Page 17 of Nuts

“Nothing wrong with that,” he said.

“Then shut the fuck up about it.”

He gazed down at the toes of his boots. After a moment’s pause, he looked up. “Heard anything about that ATF agent?”

Posing as a former Marine and a biker, an undercover ATF agent had infiltrated our club and was accepted as a prospect. Midway through his investigation, he’d been exposed as being a government agent, and all but immediately went missing. I may have known something about it, but in matters such as that, keeping my actions and ideas a secret was paramount to my – and the club’s – success. I had little desire to lie to Smokey, but protecting him was more important than sharing secrets.

I opted to answer his question with a question, which was the mark of a guilty man. If presented in the proper manner, however, it might not be detected by my trusting friend.

I took a drag off my cigarette, blew the smoke to the side, and then met his gaze with a glare. “What in the fuck makes you think I know anything about that fucking ATF agent?”

He shrugged. “Just asking.”

“Ask somebody else.”

“The whole deal makes me nervous.” He gazed down at the driveway and shook his head. “The fucker was prospecting for us one day, and then he just disappeared.”

“Doesn’t make me nervous. At least he’s not fucking with us anymore.”

He looked up. “True.”

“Talking about it pisses me off. You ready to get some road time?”

He gave a slight nod and turned toward his motorcycle. “I’m ready if you’re ready.”

I lifted my leg over the seat, pulled on my helmet, and started the bike. After the engine reached operating temperature, I revved it a few times just to make sure the neighbors knew I was still alive.

Movement on my right caught my attention, and I looked in that direction. Wearing her typical oversized hoodie, loose fitting jeans, and a pair of sneakers, Smudge paused on the way to her car and waved.

I waved in return and gave a nod.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as she proceeded to walk toward her car. Try as I might, I couldn’t see her as anything other than what she was. I couldn’t fathom that a Harley shirt would transform her into anything other than an attractive lesbian.

Even if her Harley gear somehow turned her into a heterosexual goddess, it wouldn’t matter. I knew a little bit about everything, and what I knew about little girls was that little girls always had big expectations.

Expectations I couldn’t meet.

Chapter Seven

Joey

He was twenty-something, tall and attractive. His mannerisms made it apparent he knew it, though. He was an arrogant pretty boy, and although I really didn’t want to help him, I needed the commission from the parts he wanted to convert his Harley to a show bike.

He raked his fingers through his hair, and then looked at my tits. “I think they call it a tombstone taillight.”

I wished my shirt wasn’t as revealing as it was, and dismissed his stares as being juvenile.

“They do.” I clicked through a few pages, chose a motorcycle that had the taillight he referenced, and selected the part on the monitor. “Like this?”

I turned the screen to face him.

“That’s it,” he said. “But I want it without the turn signals. They look like shit.”

“California law requires them on anything built after 1973.”

“I don’t care. They look like shit.”

“They might look like shit, but they could also keep you from being rear-ended and killed.”