There’s no fuckin’ mention of my bike, not a tribute or thanks for me allowing it to be used. Should there be? Fuck if I know. Maybe there should and perhaps Starr is as fucking dirty as I originally suspected he might be. One thing is blatantly obvious, he’s shafted me. I’d had no contact from the day he assured me he’d be in touch if a picture using my bike was sold, but no such contact had been made, which meant I was out of pocket two hundred bucks.
Taking my phone out of my cut, I snap a picture of the cover that Patsy’s shown me. As I do, I notice she’s standing with her chin raised, her head leaning more toward her left shoulder than the right, and her expression is pensive. Slowly a grin spreads over her face.
“I take it from your reaction that this,” she taps the screen of her e-reader I’ve just handed back, “is your bike.”
I might be a biker, but I live by a code. Unless it’s to protect my brothers, I don’t like to lie, especially not to my president’s old lady, so I keep my mouth firmly shut.
Her grin widens, and she reaches forward and touches my arm. “Your secret’s safe with me.” She starts to turn, presumably to go off and find her man. “It’s a good picture, Grumbler. Really shows off your bike.” Then she disappears out back, ignoring the fact Lost had told her to wait—just like a woman.
Gazing after her, I narrow my eyes. Sure, she’ll keep a secret from her man. Of course she won’t. But Lost’s a good man. He’ll guess if I haven’t said anything that I won’t want it common knowledge that I literally pimped out my ride.
Still, I’ve got heavier shit to deal with than being the butt of a fuckload of jokes if were the truth to come out, like this asshole of a photographer taking me for a ride. You do not cross a Satan’s Devil and he’s going to learn that. I think it’s time I go and pay him a visit. First of all, though, I’ll have to find out where he resides.
Following the path Patsy took earlier, I call out to Scribes that I’m calling it a day, hang up my overalls, then walk back to the converted hangar which is our clubhouse, and take the stairs up to the place that I call home. To some it wouldn’t be much, a room containing little more than a closet, a desk and chair, and of course, a large king-sized bed. Off to one side is a door leading to a private bathroom. On the desk is an ever-growing pile of bike magazines and parts manuals. Taking out my wallet, I look inside. No card.
I go to the desk and then rummage through the drawer. Coming up blank in both places, I rack my brains. What did I do with it? Damn it. Suspecting I tossed it, I look into the garbage can. Empty. Well, if it wasn’t Wrangler, Curtis and Connor wouldn’t have a chance at getting patched in.
Moving the pile of periodicals aside, I open my laptop. It takes a few moments to come to life and I tap my fingers impatiently. As soon as I reach the search engine, I enter Devon Starr’s name. I find a load of social information about him, but there’s no physical address anywhere that I can find. Fuck. My immediate idea of riding to find him and literally shaking my money out of him goes straight out the window. He has an email address on his website though, and Facebook invites me to send him messages through the app. I pause, wondering what to do next. If I try to contact him, he’ll know I’ve found him out. I might put him on his guard. Even if I don’t, I’m far from being a patient man. Instant gratification is more my style, and I don’t want to be reliant on waiting on an answer.
I need help.
Christ. If I ask my brothers for assistance, I’ll have to wait until they pick themselves up from the floor where they’d fallen laughing after seeing my bike on a romance novel. Then they’d crack up again at how I’d been taken for a fool. Not that I’d blame them, I’d do the same if the boot was on the other foot. So what do I do? Put it down to experience? That is not my style. It strikes me that if Lost’s old lady hadn’t a penchant for devouring any novel that mentions an MC, I’d never have known my photo had been used and had proof that I’d not been paid.
Trust Patsy to like reading that rubbish, it had gone out of my head that she did. But I had known, I’d even once asked Lost if he minded her filling her head with rubbish about fictional clubs, and people writing about shit they knew nothing about. For some reason, a broad grin had spread over his face, then he’d given me a knowing wink and had changed the subject.
Glancing down at my phone and the pictures I’d taken of the book on Patsy’s e-reader, I wonder if there’s something else I could do to locate the photographer without emailing him direct. Then I see something else I could try. Fara Weir, the author, has a website, perhaps she might know more.
Not holding out much hope, painfully slowly, hunting and pecking out each letter, I compose an email.
Dear Ms Weir (well I suppose I should be polite)
I’m looking for some fucking help. My motorcycle is featured on the cover of your book ‘Death Ride’. I am trying to locate the photographer, Devon Starr.
Do you know where I could reach him?
The bastard hasn’t paid me what we fuckin agreed. Any help to locate him would be appreciated.
Fucking Warmest regards
Grumbler Bart Winslow
After removing some of the words that I’d typed, I take a breath and press send.
Having no expectation of a speedy response, I stand, stretch, and move to the window. I’m so wound up, if I were to go downstairs, anyone would be able to see that I’m grumpier than normal and all the nosy fuckers would want to know why. Right now, I don’t want to tell them.
A ping from my laptop gets my attention. The author couldn’t have replied so fast, could she? Nah, it’s probably a spam email of some fucking sort, the kind Token sometimes warns us about. No one’s going to make me rich quick, and I’m not related to a long-lost Nigerian prince.
Not feeling particularly hopeful, I sit and look down at my emails again. Top of the list is one from Fara Weir.
Hi Bart
Your motorcycle is stunning, and with the models was so right for my book. As for Devon Starr, I’m sorry, I know little more than you. All my dealings have been via email. Being his friend on Facebook, I think he’s based in California, but that’s all I know. I bought the photo a few weeks ago now and have heard nothing further from him. As I paid in full, I don’t expect to. Sorry.
All the best
Fara xoxo
What the fuck does xoxo mean? Is it some secret code? Shrugging it off, I sit back, linking my hands behind my head. My gut tightens telling me I won’t be able to let this drop. No one takes the sergeant-at-arms of an outlaw MC for a fool, especially not some skank of a photographer.
But without more detail, my hands are tied.
So, I muse, closing my eyes. I’ve got three choices. Contact him directly by email, which I’m sure wouldn’t work, but maybe it would be amusing to show him I’m onto his game and that he’s been caught out. So, he might come up with the money he owes, but what’s stopping him doing it again? How many other pictures will he sell? I’ll never find out, unless Patsy reads all of them.
Or I could let it go, learn a lesson not to pimp my bike out again, and let Starr get one over on an ignorant biker. It’s not my favourite choice.
My final option is to involve Token, a man who keeps our data secure but when it comes to verbal information about any of us, cannot keep his fucking mouth shut. If I come clean and let him know why I’m tracking the photographer, it will be all over the club before I’ve finished my explanation.
I view the screenshots of the book’s information once more. Alicia Styles and Owen Leesom. Maybe I could find them instead? Maybe they got their payment from Starr, and maybe there is some way to track him down that way. At the very least, they might provide me with more information.
I don’t feel particularly comfortable chasing down kids, but there is an adult I can try to find. But what was the mother’s name? My eyes narrow as I think back to the brief conversation we had. Marie? Martha? Mary, that was it. Mary Styles, if she still has the same name as her daughter. I r
ecall she’d mentioned an ex. If it had been an acrimonious parting, she might have returned to her maiden name, but for now, I could work on the principle that she’d hadn’t. Hold on, hadn’t she said he was dead? She had, and in that case, it’s probable she kept his name.
My hands still linked behind my head, I tap my fingers together. Now surely, I can come up with something plausible to get Token to track her down. I’ve just got to come up with an excuse of why I, a confirmed bachelor, want to find a woman who I’ve only met once. If I can’t think of a good one, he’ll tease the shit out of me.
I glance down at my phone. I’ve still got an hour before church. Time to go see what food’s on offer and consider how best to approach Token. Maybe I’ll talk to him after the meeting if I’ve come up with an explanation by then.
I close my laptop and stretch as I stand, wincing as my bones creak. Fuck, I’m getting old. Rolling my shoulders to loosen them, I grab my phone, slip it into my pocket, then go out the door.
Hearing voices coming up from the clubroom, I descend the stairs, my nostrils twitching as an aroma hits me, and I identify it at once. I’m not disappointed when I see my brothers opening boxes of pizzas.
“Hey, Grumbler. Got your favourite here.”
Making a beeline toward Salem, I give my brother a grateful chin lift as he opens a box revealing a meat lover’s delight or some fancy title or other. I don’t care, not as long as it’s fit for a carnivore. I take a large slice, then reach for another, piling one on top of the other. Salem grins and shakes his head, pushing the rest toward me.
“Take it all, there’s plenty more.”
There probably is. We usually over order so no one goes hungry around here.
“Hey, asshole.” I swing around as, before I can claim the box, a hand reaches past me. “Get your fuckin’ own.”
Pennywise pretends to rub the hand I just slapped. “But man, I want this one.” He pouts.
He’s just fucking with me. It’s par for the course. The MC is one big family, and like any siblings, we squabble, tease and plague the fuck out of each other at times. At the end of the day though, we have each other’s backs. I can’t imagine any other life. My blood family were good for nothings, dad was a drunk and my mom not much better. Dad had died early on—a burning cigarette had led to a house fire which my mom, my brother and I luckily escaped. Mom used her new freedom to find a replacement. The first one wasn’t too bad, the one after, well, we never saw eye to eye. A decade or so back she’d succumbed to a heart attack. If I were a crier, I’d shed more tears about Smoker who’d recently passed rather than the loss of my blood family.
My brother? Well, we’d never seen eye to eye, different in almost everything. There was no animosity between us, but no love either, and we’d followed different paths in life. Growing up, he’d escaped into books whereas I’d been dyslexic—not that I’d had that diagnosis at the time. Consequently, despite our neglect in childhood, he’d gotten good grades and went on to live a corporate life. I, I’d found, had been better using my hands and was hired as a mechanic. I worked from when I was sixteen, bought my first motorcycle just two years later, and then my world fell apart.
I ended up serving my country. Not that it was bad, per se, but it wouldn’t have been my choice and fucked up my other life’s ambitions. But when life serves you lemons, you make lemonade or else you might as well roll over and die. I’d done my time, but when I got out, things weren’t the same. I had pulled my bike out of storage and tried to make the best of having nothing else—no dreams, no aspirations, no job.
One day I’d stopped off at a biker bar which members of the Satan’s Devils MC were using as a watering hole on one of their rides. They’d been looking to take on another employee in their auto-shop and my knowledge of anything mechanical matched what they were looking for.
I’d jumped at the chance, my original skills honed by my time spent in the Army. Then I’d listened, learned, and after hanging around, became a prospect. The rest, as they say, is history.
Suddenly I lurch forward. “You eating that pizza or just staring at it?”
“Mind your fuckin’ business,” I growl, rounding on Snips. “At least I can fuckin’ eat it.”
“Not fair, Brother, not fair.” Snips face falls, but I’ve got no sympathy for the man.
“Just go to the dentist and get that fuckin’ tooth taken out.” He’s been in pain for weeks. I sigh. Seems like we’ll have to drag him there ourselves. It won’t be the first time.
“You know how I feel about dentists,” Snips complains.
We all do, he’s told us enough. But hell, last time he’d suffered with an abscess for weeks and his face had puffed up like a hamster. Still, he had rather put up with that pain than get the root canal work done. Then we’d sneaked some sedatives into him and managed to get him there. Did we get a thank you? Like fuck.
With a wary eye in my direction as if I’m going to drag him there now, Snips sidles away, and now, at last emerged from my reverie, I down the two pieces of pizza in my hand. Then, I go back for more.
I’m licking tomato sauce off my fingers when I hear the summons to church and follow my brothers there. Passing Token before going to my seat at the right hand of my prez, I lean and speak into his ear.
“Need some help, Brother. Speak after?”
“Sure, Grumbler.”
“Online ordering still beyond you, old man?” Scribe, overhearing, calls out.
I show him my finger. Nah, I’ve got that shit sorted now, but it had taken me longer to get used to it, letters and numbers get jumbled sometimes and I have to concentrate to get them straight. But I don’t mind them pulling my leg about it, isn’t that what brothers are for?
Chapter Six
Mary
“You coming with us for a drink after work?” Kristen calls out as I walk past her cubicle.
On a Friday evening that sounds great, and I normally would but not tonight. “I can’t.” My eyebrows draw down.
“Alicia?” Terra, coming up alongside me asks, her voice sympathetic.
“She’s grounded again,” I confirm, my expression showing I’ve once more failed at being a mom.
“One day that kid of yours is going to appreciate everything you do for her.”
I sigh and give a weak grin toward Kris, thinking that day will probably never come, or that it’s so far off, I can’t see it.
“Come talk to Momma Terra. What’s she done this time?”
It’s Friday afternoon, and my work is about done. I’ve finished preparing a disposition that will get to where it’s supposed to be on time. I’d translated the residents’ objection to the heavy-handed approach by a land developer into legal speak that will hopefully sufficiently impress a judge. I can spare a few moments to speak to my friend.
Terra is in her fifties and never had children of her own. Whether she wanted to and couldn’t, or whether she’d made the wise decision not to burden herself like it seems I have done, I’ve never enquired. But she does like hearing about my daughter, maybe to confirm she’d made the right choice in her life. Kristen, in her early twenties, is still looking for Mr Right, for now settling on Mr Right Nows, which none of us mind, as she usually spills all the salacious details as she continues her search.
I’m not surprised when I pull up a seat next to Terra, Kristen leans over the partition to listen as well.
“Remember those photographs she had taken a month or so back?”
“Seven weeks,” Kristen corrects. She’s a bit anal retentive and remembers details like that.
Nodding, I continue, “That’s when it started, the photoshoot with the motorcycle.” My voice trails off as I remember that was the day I’d met a real-life biker. He’d scared me at first, but when I’d spoken to him, I’d found him not what I expected. Polite, if a bit gruff, and overprotective about his bike and his cut. But then I’d been the same way about my daughter. Still, it turned out, being close to someone wearing a one-p
ercenter patch hadn’t made me feel in danger of my life. I’d been more suspicious about the photographer… there was a word for someone like him. Sleazy, that’s it. I hadn’t trusted him. It wasn’t his profession, but the man himself.
Kristen waves her hand, obviously trying to hurry me up.
“Well, a couple of weeks back she was offered another photoshoot, studio work this time. I again went with her. There was another man in his late twenties, early thirties, perhaps.” My eyes glaze as I remember thinking the pairing of the two models was only this side of tasteful. The age difference too apparent. “Once again, Alicia kicked off, said that she didn’t need me there.”
“Why are you only telling us now?” Terra hits my shoulder lightly.
I grimace. “I don’t want her modelling for him anymore. Didn’t want you two to say I was being too cautious.”
“We’d never say that.” Terra looks at me, while Kristen shrugs, letting me think she might be in camp Alicia. “Did anything happen?”
I huff a little. “Let’s just say I’m glad I went. If I hadn’t, well, I can’t say for certain, but the looks Devon kept giving her made me think he was visualising her with her top off.” I look at Terra, then at Kirstin. “She’s only seventeen for goodness’ sake.”
“Far too young for her to be showing her body off.” Kristen’s head is now bobbing up and down in support.
“But he didn’t actually come out and ask?”
I direct my reply to Terra, “No, but that could have been because I was present. Nothing gave me any confidence or let me want to loosen the strings. It wasn’t even his studio, just somewhere he rented by the hour.”
“Did she ever receive payment?”
I shake my head. “Presumably, none of the pictures have been sold. It has been a lesson that perhaps modelling isn’t as lucrative as she first thought.” I may have pointed out to her getting a part-time job in a local store might bring her in more money than standing looking pretty for a couple of hours. Lead and balloon come to mind when I think of how that went down.
Grumbler's Ride: Satan's Devils MC San Diego #2 Page 5
