Guns: The Spencer Book
Page 10
Besides the new painter, we picked up a couple girls from CSU to run parts and do errands that Rook used to do. My payroll went from five to nine. Which may not sound like much, but three years ago I had zero employees, no real shop, no custom bikes of my own, and Ronnie and I were more together than not.
These days we’re not together at all.
And it sucks. I hate it. I hate sneaking around behind her back, trying to get shit done, trying to keep my secrets.
Yeah, I admitted I was guilty last week when we talked, but saying it like that—all generic and shit, no details—it’s not the same, because everyone knows the details are all that matter.
I walk outside and join the boys. The grand opening for Shrike Bikes is six days away. The painting crew had to wait until the rain stopped today, and now they are just finishing up the mechanic banners. The outside of the shop is all done up in black and red with a giant Shrike Bikes logo and a banner with each mechanic’s name on their bay door.
They are all good guys and they’ve all been with me since the start. Only Ryan and I make the custom bikes. I use Fletch and Griff to assemble the stock bikes. They do a little customization—but no frame stuff.
All the guys are checking out the painting with me. They are excited and smiling. We’re big time, those smiles say.
Yeah, we were on TV last year too, but this… This. Is. Big time.
I have to take a deep breath when Griff knocks me on the back and they all crowd around as we watch our names being painted on the side of a building.
And the reason I have to take a deep breath is because this is the dream, ya know?
I’m about to be living the f**king dream.
And it came pretty quick. I’m not even twenty-four years old yet. But that’s not what’s bothering me today. Today all I can think about are the mistakes I made to get here. And last week, back when I was bitching about Ronnie’s dump of an apartment, she said something to me that really hit home.
She said, ‘At least I got it honestly.’
It was like a stab to my heart. Because she’s absolutely f**king right. I cheated my ass into this opportunity. Sure, I contacted the Biker Channel and pitched the show, but I name-dropped. My father stepped in, called up some of his old biker buddies. Got them to make calls.
And Ford. I told them I would get Ford Aston on board. I used our infamy to get the pilot. I let Rook sign the contract even though I knew she was only doing it to defy Ronin. Because I wanted Ronin to model with Rook on the bikes. And guess what? I got my way. I got everything I set out to get.
I used every bit of clout, reputation, friendship, and notoriety I had. And all of it was based on the fact that I’m a goddamned criminal. A murderer.
Alleged murderer to the public, but there’s nothing alleged about what I did.
I pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off a headache and then look up when Ryan punches me in the arm. “Snap the f**k out of it, Shrike! This is it, man. The end of struggling. The end of sweating the payroll, the end of…”
I stop listening at payroll.
They have no idea. They have no f**king idea my net worth is over a hundred and fifty million dollars if you include what’s left of my cut of the jobs the Team did a few years ago.
I stand out there with the guys as they paint my name on the last bay.
S. P. E. N. C. E. R.
I step back a few paces so I can see the whole thing. All five bay doors, the open-winged blackbird that spans the entire length. The skull and crossbones centered in the middle. The Shrike Bikes rocker above the skull and the tagline Not Your Daddy’s Ride on the bottom rocker so that when taken together, the whole thing looks like the three-piece colors of a motorcycle club.
My mind wanders back to when I made this logo. Ronnie and I were on the couch in the living room, sweating our asses off in the midday August heat the summer after graduation…
Two years ago—Bellvue farm
Her legs slip under my sketchpad and rub along the soft jeans covering my thighs. I’ve got a huge hole in the right pant-leg, and the flicker of heat that passes across my bare skin as she positions her legs makes me hard immediately. I stop sketching and rub my palm up and down her calf.
“Ooooooh,” she purrs.
Her legs are so f**king soft and smooth. Either this woman is hairless or she shaves every day. “You’re distracting me, baby. And you smell so f**king good, I can hardly stand it.”
She sits up and wraps her arms around my neck, her legs staying put in my lap. “What do I smell like? Tell me again.”
I smile at this. Why this turns her on, I have no idea, but it does. “Sugar, Bombshell. You smell like sugar.” She licks the inside of my ear and I melt a little, letting out a deep breath. “I’m never gonna get this logo designed if you keep demanding my attention.”
She grabs my sketchpad and tosses it over on the coffee table. “That logo is perfect the way it is, Mr. Shrike.” Her back straightens and her tits push against my chest. “Pay attention to me,” she begs in my ear, her soft breath floating across the sensitive skin.
I grab her ass, haul her up into my lap and squeeze her until she squeals. “You’re being bad, Ronnie. I’m trying to work.”
“I’m work,” she pouts. “I need to be worked.” She leans in to nip my neck and then she lifts her mouth to my jaw. “I need to be worked every day. I’m gettin’ rusty.”
“Ha,” I chuckle. “I f**ked you hard this morning, you’re well-oiled as far as I can tell.”
These days we’re not together at all.
And it sucks. I hate it. I hate sneaking around behind her back, trying to get shit done, trying to keep my secrets.
Yeah, I admitted I was guilty last week when we talked, but saying it like that—all generic and shit, no details—it’s not the same, because everyone knows the details are all that matter.
I walk outside and join the boys. The grand opening for Shrike Bikes is six days away. The painting crew had to wait until the rain stopped today, and now they are just finishing up the mechanic banners. The outside of the shop is all done up in black and red with a giant Shrike Bikes logo and a banner with each mechanic’s name on their bay door.
They are all good guys and they’ve all been with me since the start. Only Ryan and I make the custom bikes. I use Fletch and Griff to assemble the stock bikes. They do a little customization—but no frame stuff.
All the guys are checking out the painting with me. They are excited and smiling. We’re big time, those smiles say.
Yeah, we were on TV last year too, but this… This. Is. Big time.
I have to take a deep breath when Griff knocks me on the back and they all crowd around as we watch our names being painted on the side of a building.
And the reason I have to take a deep breath is because this is the dream, ya know?
I’m about to be living the f**king dream.
And it came pretty quick. I’m not even twenty-four years old yet. But that’s not what’s bothering me today. Today all I can think about are the mistakes I made to get here. And last week, back when I was bitching about Ronnie’s dump of an apartment, she said something to me that really hit home.
She said, ‘At least I got it honestly.’
It was like a stab to my heart. Because she’s absolutely f**king right. I cheated my ass into this opportunity. Sure, I contacted the Biker Channel and pitched the show, but I name-dropped. My father stepped in, called up some of his old biker buddies. Got them to make calls.
And Ford. I told them I would get Ford Aston on board. I used our infamy to get the pilot. I let Rook sign the contract even though I knew she was only doing it to defy Ronin. Because I wanted Ronin to model with Rook on the bikes. And guess what? I got my way. I got everything I set out to get.
I used every bit of clout, reputation, friendship, and notoriety I had. And all of it was based on the fact that I’m a goddamned criminal. A murderer.
Alleged murderer to the public, but there’s nothing alleged about what I did.
I pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off a headache and then look up when Ryan punches me in the arm. “Snap the f**k out of it, Shrike! This is it, man. The end of struggling. The end of sweating the payroll, the end of…”
I stop listening at payroll.
They have no idea. They have no f**king idea my net worth is over a hundred and fifty million dollars if you include what’s left of my cut of the jobs the Team did a few years ago.
I stand out there with the guys as they paint my name on the last bay.
S. P. E. N. C. E. R.
I step back a few paces so I can see the whole thing. All five bay doors, the open-winged blackbird that spans the entire length. The skull and crossbones centered in the middle. The Shrike Bikes rocker above the skull and the tagline Not Your Daddy’s Ride on the bottom rocker so that when taken together, the whole thing looks like the three-piece colors of a motorcycle club.
My mind wanders back to when I made this logo. Ronnie and I were on the couch in the living room, sweating our asses off in the midday August heat the summer after graduation…
Two years ago—Bellvue farm
Her legs slip under my sketchpad and rub along the soft jeans covering my thighs. I’ve got a huge hole in the right pant-leg, and the flicker of heat that passes across my bare skin as she positions her legs makes me hard immediately. I stop sketching and rub my palm up and down her calf.
“Ooooooh,” she purrs.
Her legs are so f**king soft and smooth. Either this woman is hairless or she shaves every day. “You’re distracting me, baby. And you smell so f**king good, I can hardly stand it.”
She sits up and wraps her arms around my neck, her legs staying put in my lap. “What do I smell like? Tell me again.”
I smile at this. Why this turns her on, I have no idea, but it does. “Sugar, Bombshell. You smell like sugar.” She licks the inside of my ear and I melt a little, letting out a deep breath. “I’m never gonna get this logo designed if you keep demanding my attention.”
She grabs my sketchpad and tosses it over on the coffee table. “That logo is perfect the way it is, Mr. Shrike.” Her back straightens and her tits push against my chest. “Pay attention to me,” she begs in my ear, her soft breath floating across the sensitive skin.
I grab her ass, haul her up into my lap and squeeze her until she squeals. “You’re being bad, Ronnie. I’m trying to work.”
“I’m work,” she pouts. “I need to be worked.” She leans in to nip my neck and then she lifts her mouth to my jaw. “I need to be worked every day. I’m gettin’ rusty.”
“Ha,” I chuckle. “I f**ked you hard this morning, you’re well-oiled as far as I can tell.”
