Page 18 of Misadventures of a Biker

“Butt-fucking isn’t sexual,” he argued. “You do it because you’re angry at the recipient, not because you’re attracted to them.”

When Teddi snapped at me during the meeting, I wanted to bend her over the table and fuck her like she owed me money. Since then, I’d thought about it on numerous occasions for no other reason than to teach her a lesson about how she treated me.

I laughed, partially at Herb’s remarks and a little at the thought of butt-fucking Teddi. I’d get tremendous satisfaction out of it, but there was no way it would ever happen. She was far too uppity to offer herself to a tattooed biker.

It didn’t mean I couldn’t throw a bottle of wine in my saddlebag and give it to her as a peace offering. From what I knew of her, a little alcohol would certainly loosen her up. What happened afterward would be anyone’s guess.

“Enough of the butt talk,” I said. “I was just thinking I’d pay that guy a visit if could find out who he was.”

He rose from his seat and riffled through a drawer. After producing a pen and notepad, he scribbled something down. “How the fuck is Katelyn spelled?”

“Hers is K-A-T-E-L-Y-N.”

“That’s what I figured.” He finished writing and pushed the small pad to the side. “I’ll find the prick. Don’t worry.”

“You’re a detective now?”

He peered into his coffee cup and then looked at me like something was terribly wrong. “When did I pour this?”

“About the time I took my toast out of the toaster.”

A confused look washed over him. “You drink any of it when I was taking a shit?”

“I was scrambling eggs when you took a shit.”

“Just thought I’d ask.” He looked at me with concern in his eyes. “Seems like it either evaporated or someone stole it.”

“Why would I drink your coffee when I have my own?”

“That’s the same question I’m sitting here asking myself,” he replied. “All I can come up with is that you’re an ornery fucker.”

“No, Herb,” I said. “I didn’t drink your coffee.”

“Back to the asshole who hit the girl.” He stood and walked to the coffeepot. “I might not be a detective, but I’m resourceful. You ever heard of the six degrees of separation?” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m only six handshakes away from knowing that crazy bastard in North Korea, the redheaded girl with the nice tits, and that prick who hit the girl. Mark my words, I’ll find him.”

“When you do, let me know.”

“I might and I might not.” He sipped his fresh coffee. “I’ll ask Vinnie when I see him at the clubhouse this afternoon. He’s got more money than sense. I bet he knows how to find that prick.”

The redheaded girl comment registered. I couldn’t care less about Herb’s card-playing friends. I wondered if there was someone in the neighborhood I needed to meet. “Who’s the redheaded girl with nice tits?”

“Johansson, or whatever her name is. She’s in those movies with Tony Stark. She wears that tight suit, and the damned thing fits her like a glove. Looks like she’s trying to smuggle a couple of cantaloupes out of the farmer’s market over on Pine Ridge. I wouldn’t butt-fuck her, I’d poke it right between her big fat knockers.”

I shook my head. “Like I said, if you find him—”

“I heard you the first time,” he grumbled. “I might be old, but I’m not deaf. Or stupid.”

I glanced at my watch. If I stopped talking and left, there would be time to go by the liquor store before work.

“I better get to work,” I said. “Getting flooring quotes today.”

After taking his seat, he traced his finger over Kate’s name on the sheet of paper. “Better be careful talking to those old running mates of yours. If that little prick who oversees your every move finds out you’re hanging around them again, you’ll be back in the pokey.”

“I’m not going to hang around with them,” I explained. “I’m going to have them do some work for me. If they’re priced right, that is.”

“Damned shame your father’s partner sold the company. You could have gotten those mustachioed villains who worked for him to do it for next to nothing.”

My father co-owned a local construction company until his death. Although he had nothing more than a minority stake in the business, it had been a somewhat profitable venture for him. The rewards for his hard work were then squandered on my legal defense. What money he hadn’t placed in a retirement account was used to fight for what I believed was right. After my conviction and subsequent sentencing, I sold his home and used the proceeds to finance the appeal of my case. When the legal smoke cleared, I’d lost much more than my freedom.