CHAPTER TWO
T-Bear Turner was a lucky man, and he knew it.
Here he was, doing what he was good at, working on vehicle engines and more at JJ's Auto in Airway Heights, Washington, and doing it alongside one of his best friends.
Def Leppard blasted from the boombox on the workbench, loud the way he and Moke liked it. Their boss was home sick instead of in his cramped office with the door open to keep eyes and ears on them and his business.
Not that he needed to supervise, 'cause even when he wasn't around, both T-Bear and Moke were hard workers. They'd been doing this job enough years that they were fast and accurate, and trained in the new computerized systems. The reputation of JJ’s Auto now rested squarely on their shoulders, and it was safe there.
JJ Washington was generally a great guy to work for and with—sharp, funny and patient. But lately he'd been grouchy as shit, clutching his grizzled head and complaining about the clang of every dropped wrench and rev of a motor.
T himself was never under the weather, but he'd done his best to sympathize with the old guy, and to cheer him up. JJ didn't seem to appreciate his efforts.
But what the hell, in a little while, the work day would be over. Another solid eight-plus hours of making the drivers of Airway Heights, a happy bunch of folks. Sometimes a repair ran into overtime, and then whichever of them was already finished for the day chipped in to get 'er done.
After their last customers drove away, and they locked up for the night, they'd straddle their Harleys and head on over to the other place they belonged.
The club house of the Devils Flyers MC, Airway Heights chapter.
The compound had been a thriving carpet-and-flooring warehouse and sales room back in the eighties. But when the Heights turned out to be too small to support the business, it folded.
Ivan 'Stick' Vanko, their chapter’s president, bought it for a rock-bottom price, and the surrounding acreage with it. The warehouse had been turned into storage, garages, and a place for the brothers to work on their motorcycles or pump some iron if they were so inclined.
T loved the place. He was patched-in, a brother in every way except blood with the twenty-odd other men. He and Moke were the only ones living there full time right now. Both single, neither of them saw the need to maintain their own house or apartment when the clubhouse had showers, a kitchen and access to all the beer, booze and weed they wanted.
Being honest, T wasn't much on housework and shit, either. He tried to do his part around the clubhouse—at least when he was reminded. Cheezus, he did not get why the old ladies made such a fuss about a few dirty dishes in the kitchen sink and that kinda shit.
Sara, Stick’s old lady, was a great gal, but she could be a real bitch when she was pissed off. And for some reason she didn't think it was funny the time she came in and found the kitchen table covered with motorcycle parts, Could he help it if that table was a great size for laying out parts and cleaning them?
T had offered to go get takeout, for the big barbecue that was due to start in a couple hours, so she and the other old ladies didn't have to worry whether the kitchen was clean or not.
The other bikers present had busted up laughing, except Rocker and Brews. Those two hadn't moved a muscle—both of 'em had turned into regular 'yes men' now that they had their own old ladies.
Course if T-Bear had a pretty woman with serious curves givin' it to him regular, he might at least try to straighten up a little. But, he didn't have one, and his prospects were not lookin' good.
The Flyers had an awesome cleaning crew on retainer. Juanita and her daughters made a weekly foray through the clubhouse, and for a twenty, they'd do a brother's laundry and bring it back all clean, even folded and shit. But they’d been out of town this last week, at a family funeral in the Tri.
He was gonna have to swing by the local laundromat tonight, or he'd have no coverall to wear to work tomorrow. He could no longer stand his own smell, and the thing had so much grease on it, he could hardly see the gray anymore.
And if there was one clubhouse rule he was not about to break, it was that greasy coveralls and automotive rags were not allowed in the washer and dryer, 'cause they left oily grime behind. Sara would lose her mind, which meant Stick would lose his, and no way was T getting in front of the Russian Iceberg when he was pissed.
T-Bear's pride was already beat to shit. He didn't need a face to match.
He scowled as he remembered the cause of his embarrassment—a certain platinum blonde stripper with DD-cups and a black heart to match her roots.
His concentration broken, he straightened from the car, twisting from side to side, a wrench in one hand, a loosened nut in the other. He was the biggest brother wearing a Devil's Flyer cut in E Washington, which meant there was a lot for his back to support. It could hurt like a bitch after long hours bending over a car engine.
"Best concentrate on females like this little darlin’," he muttered, looking down at the engine of the gold '66 Mustang he was currently tuning up. "She purrs like a kitten, gives a sweet ride, and long as a man takes care of her, she always takes care of him."
In the next bay over, Moke was in the pit underneath a pickup truck, his big frame mostly hidden. "Krystelle get you for that much?" he asked.
"Nah. Few hundred." But fuck, T would've given her the money if she asked for it.
She'd spent the last month cooing and fluttering her lashes at him, along with shaking her ass and titties o' course, cause that's how she made a living, stripping out at State Line, on the Idaho border.
She'd had him right where she wanted him. But once she got into his bed at the club, he got one blow-job and woke up with her long gone, his pride and available cash along with her. "Worst part is, she took my phone too."
Moke snorted. "That piece o' junk? Couldn't even play Elven Warriors on it with the screen all crack li' dat."
"Only 'cause I fell on it after you knocked me off my bar stool at the Hangar," T grumbled. "Anyways, I can play games at the clubhouse on that sweet system Stick got us. You've seen Elf warrior Sheenah on the big screen, right? It's like a guy could walk right up and grab that ass of hers. All in that tight little green outfit...mm-hmm."
"Da kine," his friend agreed. It had taken T-Bear some time to catch on to Moke’s habit of tossing Hawaiian pidgin into his convo, but he had the hang of it now. So he knew that meant ‘mighty fine’. Because, find a man with a dick in his pants who didn't perk up when Sheenah stalked on the video game screen.
Moke climbed out of the pit. He stood, as broad as T and nearly as tall, as he reached for a rag to wipe his hands on. Samoan-Hawaiian in stature and looks, his skin was golden brown, his eyes, brows and lashes ebony like the long hair visible under the beany he wore pulled down low.
"I could still listen to audio-books on that phone, though," T-Bear said, getting back to his gripe. "And I was right in the middle of a real good one."
"They make comics for bikers?" A glimmer of a smile touched Moke's dark, solid face.
T gave him the stink eye. "Smart ass. The Brother-Band series is chapter books. It's whaddya call it—young adult. Great adventure story about these Viking-like dudes, back in olden times. But I'm on the last book in the series, and now I can't finish it till I get another phone."
There was a short silence as Moke grabbed a Coke from the cooler under the workbench and popped it open. "I got you, if you need a loan."
T-Bear's cheeks burned. "Nah. I'm good, thanks. Knife owes me for our last poker night. An' luckily I had some cash in my other pants—Kryssy didn't find that."
Moke chuckled, and T joined in, because it was funny, picturing the busty blonde picking her way through his clothes, which he generally kept handy on the floor, clean piled in one spot and dirty in another, and no one but him knew which was which. Hell, sometimes he got 'em mixed up.
He mimed the blonde holding her nose with one hand while she picked up a pair of jeans with her fingertips. His pants did tend to get kinda gamy, since he often went commando, 'specially when he forgot to do laundry.
"Bet she wished she had some Vicks to dab under her nose like the cops do with a deader," he said.
Moke snorted his soda out his nose.
That was funny as hell too, and they both busted out laughing.
But as they walked out of the shop a short while later and locked the door behind them, T sighed heavily. "I dunno," he said, squinting as the cold March wind blew his curly red hair into his eyes. "Think I'm just gonna give up on women. Buy me a blowup doll and set her in the corner when I'm done."
"Seen a movie about that," Moke said as they moved to their bikes, parked in brightly painted spots, on the south side of the garage. "'Cept the guy was in love with his doll. His family went along and pretended she was real too."
T groaned. "Aw, fuck it. That'd be just my luck. There I'd be at the club, and the old ladies would be all, 'Now T, you know you can bring your blow-up bitch to party with us. We like her, she's quiet and sweet.'"
Moke laughed, his white teeth flashing. "Specially Lesa."
This was true. The third of their tight trio, Pete 'Brews' Vanko, was engaged to a vivacious, big-hearted brunette, Lesa Boggs. She helped run Pete's Hangar Brewpub and Grill. When she and Pete were off, they often hung out at the clubhouse with the rest of the Flyer family. Lesa and T got along great.
But a few weeks ago, she'd tried to set him up with some local chick who worked at the hardware store. No offense to Lesa, but the gal reminded him of a cute, little chipmunk. He'd crush her if he rolled over on her in bed. T-Bear had steered clear and kinda hoped Lesa would quit trying to find him a woman.
"There's a party at the clubhouse this weekend. There'll be plenty wahines there," Moke said.
T-Bear shrugged. There was no one in the current pussy posse who appealed to him. "Think I'm done tryin' for a while. Now I'm off to get me another phone. See you later."
Moke pointed a finger at him. "I'm comin' with. Gonna make sure you sign up for the insurance this time. You did that last time, you'd be gettin' a free phone today."
This was true, and T didn't mind having company, so he merely nodded.
The clerk at the local phone store was a pretty redhead who was tickled to have two bikers, especially Moke, interrupt her boring evening. In between flirting with the big Hawaiian, she set T-Bear up with a new smart-phone in a shock-proof case, with insurance.
"You can get a second phone, too," she told him. "We have a BOGO deal on. One for you, and one for your girlfriend?"
"Don't have a girlfriend."
"Oh. Well, the deal is good for a week," she said. "In case you find a lady." She smiled at Moke.
"That ain't happening," T muttered. He paid for the phone and the insurance, had her input his contacts and info from the cloud, and tossed the little bag and papers in the trash on his way out. No use keeping a bunch of shit he could hardly read.
He'd no sooner hit the parking lot than his phone buzzed in his pocket. He palmed it and tapped the screen to bring up a text.
'Told U I'd find U a great gal!' he read slowly aloud.
The accompanying picture was of a twenty-something woman with honey blonde hair drifting like silk around her face and throat.
Her head was tipped back as she laughed, her peachy lips open, eyes nearly closed. She wore a simple brown tee and no jewelry, but she was real pretty. Her soft face and the soft freckles beside the corner of her mouth did something for him.
She looked fresh and natural, like every move she made wouldn't be calculated for its effect on the nearest man or men. A regular hometown honey.
"Hey, who dat?" Moke asked, peering over his shoulder. "I'd buy her a phone."
"Yeah, me too," T-Bear said. "But who the hell is Rezan Farto? Fardo? No, Faro. That's who this text is from."
Then saying the name aloud clicked a memory. "Oh, right. He's the little dude I met at State Line, back in their poker room. Beat him at cards, and he just laughed and said he'd get it back some other time."
The guy had joked something about sending T-Bear a pretty woman that would cost him his winnings but be worth every penny.
"She da kine. You know her?"
T-Bear smiled slowly. "No, but I think I'm gonna."
"Huh. Guess you ain't done trying after all."
"Guess not."