been sitting down. I place my hand on my desk, thinking about the work that had been done on my bike. The enforcer had done a fucking good job.
“Does he do the same for other people? Or is someone copying his style?”
I bristle. My bike’s a one-off, and if Salem has done the same paint job on someone else’s bike, I’ll want to know why before his teeth meet my fist.
Instead of elaborating, she fumbles in her purse, digging down deep like women seem to do, then with an exclamation of triumph, pulls a small tablet out. She taps the screen and slides her finger across it, then passes it over to me.
In big letters there’s a title, Death Ride, and the author’s name, Fara Weir, is underneath. And there, in pride of place, is my fucking bike—one of the pictures that had been taken weeks back. I slide the screen and quickly find the details I need.
Photographer: Devon Starr
Models: Alicia Styles and Owen Leesom
Grumbler's Ride: Satan's Devils MC San Diego #2 Page 4
