Biker romance book bundl.., p.343
Biker Romance Book Bundle: 17 Full Length Novels, page 343
Abby and I will see you on the other side whenever you show up. Until then, I’ll keep an eye on you and the fellas the best I’m able.
Ghost (A real one now, I guess)”
I’d practiced reading it enough times throughout the night that I was able to do so without becoming too emotional. I folded the letter, laid it in my lap, and looked up.
Baker laughed and cried at the same time. “Fucker called you Gordon. If anyone knows how much you hate that name, he does.”
I coughed out a laugh and almost joined Baker in shedding tears. Almost. “Broke his fucking wrist with an axe handle over it.”
He wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm. “And he’s making you deliver the car? That’s funnier than hell.”
“It wasn’t that funny,” I said dryly. “Already delivered it.”
“He must have thought highly of George. I hope he takes care of it.”
“I’m sure he will.” I leaned over the edge of the desk and handed him the letter. “That’s a copy I made. You can keep it.”
He unfolded the letter and studied it.
“Did you know Ghost built a car for that guy?” I asked.
He set the letter aside. “What guy?”
“George.”
“He never mentioned it, no.”
“He did. A Mercury Marauder. Saw pictures of it. Bad ass motherfucker, as far as cars go.”
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
“You ever meet Him?” I asked. “That George fella?”
“Ghost mentioned him a few times, but I never met him, no.”
“In case you didn’t catch it in that letter, he left him half of his money. Let me tell you what. Half’s a whole hell of a lot.”
“If Abby left him that house, I’m guessing she left him a sizeable sum of money, too. She made millions. Maybe tens of millions.”
I raised my brows.
He raised his. “More?”
“Yep.”
“Good for her,” he said. “Good for you, too. I guess.”
His gaze went blank for a moment. He looked up. “Don’t know that I’d tell the rest of the fellas that you got any money. Definitely don’t say how much. Might cause some—”
“Hadn’t planned on it,” I said. “Knew you wouldn’t give a fuck, though.”
Baker didn’t care about money. He gave away most of what he earned. He was a modern-day Robin Hood, of sorts. Some of the other fellas weren’t as disconnected from their earnings. Cash, for instance, had one concern with the club’s business: when am I going to get my money? The rest of the fellas landed somewhere between Baker and Cash.
He tidied his desk. “Did you tell your parents about Ghost?”
“Fuck no!” I seethed. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
“Sorry I mentioned it,” he said. “Didn’t know if something like this warranted patching things up.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d even ask me something like that.”
He shrugged. “You know how Ghost was about it. It always bothered him that you couldn’t forgive them. You were young. Hot-headed. We all were when we were young. It never was that big of a deal to him—”
It was a big deal to me. Enough of a big deal that I walked away and never looked back. “It comes down to respect. You know how I am about that. We’re done talking about it. End. Of. Discussion.”
He resituated the items on his desk that he’d rearranged moments before. Tidying up did for him what planting flowers did for me. After watching him for a moment, I broke the awkward silence.
“You find it funny that Ghost left that much money to a guy we didn’t even know?” I asked. “Some fella he met in a diner? Seems to me the last six months or so of his life was lived in secrecy.”
“I think him leaving that guy half his savings is a pretty solid endorsement of who that guy is,” he replied. “Ghost wasn’t secretive about everything, though. He’d been talking to me about some things. He was getting ready to propose to Abby when she died. He told me that much.”
“I’ll be damned,” I said. “He didn’t say anything to me.”
He picked up the letter, and then put it right back down. “I think he was talking to me because of when I proposed to Andy. He was curious about timeframes and what was acceptable.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “You an authority on relationships, now?”
“Guess so.”
“Got another one for you,” I said.
“Another what?”
“I don’t know. Story, I guess.”
He leaned away from the desk and relaxed in his chair. “I’m listening.”
“So, when I went to deliver the car yesterday, guess who’s sitting in there eating a double cheeseburger?”
“You want me to guess?”
I shrugged. “It was rhetorical but go ahead.”
“Bill Murray.”
“Bill Murray?” I looked at him like he was nuts. “Why the fuck would Bill goddamned Murray be in that fucking diner?”
He shrugged. “You told me to guess. He lives here, you know. I thought maybe you bumped into him.”
“No. I didn’t bump into Bill fucking Murray.”
I glanced around his office, trying to decide if I wanted to continue with my story or not. As Ghost suggested in his letter, I was the club’s voice of reason. Unless I wanted to talk to myself, I was going to get smart-assed responses and poorly thought out opinions.
“You going to enlighten me?” he asked. “Tell me who it was?”
“The chick who put her panties in my pocket,” I said. “From the funeral.”
His eyes thinned. “She was in the diner?”
“Sure was.”
“Did you find out what the hell she was thinking when she did that?”
I chuckled. “Said I looked like I needed my spirits lifted. She thought that’d do it.”
“Did it?”
I shrugged. “A little.”
“What’d she look like?”
“She’s kind of—”
“Wait,” he interrupted. “How’d you know it was her? Did she just walk up to you and say, ‘Hey, I put some panties in your pocket at a funeral the other day.’?”
I didn’t want to tell him about my lucid daydream, or that I felt some strange connection to her that I couldn’t explain. I decided to stick with telling him about her quirky personality and smart mouth. If he was receptive, I’d tell him about poking my finger in her twat at the restaurant.
“I recognized her from the funeral,” I said. “I walked up to her and asked how she knew Ghost.”
“Well?” He leaned onto the edge of the desk. “How’d she know him?”
“From the diner. She said he thought she looked like Abby. They’d been eating breakfast together for a few months. Right up until the day he died.”
“No shit?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Guess there’s a lot about Ghost we didn’t know.”
There was a lot about Ghost we didn’t know, and it bothered me. I planned on learning as much as I could from George and Ally. I hoped a better understanding of his last days would bring me comfort. The sorrow and guilt would remain, but I was deserving of both.
“So, this chick,” I said. “The one who left the panties. We rode up to Encinitas and—”
He went bug-eyed. “You let a split-tail get on the back of your bike?”
“Jesus with the interrupting, Baker,” I complained. “Yeah. I took her for a ride. It was part of the agreement.”
“What agreement?”
“The agreement we made. I had to drop off the car with the guy that owns that diner, that George fella. I didn’t really want him to give me a ride back to my place, because I didn’t know him, and at that point in time, I didn’t like the thought of him getting that car. So, I asked that chick if she’d give me a ride back to my place. She said she would if I gave her a ride on the bike afterward. I agreed to it.”
He shook his head and laughed. “Let me get this straight. You didn’t want George giving you a ride? George? The guy that Ghost thought enough of to leave half his money and his prized possession, Eleanor? Because you didn’t know him? So, you got some chick you didn’t know—who, by the way, leaves her nasty panties in random biker’s coat pockets—to give you a ride, because she could be trusted?”
“You’re way off track.”
He smirked. “How so?”
“You’re making points that aren’t relevant. Or, at least you’re trying to.” I raised my brows. “Can I tell my story now?”
“Please, do.”
I glanced around his office. I was out of the mood to continue. His off-hand comments and attempted stabs at humor weren’t what I was hoping for.
“I don’t even remember what I was talking about,” I muttered, lying my way out of continuing.
“You were taking the pantyless chick for a ride.”
I wanted to tell Baker about Ally. Intrigued beyond belief at her many quirks, I found her rather fascinating. She lived her life away from the technological advances most people found necessary, choosing to spend her time watching old movies, listening to records, and reading books.
I would have gone on to tell him about meeting George, what a great guy he was, and how he planned to keep the Shelby forever, only driving it on Sundays.
Now that I had a taste of Baker’s argumentative nature, I remembered the other reason I didn’t like going into his office.
He was always right, and I was always wrong.
He was also somewhat of a hypocrite. He was in a relationship, but felt that the rest of us shouldn’t be, because it put the club at jeopardy. The only other member of the club who had an Ol’ Lady was Cash, and Baker didn’t even try to get in the way of that, because Cash would whip his ass in a minute if he tried.
“Yeah. So, I took the chick for a ride.” I stood and gestured to the letter. “You can read that at the meeting if you want.”
“Wait.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re leaving? What about your story?”
“I just told it,” I said. “I took her for a ride.”
“Don’t get all butt hurt and stomp off, Goose.”
“I’m not butt hurt, and I’m not stomping off,” I said. “I’m tired from being up all night.”
“Why were you up all night?” he asked.
I’d spent half the night convincing myself not to fuck Ally. The other half had been spent going through Ghost’s belongings, hoping to find something that made accepting his death a manageable task.
For the time being, I’d succeeded at the first task. The second was a miserable failure. I hoped in time I could find a way to succeed at living without Ghost in my day to day life.
The few minutes I’d been in Baker’s office reminded me why I chose to listen to everyone’s problems but keep my own bottled up inside me. Sharing with him the true reasons why I’d been up all night would only cause him to question my reasoning or stability.
He’d already done enough of that for one day.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I said.
He looked away. “I’ve been suffering from that myself.”
“I’m sure it’ll get better with time.”
“Want to go in that diner one of these evenings and get something to eat?” he asked. “Maybe talk to that owner about Ghost?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “We’ll see. I’ve got a lot to do at his place. Getting all his shit sorted out isn’t going to be an easy task.”
He stood. “Just let me know. And, let me know if you need any help going through his stuff.”
“Will do.”
I planned on talking to the owner about Ghost, but I had no desire to bring Baker along. Furthermore. I had no intention of having him sort through Ghost’s things. Doing so was going to be my therapy. And, until I found a way to accept Ghost’s death, the diner would be my place of refuge.
For everyone’s sake, I hoped that acceptance came sooner than later.
123
Ally
There were two groups of people I considered my clientele. Those who were wealthy, and those with high incomes. They were two totally different groups of people, each of which provided a unique opportunity.
People with high incomes were in-your-face with their alleged wealth. They often drove the most recent model of BMW or Mercedes-Benz, wore Rolex watches, designer clothes, and spent five hundred dollars on dinner while struggling to make their mortgage payments on a home that provided an obstructed view of the ocean.
The obstruction was caused by the many glass-walled two-story homes that lined the beach.
Those homes were owned by the wealthy. The wealthy were stand-offish, slow to trust others, and unwilling to carry on a conversation with someone they didn’t know. They chose to drive a ten-year-old Lexus over a BMW or Mercedes-Benz, ate at inexpensive restaurants, and wore inexpensive Seiko watches.
High-income clients carried large amounts of cash, flaunted it, and were eager to tell you of their perceived successes. Their retirement income was nestled away in an employer matched 401(k) drawing minimal interest.
My jobs with them took less than an hour.
Wealthy clients carried less than one hundred dollars in cash. Extracting information from them required that I immerse myself into their lives. Their retirement income came from real estate investments, business ventures, and interest income from the tens of millions of dollars they’d accrued over their lifetimes. A job with a wealthy client was an investment. It required the development of trust, which often took months.
Seated in a Starbucks just off the highway in Del Mar Heights gripping an empty coffee cup, I watched intently as people came and went. The area was north of San Diego, half the distance to Encinitas, where Goose and I had dinner just two days before.
Seeing a BMW or a Mercedes Benz in the neighborhood was as common as seeing a palm tree, and palm trees lined the streets. In short, the residents had extremely high incomes, but they weren’t wealthy.
It was my kind of neighborhood.
A handsome thirty-something parked in the corner of the lot. He got out, traced his hand across the temple of his perfectly sculpted business haircut, and turned toward the entrance. A double-take of his sparkling metallic black BMW M5 two times before he reached the door confirmed his high-income status.
He would likely be a perfect mark. I studied his left wrist as he reached for the door. When he did, his arm extended beyond the sleeve of his tailored suit jacket.
Gold Rolex Presidential.
Married.
Married men with high incomes were the easiest marks on earth. They spent more time in their offices watching porn and daydreaming about fucking twentysomethings than they did working. If given an opportunity to speak to an attractive young lady, they always took it. If for no other reason, the interaction would feed their ego for a month.
Their subconscious minds knew it and yearned for the attention.
To remove a watch unnoticed was a simple task for someone who possessed the skills. The only difficulty was giving the mark a reason to allow me to touch his left hand for a moment.
He quickly scanned the seating area. Upon seeing me, he did a double take, took a few steps, and stretched. While arching his back, he stole another glimpse.
His watch was as good as mine.
Men who drove sedans chose to do so for one or more of three reasons. To provide other men rides on business luncheons, as a status symbol, or to transport their family. The two car seats in the rear of his BMW let me know he was burdened with the task— at least for the day—of transporting his children.
It was 2:10 on a Friday afternoon. My guess was that his wife was shopping in Palm Springs for the weekend and he’d left the office early to enjoy a cup of coffee before picking up the kids from school.
I had an hour before he’d check his watch and realize it was gone.
I only needed three minutes.
Coffee in hand, he turned away from the counter. I ogled him until he noticed. After holding his gaze for long enough to convey interest, I glanced at the empty chair at my side. An inviting grin followed.
Just as I hoped, he took the seat. “How’s your day going?”
“Great, now.” I looked him up and down. “How about you?”
He hoisted his left ankle over his right knee and relaxed against the back of the overstuffed chair. “Not bad, considering I probably lost more money today than most men make in a year.”
Here we go…
I set my cup on the table between us with one hand and simultaneously pushed my Neverfull bag beside his chair with the other. It was a standard slight-of-hand maneuver, drawing attention to my coffee cup to keep him from noticing what was going on beneath the table.
I crossed my legs and placed my folded hands in in my lap. “Bad day of investing?” I asked. “I’m Jasmine, by the way.”
“Kenny B. Gottschalk. The pleasure’s mine.” He chuckled a composed laugh. “Let’s just say I’ve had better days. I’m not worried, though. It’s just money. I’ll make it up, and then some, on Monday.”
I tilted my head toward the parking lot. “Well, at least you’ve got that awesome car to drive. I love those things.”
His brows lifted. “BMWs?”
New cars were a waste of money. So was the bag I was carrying and the shoes I was wearing, but I needed them as props.
“Well, of course.” I slid my palms along my bare thighs as if warming my legs. “But I meant the M5, more specifically. I was skeptical about them going to all-wheel-drive this year, but who can argue with six hundred horsepower, five hundred and fifty pounds of torque, and a zero to sixty time in three seconds? Find an American car that can do that.” I laughed. “I think not.”
“A beautiful woman who knows as much about cars as a man.” He set his cup beside mine and looked me over good. “Well, aren’t you an exquisite find?”
His contrived nasal tone was the fingernail against my life’s chalkboard. Rich people, in general, made me want to vomit. People who spent their entire income in an effort to be perceived as being rich were much worse.
