Ethan
Ethan eyed the bike with a grin of pride and satisfaction that most people would have reserved for a wedding day or the birth of a child. Most people wouldn’t have directed it at the 1936 Flathead Harley Davidson in front of him. Surface rust covered the dilapidated bike from handlebars to tailpipe and it was missing a few pieces. The paint, which had been army green, was flaking off.
He loved it. He’d seen it on the poker run The Angel’s Keepers had done two weeks ago and he just had to have it. In his head, it was sleek and the chrome shone. In his head, it purred like a kitten and rode like a dream. In reality, it was going to take a shit ton of work.
He’d just started taking her apart when the garage door slid up and Taylor and Ryan walked in.
“Hey,” Ethan said, looking up quickly to acknowledge his road captain and his treasurer and then putting all his effort back into loosening rusted bolts. “Glad you stopped by, actually. Been meaning to talk to you about that ride out to the canyon and back.” It was getting close, but he hadn’t heard any final confirmations and that wasn’t like either of them. The wrench slipped from the pressure he was putting on the stubborn bolt and he skinned his knuckles on the engine. He switched hands and wiped the blood on his jeans.
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “We need to talk to you about that, too.”
Ethan finally pried his eyes away from his new bike long enough to notice how serious his road captain looked. His eyes flashed to Taylor, who was the treasurer for The Angel’s Keepers, and he saw pretty much the same expression. That wasn’t good.
Taylor laid a folder down on the sheet Ethan had spread out under the bike and opened it to find a long column of numbers. “The numbers are shit,” Taylor said bluntly. “And the ride ain’t happening. There’s no way we can afford it.”
Ethan leafed through the paperwork. There was a big withdrawal just a few days ago.
“What’s this?” he asked, indicating it with a greasy finger. “I don’t remember anything that should have cost that much from the last meeting.”
“Building taxes,” Taylor answered, his voice tight with anger.
Ethan’s brows drew together as he looked at the spreadsheet. Numbers weren’t exactly his strong suit, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen the prices that high before. “They aren’t usually like this, are they?”
Taylor shook his head. “No, not by a long shot. When I went down to pay it, I asked. It’s part of Stratton’s new safety act.”
“Right, because how much I pay in taxes makes me safer,” Ethan said sarcastically.
A shadow fell over the spreadsheet and Ethan glanced up to see his Sergeant at Arms standing in the garage doorway, blocking out the late afternoon sun. William’s massive arms were crossed over his chest and he was scowling hard. “It ain’t your safety he’s worried about, dumbass.”
“Who pissed in your cornflakes?” Ethan asked, going back to the numbers. There had to be some way to finagle them so they could still take the ride. Although, if there was, Taylor would have been the best man to find it.
“State Representative Gregory Stratton,” William growled. He stomped into the room and gestured for Taylor to get up off of the rolling stool he was currently occupying. Taylor stood quickly and without complaining. The Sergeant took no shit on a good day. No one in his right mind would argue with him when he looked like a thunderstorm.
“The taxes guy?” Ethan asked, turning away from the bike completely now. “Ryan, turn down the radio.” It looked like he wasn’t going to get any work done, and it looked like he had a damn good reason.
“Yeah,” William said, getting comfortable on the stool and lighting a cigarette. “This is gettin’ to be a serious problem.”
“How serious could building taxes be?” Ethan asked, looking at William questioningly. It seemed like a small thing for everyone to be so concerned about. Expensive, sure. But the only thing more certain than taxes was death, and they’d find a way to pay for it. “I mean, it sucks, but we can--”
“Nah, it’s more than that now.” William took a deep drag and exhaled smoke, looking like a pissed off dragon. “Ran into Rogers. Guy’s this close to gettin’ his colors.” He held up his thumb and forefinger a scant millimeter apart. “Tells me today that he’s backin’ out.”
“What?” Ryan demanded, standing up straight from his leaning position and looking surprised. “He sure as hell didn’t say anything to me when I asked him about the ride last week.”
William nodded. “Yeah. Asked him about that. He said his wife’s gettin’ real antsy about the bad spin in the press. They’ve got a kid on the way. I ask him what spin and he hands me this.” William lifted himself up, pulled a folded and creased newspaper out of his back pocket and handed it to Ethan.
“Motorcycle Club or Biker Gang? Nevada State Representative Gregory Stratton Questions the Difference.”
Ethan snorted. “Are you kidding me?” He tossed the clipping down onto the sheet beside the folder. “This isn’t exactly news anyway. We’ve never had a totally clean reputation.”
“No,” Taylor agreed. “The reputation might not be new, but the fees are. It’s not just the building taxes, Ethan. He’s upping the taxes on our dues and our colors.”
“And he’s pushing like hell to limit where and when we can all ride,” Ryan added, his face darkening with anger. “Something about us being a danger to responsible motorists.”
Ethan stood up, anger flooding him with sudden adrenaline. “What?”
“Have you had your head up your ass these past few months?” William demanded. “This has been everywhere.”
Ryan and Taylor took a few steps back, eyeing the two of them warily. Ethan felt his jaw clench and he had to resist the urge to step forward. He stopped himself though. He respected William too much to say any of the things that ran through his mind. William had been his father’s best friend. He’d been an honorary uncle from the time that Ethan had arrived in Nevada at the age of fifteen. He was a founding member of The Angel’s Keepers and he knew the club inside and out. Because of those things, Ethan counted to ten before he spoke again.
“Okay,” Ethan said when he’d stopped seeing red.
He pushed his hands down into his pockets and glanced at the Flathead. Getting it had taken up a lot of his time. And he’d gone on the poker run out to Lovelock. His schedule at the mechanic shop he worked at had been tight since two guys had quit right when the summer rush started. He’d been working a lot of overtime.
And then there’d been Rachel. And Carey. And Brittany. Too bad she’d moved on to someone else; he could have used some stress relief right about now. He had to admit that he hadn’t put as much into being the president as he should have lately.
“Get me up to speed.”
“Things are shit,” William said, lighting another cigarette.
“Specifics,” Ethan snapped. He liked William, but if he was going to give respect, he was damn well going to get it back in return.
“Anything related to motorcycle clubs that Representative Stratton can tax, he’s taxing,” Ryan said with a shrug. “It’s pretty much that simple.”
“So what are you gonna do?” William asked.
Ethan was momentarily at a loss. Then something that had been at the back of his mind for a while rose to the front. “What if we got a tax-exempt status?”
“Not sure we could.” Taylor answered readily. So his treasurer had already thought of it. It didn’t surprise Ethan, but it was disheartening. If Taylor couldn’t work it out, there probably wasn’t anyone who could. “It’s part of the umbrella we fall under,” the treasurer went on. “We fall under social and recreational clubs. He argues that we’re gangs and not a social club, the idiots higher up believe him, and there you go. No tax breaks for gang members.”
Ethan rubbed his chin. “Okay. So we just have to be a more charitable group of bikers, I guess.” Everyone looked at him suspiciously. “Hell, I’m not planning force you guys to make cupcakes,” he said with a grin. “The ride’s cancelled. We’ll have plenty of time to get something good and charitable together.”
“Not talking about any charities ’til I’ve had some beer,” William said gruffly, pushing himself up from the stool and looking just as pissed off as he had when he’d walked in. Well, Ethan thought, looking at Taylor and Ryan’s more hopeful expressions. You can’t please all of the people all of the time. “Get up with Kenny and Jimmy and tell them to meet us at The Hole. We’ll have a real meeting.”
Ethan didn’t think they were likely to get anything done at the bar, or even be able to hear each other clearly, but William was clearly not going to be talked out of this. He nodded in reply to the other man’s request. “Sure thing.”
“This shit was a lot easier when your old man was in charge,” William muttered as he turned to the door.
Ethan didn’t answer that. It had been easier. Easier on him, too. He’d only been a Road Captain then. Organizing the rides and poker runs and keeping the members’ bikes maintained had been a hell of a lot more fun than running the whole damn club. And Marcus Billings hadn’t had a State Rep with a pointless vendetta breathing down his neck.
He watched them leave and then sent a text to Kenny, his Vice President, and to Jimmy, the club secretary and most organized man on the face of the earth. While he waited for their answers, he started packing up his tools. There wasn’t going to be time to work on the Flathead today after all.