“Damn, what have I done…? Good job, Jake. You kept saying you wanted to keep it professional between you two. Now, she’s going to think you were full of crap. I couldn’t help it. Her hands just felt too good. And they felt even better when we kissed. Let’s hope she can understand…”

For all his fatigue, Jake could not sleep that night. Not only did he keep thinking about the kiss, but he had also forgotten to ask Holly about when she would be available for work. Whenever that would be though, he knew that things between them would be awkward. Very soon, he was in a dilemma: call her and fire her over the phone, or pretend like nothing ever happened between them. Jake rejected both ideas. Firing people for no cause (or for something he had done) felt very cruel, and he was not a good actor.

In his confusion, he found something to be happy about: Holly’s reaction. She had not discouraged him or stopped him. On the contrary, she had enjoyed the kiss, maybe even more than he had. That fact alone was enough to take his mind off complications, at least for a while. Still, before he could jump into a relationship with her, he had to consult a friend with a very extensive knowledge of the local law enforcement agents. Clay Marshall was an Adams native and was sure to know much more about her than Jake did. He found the motorcycle club president under the shed of his workshop, working, with two more of his men, on a silver Harley Davidson motorcycle.

“Holy shit,” Clay said, surprise and joy written all over his face, as he tossed a wrench across the floor. “Big Jake: here in my workshop?”

“How are you doing, Clay?” Jake winked at him. “I haven’t seen you guys in a while.”

“We only come to your bar to celebrate things, man.” Clay spoke, a hint of sadness in his voice. “We haven’t had much to celebrate lately. We’ve had some problems.”

“What’s wrong?” Jake squinted at him.

“Come with me.” Clay urged, before starting towards the front door of the aging building. Within seconds, Jake found himself staring at poster-lined walls. There were more than twenty Harley Davidson posters on each wall of the narrow corridor and things were not different in the rather luxurious hall.

“Strike three.” Clay remarked, stepping into his office.

“What are you talking about?” Jake asked curiously.

“You’ve been here three times.” Clay smirked, seating himself at his office desk. “And I’ve caught you staring at bikes all three of them.”

“They’re really striking.” Jake remarked. “I like them a lot.”

“Are you sure?” Clay insisted, putting his feet up on his desk. “I see that look in your eyes. It says: ‘I want to be a biker. Ride the streets like I own them.’”

“Nah,” Jake waved his hand in front of his face. “Maybe I’ll buy one someday. But that’s about it. Anyway, you said you had problems.”

“We’ll get to that later.” Clay said in a calm and steady tone. “Now, tell me, to what do I owe the honor?”

“Holly Hutchinson,” Jake responded in a raised tone. “What do you know about her?”

“Why?” Clay’s smirk reappeared. “Are you banging her?”

“Just answer the question, Clay,” Jake grumbled.

“You seem a little too tense, brother.” Clay laughed. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

“Fine,” Jake reluctantly agreed and sat in front of Clay’s desk. “I’m listening.”

“Nice girl.” Clay attempted a serious tone. “Born and raised here. Her parents own the grocery store down the street. She kind of…” he paused, “pissed me off a few years ago. She was a rookie officer back then. She didn’t know the understanding between the club and the Sheriff’s Department.”

“You mean she wasn’t on the take yet?” Jake stiffly inquired.

“Nope,” Clay replied. “She’s still not. In fact, she’s the only cop in town who doesn’t take bribes.”

“Good for her.” Jake commented, his eyes sparkling with admiration.

“Good?” Clay’s voice went up an octave. “If she was on our payroll, she’d be driving a Benz just like the Sheriff.”

“Is that all?” Jake asked.

“Pretty much,” Clay shook his head. “About our problem: we’ve been having some problems with some gun shipments lately. Some of the weapons are defective. It makes us look bad, you know? A Mexican gangbanger shot himself in the leg the other day. Do a favor for me, will you? If any Mexicans show up at the bar asking questions about us, give me a call.”

“I thought you guys were just a bunch of Harley enthusiasts.” Jake teased, with a big grin on his face.

“We’re a lot more than that, baby.” Clay returned the grin. “Are you sure about that ‘biker’ thing? I mean, can I do anything to change your mind?”

“Why do you insist so much?” Jake wondered aloud, a touch of frustration in his rich baritone.

“Because, you’d be the perfect front, pretty boy,” Clay replied in an emphatic tone. “Young, big, strong jaw… with you, no waitress would deny us service. Most of them would just…” he faltered, “spread their legs for you.”

Jake burst into loud laughter, upon hearing his friend’s remark. He banged his palm at his forehead, clutching his stomach.

“Spread their legs?” He chuckled.

“I’m serious, man.” Clay stated. “Last summer, Tom’s girlfriend Jennifer saw you at the bar. You know what she said?”

“What?”

“Why can’t you look like that hot bartender? You lazy son of a bitch,” Clay made his voice high-pitched, impersonating her, “I swear to God, if you don’t start working out right now, I’m going to fuck him, you hear?”

“Oh, man.” Jake laughed even harder, banging his hand on his friend’s desk.

“Yeah, that chick’s crazy.” Clay laughed. “Remember what I said to you, brother. If you want in, all you got to do is ask, alright?”

“Thanks a lot, Clay.” Jake smiled. “I appreciate it.”