The Filthy Few (Iron Disciples MC) (3 page)

I never before
fantasized about a biker type, but I can kind of see what all the fuss is about.
He is all man. He’s handsome in a rugged sort of way, but the way he talks is
not rugged at all. I get the idea he is college educated; or maybe just
well-read. It’s hard to tell at this point. I look down at his hands. I like a
man with strong, capable hands. A little dirt under the nails isn’t a bad
thing. I wouldn’t mind him getting a little of that dirt on me, if I’m honest.
He has a ring on, but it’s not on his ring finger. Its surgical steel I think
and square shaped. It’s pretty thick and something tells me it’s a ring meant
for fighting with. It clearly would do some damage on the soft tissues of the
face. A glint catches my eye. He’s wearing heavy silver chain around his neck
as well, with a simple cross dangling from it. 

“I believe we
were discussing dinner…” He prompts.

“Like hell we
were.”

“You know you
can catch more flies with honey.” The words drip out of his gorgeous mouth.

“You can also
catch rats.” I reply. I’m not sure I have anything else to say to him…but my body’s
telling me to keep him talking. There’s something about his voice that rubs me just
the right way and I don’t want it to stop.

“Are you always
this unpleasant to talk to or is it the medication talking?”

“You’re lucky.
The medicine has put a warm fluffy cushion over my normally razor sharp and
acerbic repartee; otherwise you’d be in ribbons by now.” I motion to the bag
containing the remnants of my suit.

“So what were
you doing that had you so engrossed that you couldn’t see the traffic right in
front of you.”

“Talking on the
phone.” I reply.

“I get it,
those smart phones are really powerful, but not even the latest iPhone can part
the red sea; or in your case, the traffic.”

“That’s
actually standard on the new iPhone 7.”

“Guess somebody
should have shared that with all those android users that were on the road in
front of you; myself included.”

Suddenly
there’s a knock on the door and a man in a white lab coat walks in.

“Hello Morgan,
I’m Doctor Kendall, I’m the doctor who put your leg back together.”

“Hi Dr.
Kendall,” I smile and point to biker guy. “This is Cade; he’s the man who took
my leg apart.”

Then Dr.
Kendall does something unexpected. He turns to Mister Grubby and thanks him.

“Cade,” Dr.
Kendall begins. “It’s so nice to meet a biker who values human life over his
motorcycle.”

“Doc, before
you start handing out good Samaritan awards, it was just a reflex and not
representative of any desire to spare Morgan’s life. Every rider knows it’s
better to drop their bike and slide on the pavement rather than hit something head-on
while still on your bike. Asphalt is often a better braking system than what
most motorcycles come equipped with.”

“So you’re no
saint,” Dr. Kendall concludes. “But you still did the right thing.”

“That’s right
he’s no saint,” I retort. “Mr. Leather here expects me to pay for his
motorcycle. It’s not my fault it slid into the path of an eighteen wheeler.”

“Actually, one
could argue it is your fault.” Dr. Kendall argues. “According to investigators
who I spoke with before your surgery, you actually stepped out into traffic
without so much as a sideways glance. You’re lucky it was just a bike that
barely clipped you and not the Hummer that only just managed to avoid running
over you.”

“Wow, are you
my surgeon or some kind of lawyer?”

“Noted.” Dr.
Kendall replies. “I’m your surgeon and surgery went fine. You should be out of
that cast in six to eight weeks.”

“Six to eight
weeks? Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask.

I can’t believe
this is happening to me. I can barely keep up with two good legs and now I have
to hobble around on one?

“Don’t you sit
at a desk all day?” Dr. Kendall asks.

“I…get coffee
and…fine, I sit at a desk all day. How the hell am I supposed to do that if I
have to keep my leg elevated?”

“You’re an
enterprising young woman, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Dr. Kendall replies.

“You know what;
I’ve already figured it out. Where’s my phone?”

“Is this it?”
Mr. Grubby says, extending me a pile of crushed electronics.

“That is not my
fucking phone! Do not tell me you crushed my leg
and
my phone?”

“Is it the
drugs doc?” Cade asks. “Or is—”

“It’s not the
drugs,” Jason says, walking back into the room. “She’s always been a potty
mouth. But she’s tame here. You should here her at work.”

“What he said,”
Dr. Kendall says. “So how are you feeling Morgan?”

“Restless as
hell! I haven’t sat still this long since I was in diapers.”

“What she
said,” Jason says. “She never stops moving, she has three computers on her desk
and wears Google Glass almost non-stop. She has one of those funky ergonomic
chairs but spends most of her time pacing back and forth and talking on her
three phones. How long do you plan to imprison her here anyway doc?”

“You know what
they say about hospitals,” Dr. Kendall begins. “They’re no place to get well in
so…we need to keep her here a couple more days just to make sure everything is
healing fine then we can probably release her.”

“You’re kidding
right?” I ask, swallowing a string of four letter words that are threatening to
erupt. “I will be back at my desk Monday!”

“Oh no you
won’t,” argues Dr. Kendall. “There’s no way I’m releasing you that soon. Let’s
shoot for Thursday morning.”

“No fucking
way!” I yell, trying to sit up in bed. Unfortunately my attempt to roll out of
bed and onto my good foot is derailed by a sudden shooting mother of a pain that
goes from my lower left leg straight to my head and the room begins to go dark.
It’s not until I lie back down and take a few deep breaths that my vision begins
to clear again. Dr. Kendall is staring into my face.

“Yeah…I don’t
think you’re going anywhere anytime soon.” He says.

Stacy picks
this moment to walk back in. “What’s going on?” She asks.

“Doc here wants
to keep me imprisoned here until I’m old and grey.” I complain.

“You know, Dr.
Kendall,” Stacy begins. “Last year when my father crashed his bike he was able
to get out early as long as I signed a paper saying I would take care of him
until he could care for himself.”

“Yes…yes,” I shout.
“That’s it. Could you do that doc? Otherwise I’m gonna have to take over this
room. I’ll have to move in at least one computer, and my two assistants. You’ll
have to get rid of some of this crap.” I say pointing to an IV pole and various
contraptions connected to it. “Otherwise there just won’t be room.”

Dr. Kendall
gives me what can only be described as a longsuffering look then replies.
“Fine. As long as Cade here is willing to sign the necessary papers I guess we
could release you tomorrow morning…as long as you’re willing to go off your
morphine drip that is.”

“Done!”

“You’re going
to give her something right?” Stacy asks.

“I’m not
heartless,” Dr. Kendall replies. “Just a doctor. We’ll give you Vicodin to last
your first ten days and that should do it. If you find you need it after that
call the number on the bottle and I can give you one refill.”

“I’m sure I
won’t.” I reply with my usual confidence.

Doctor Kendall
does his check up and pronounces that I’m healing rapidly. No surprise there.
I’ve never been one to be average in anything whether it is stock trading or
healing from a broken leg or selling the most Girl Scout cookies. I have to be first!
After his check- up Stacy and Mr. Grubby both leave, promising to be here at
9am tomorrow for checkout time. The second the door closes I push the button on
my self- administered morphine drip. Just before I enter la la land I wonder if
I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew. Oh well. I guess we’ll find out
tomorrow.

It’s not often
that I have been accused of not thinking things through, but this is one of
those times. Why I agreed to go home with Stacy and her cousin, Mr. Grubby I
don’t know. I should have just had my two assistants stay with me in my
hospital room and just conducted business from there. By the time I got set up
at Cade’s house the market was nearly closed for the day. I decide to have my
assistant Stacy stay with me during the day at her and Cade’s house and have
Jason, my other assistant work from my desk at Capital America. He can enter
trades for me on my computer.

It doesn’t take
long for things between Cade and me to degrade. Clearly he has no idea what I
do for a living and he knows even less about the stock market. He stares on in
wonder as I do my thing until the closing bell of the market. As soon as I take
off my Plantronics headset he is full of questions and comments.

“You don’t
actually do anything.” He says the second I come up for air. “You don’t
actually buy or sell anything tangible either. At best you’re just a gambler,
or worse because it’s not even
your
money you gamble with.”

Having passed
judgment he collapses on his couch and glares at me daring me to refute his
statements.

“How can you
share a house with my assistant and not know anything about what she does for a
living?” I don’t let him get a word in and I plow on. “I’m no gambler Einstein,
that’s for people who don’t know what they’re doing. When you know the
companies you trade, when you do the research, and when you have a plan; that’s
called investing. You fail to do any of that and then yes, you’re gambling. And
while I am spending other’s money I am sharing the risk. Every time I place a
trade in a client’s account I risk it losing their money and having them take
me to arbitration and making a permanent mark on my record. If get even one of
those my career will go no further. I’d still have a job but there would no
longer be any possibility of advancement. Every single day, hundreds of times a
day I gamble with my career so don’t you sit there and tell me I’m not taking
any of the risk! When’s the last time your career was in jeopardy?”

That shuts him
up. Suddenly I need a Vicodin. I hadn’t noticed it when the market was open but
now that my adrenaline has worn off the pain is increasing. A few minutes ago
it was easily managed. Now I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a difficult time
concentrating on my work. Every trade I do in someone’s account creates a trail
of paper that needs dealing with. That usually means my desk is a sea of paper
from trade confirmations to prospectuses, from phone messages to my own
scribbled notes, and from scribbled notes to mostly junk mail. But everything
has to be looked over. Then there are the emails. I get about 150 internal
emails a day and about another 75 from my clients. Jason is my email guy. He
goes through every email and handles the ones he can and marks as urgent, the
ones I have to deal with. Both he and Stacy have their own trade confirmations
to deal with as well as their own internal emails to answer. Usually any time a
client calls in to make a trade himself one of my assistant’s deals with it. I
only do the discretionary trades as I’m the only one licensed to do that.

When it comes
to meetings it’s usually Stacy that attends them. On occasion when I have to
attend one then they handle everything until I get back. The three of us have
been working together for two and a half years and it’s worked beautifully.
There’s a level of trust between the three of us that’s hard to beat. I really
don’t know how I would manage if it weren’t for them and I pay them well to
make them indispensable. The only problem is, in 6 months Stacy will be moving
into a job similar to mine just like I did four years ago and if she plays her
cards right she’ll be in my position managing hundreds of millions of dollars
and have two assistants working for her. She will be tough, if not impossible
to replace. Jason on the other hand will always be a great assistant. He really
doesn’t have any other aspirations and that’s fine with me. If I lost them both
at once I’d drown.