BOMB: A Day in the Life of Spencer Shrike (9 page)

“What do you want, Spencer?” she answers curtly.

I swallow down the feelings her words evoke. Because it’s crystal clear that she’s really done with me.

“Hey, uh…” I clear my throat. “I’ve been thinking, ya know. How you work so hard and everything.” I pause to see if she’ll say anything. But all I hear is her soft breath. “And I was just talking to Ford. You know how he has that assistant who’s been working for him in LA?”

“Spencer, get to the point, OK? I’m tired.”

“Pam, right? You remember me talking about Pam? She works for Ford long-distance. You know, she does everything virtually. They almost never see each other.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Bombshell, please.” I hear a smile on the other end, I know it. “Just calm the fuck down for a minute, OK? I’m trying to tell you something.”

She walks past the window again, then pulls the sheer curtains aside and peeks out. The moonlight hits her face and illuminates her blue eyes for a second before she drops the curtain and walks away. “Just tell me then, Spencer. I’m tired.”

“Pam works as Ford’s personal assistant. She runs his email and shit. Schedules things and, well, shit like that. You get it?”

She huffs. “Spencer, I know what a PA does, just fucking spit it out. What’s Pam got to do with this conversation?”

“Ford and Pam go way back. Since college. But the Biker Channel has a budget for a PA, so she got a raise when he started working for them. They have a small budget for each of us. Rook included. And they’ve been on me for a while to hire someone since I ignore them most of the time. And I was wondering if you’d like the job?”

She laughs. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“It’s not a huge deal, my budget is only forty grand a year—”

“No, thank you.”

“—and benefits—”

“No.”

“—and paid holidays.”

“I said no, Spencer. I’m not interested.”

“It starts next Monday. Hours are variable—”

“What fucking part of ‘no’ do you not understand?”

“I’d need you on call almost all the time, but I wouldn’t be unreasonable, ya know?”

“I’m really hanging up now.”

“I’d let you do your thing. Work the tattoo shop. Or—” I stop to wait and see if she’s gonna hang up. But I hear her breathing. “Or whatever else you’d like to do. You could quit the shop, Ronnie.”

Silence.

“You could do something else. Date someone else. Start a new life, if that’s what you want. I won’t interfere.”

I get the three quick beeps that says the call is dead and I look up at her window. She paces back and forth a few times, and then her shadow disappears. There’s no more movement, but the TV stays on.

I sit out there for more than an hour, leaning back against the wall. Watching her get up and occasionally grace me with a shadow. And at two thirty the place finally goes dark and I walk back to my shop. I open the side door, go inside, and flip on the lights.

This place is my dream realized. Everything in this shop is all I’ve ever wanted in a bike business. There’s six bays with bike lifts, custom tool kits with more than a hundred thousand dollars in equipment. The cinder block walls are painted red and black and there are reproductions of my tattoos covering every inch. Blackbirds, rooks, crows, and ravens. Everywhere.

Ronnie says she traces line drawings on skin. Fuck, she could not be more wrong. To me, the art on my body is just as beautiful as any classical piece hanging in a museum. Veronica Vaughn is the Renoir of the tattoo world.

I walk past Rook’s reception area. She’s gonna run the showroom and the desk this season and she won’t be answering calls. The showroom is open to the public, but bike appointments won’t be made over the phone. In fact, we’ve got the entire year scheduled. Everyone had to put up a fifty grand deposit to get a Shrike bike this year and Season Two will tape on and off for almost six months instead of the three months we’ve been doing. We’ll deliver a new bike to one high-profile customer each episode, and we’ll do that twelve times.

This is it. This is what it looks like.

Success.

My eyes sweep to my office door and I walk past the reception area towards it. My name is on the door, done up in the fancy Shrike Bikes font. Yeah, I have my own font. People will be able to download it for free from the website. I open the heavy maple door and wave my hand in front of the light sensor so I can take a good long look at my future. I turn back to my bay, which is even more tricked out with a custom-airbrushed tool chest that has the Shrike Raven painted on the front.

I turn back to the office and walk around the massive stainless steel table that’s been custom-fabricated and welded into my throne. This is where I’m going. This is where I’ve been headed since I turned eighteen and decided I would take this business over. This is the pinnacle of my dream.

And for some reason, it’s just not that sweet.

I drop down into the soft black leather chair. It’s so fucking luxurious I actually feel myself relax.

But none of this means anything to me right now. Because the only reason I was working so hard towards this future was so I could share it with Ronnie.

And she wants out. She’s done. I see it. I’m not delusional. I’m not one of those guys who wants to force himself on a woman and make her submit to his advances. Trick her into telling him how she feels, how she can’t live without him.

I’m not like that. I want my Ronnie, but I only want her if she wants me.

And right now, she hates my fucking guts.

I lean back in my chair, looking up at the ceiling. Thinking about how this might go.

I snap back to the present after a while and reach into my pocket for Carson Reed’s ID. He lives up north, not that far from me actually, but in a new neighborhood filled with those up-and-coming professional types.

Carson Reed is the key, I figure. I get up and walk back into the reception area, then scribble a note on the work order board telling the guys I won’t be in tomorrow. Today. When I look up at the new Shrike Bikes clock with my face staring back at me, it’s just about four in the morning.

They can live without me for one day, because I’ve got business to take care of.

Chapter Ten

I sit inside the backseat and just bide my time, tired as fuck, but amped up at the same time. It’s almost six AM now. Pretty soon. After I’m done here I’ll just go home and crash, because I am dog-assed tired. Then I’ll have my date with Carla tonight and life will move forward.

Whether I want it to or not.

And I do want it to move forward. I really do. This in-between shit is wearing me down. I need this trial to be over. I need this bullshit to be put behind me. I need to be able to look myself in the face again.

The door to the garage opens and I sigh.

Finally. The guy takes his goddamned time getting ready. He fumbles with his remote key and doesn’t even notice when the alarm doesn’t chirp. He’s got his arms full of folders and crap and he sets all that down on the roof as he pulls the door open. The dome light stays off, but he’s too preoccupied with his phone to notice that either.

Man, this guy is dumb.

He shoves his shit over on the seat next to him, then closes the door and starts the car. It’s not until he presses the button on the garage door opener that he finally figures out something is wrong.

I point the gun at his head and say, “Bang, motherfucker. You’re dead.”

He stiffens and takes in a sharp breath, but he keeps his mouth shut, and that’s the first smart thing he’s done since I saw him yesterday.

“You know why I’m here, Carson Reed?”

He eyes me in the rear-view and nods.

“Why?”

“Uh…” He clears his throat and tries again. “You’re Veronica’s… friend. You own that bike shop.”

“Well, you got the who down, but I asked you if you know the why.”

He swallows hard. “You love her?”

“I do love her. That’s exactly why I’m here. What time were you gonna call her and tell her no?”

He squints his eyes at me. “What?”

“Time, motherfucker. What time were you gonna call her today and tell her no?”

“How do you know I was going to call her?”

“Carson, do not fuck with me, OK? What time?”

He stares at me, and maybe it’s possible he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but somehow I doubt it. “Four.”

“Right before closing? That’s a dick move.”

“Mr. Shrike, I’m not sure what you think is going on with her and I—”

“She wants a loan, right? To start a business? I’m not sure what, but something that is not tattoos.”

“Uh, yeah.” He shakes his head. “Then why are you here? I thought you wanted to kill me for finding us together at dinner.”

I laugh. “Oh, I do. Believe me. I do. But I need you and there’s that little matter of murder being illegal. So no, I’m not going to kill you. I need you.”

“For what?” he asks, his voice cracking a little.

“How much money did she ask for?”

“Twenty, why?”

“Twenty grand? And you were gonna tell her
no
?” Fuck, twenty grand. I have that stuffed in my fucking sock drawer at home. I sigh. “Well, Carson, you’re not gonna make that call at four, OK? You’re gonna make that call at nine AM. You’re gonna get her on the phone and you’re gonna tell her yes. With conditions.”

“I can’t, Mr. Shrike! She’s got no co-signer, she makes less than two thousand dollars a month, and she’s got no down—”

“Carson,” I interrupt him, using my angry voice. “Shut the fuck up and listen. You will call her, you will tell her yes. But then once she’s all happy and screaming with joy, you tell her the conditions. She needs to have a full-time job. She needs to make thirty-seven grand a year. She needs to buy something big to establish her credit, like a car. And she needs to have all that in a week, or your boss will yank the application and make her reapply. You tell her the reapplication process is more grueling. Tell her once she gets turned down, it’s a black mark. You tell her she needs to hustle this shit up pronto, you got it, Carson?”

He just stares at me.

“Carson? I asked you a fucking question.”

“Uh, yeah. But…
why
?”

“Why?” I laugh. “You got it right the first time, asshole. I love her. I want her to be happy. I can’t be with her right now for obvious reasons, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna let her go. So you’re gonna do me one more favor. You’re gonna take her out on dates. Nice places, dinners—”

Carson Reed throws his hands up. “No. Absolutely not. I can’t do that, Mr. Shrike. She’s…” He stops and physically turns all the way around. “She’s…”

“What? She’s what?”

“Intense, Mr. Shrike.”

“Dammit, quit fucking calling me that. It’s Spencer.”

“Spencer,” he says hurriedly. “She’s way out of my league. She’s not my type. I mean, she’s gorgeous and she’s got, well, you know what she’s got. But I don’t like the wild ones, I like the quiet ones. And Veronica Vaughn is always on the verge of exploding, that’s how wound up she is. She’s the opposite of
calm
, Spencer. Wild isn’t even a wild enough term to describe this girl. She’s like a loose cannon, she’s like fireworks, she’s like—”

“A bomb,” I say, cutting him off. I smile. I love this characterization of my Bombshell. She’s feisty.

“She’s not into me, I’ll tell you that right now. I’m not into her. We went on one real date awhile back, but I pretty much knew it would never work right away. She just needs a loan and I’ve been stringing her along because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. And I’ll tell you now, my boss will
never
approve her loan. She’s risky—”

“I’m the fucking bank, Reed. God, you are dumb for being so fucking smart. I’m giving her the money, asshole. Just do as I tell you and I’ll have that dough deposited into her account in thirty days. It’ll look like it came from your bank. All you have to do is make the call today, tell her the conditions, and take her out somewhere fancy and treat her nice, once a week.”

“What if she won’t go out with me?”

“Make her go, Reed. You tell her you’re just friends if you want, but you will take her out and treat her nice once a fucking week.”

He squints his eyes at me and then turns so he’s facing forward again. “Well, what do I get out of it? You’re obviously not going to kill me, so what’s my motivation?”

So he does have a spine. That’s good to know. “What do you want?”

He smiles in the rear-view, like a kid grinning ear to ear. “A custom bike.”

I laugh. “A custom bike? From me? That’s like a hundred grand, Reed.”

“Wellllll,” he says, drawing the word out slowly. “She’s worth it, right?”

Damn. The pencil-pusher’s got me.

“I want one of those bikes you make and I want to have a say in what it looks like. I think that’s fair.”

I shrug. What do I care. He’s doing me a business favor, I can do him one back. “OK, stop by my house shop tonight and we’ll work out the details. But Carson, I need her to understand she must have a job, OK? I offered her a job working for me as my personal assistant a few hours ago. I need her to call me
today
and give me a yes. Push that. Get her to make the call and accept my offer, without letting her know you know about it, and we’re on. I’ll make you any bike you want.”