Page 24 of Wheelie's Challenge
Rags took a big bite out of his sandwich and chomped noisily. “How was she?” he asked Tigger.
Confusion crossed Tigger’s face. “Rosie?”
“No, Brenda.” Rags picked up his beer and took a drink.
Shaking his head, Tigger quirked his lips. “A total let down. I mean she’s got these fantastic tits. They’re big and firm and soft and all kinds of awesome, but that’s where it stops. One of the worst fucks I’ve had in a long time. What a damn waste. In her case, the packaging is way better than what’s inside.” He splayed his hands out on the table. “Now, when I see her at Ruthie’s, all I’m gonna think about is what a lousy fuck she is.”
“That sucks. I’ve been wanting to take her out,” Rags said.
“Believe me, dude. Wanting is way better than getting in this case.” Tigger glanced at Wheelie. “So no hard feelings? You still good with watching and helping out with my old lady when I’m gone?”
“Yeah.”
“When are you taking off?” Animal said.
“Day after tomorrow. The poker run takes us to Vegas, and Skeet, Cruise, and me are gonna stay a few days to party.” Tigger pointed at Wheelie. “Don’t tell my old lady that. She thinks I’m doing the run the whole time. She doesn’t know I’ll be in Vegas.”
Wheelie clenched his jaw and jerked his head.
The front door opened letting in a gust of dry, hot air. Loud voices, laughs, jangling chains, and heavy footfalls filled the room.
Wheelie looked over his shoulder and saw Panther coming toward him. The president of the San Diego chapter had a huge smile on his face. “Your bike’s fuckin’ awesome. I’d been hearing a lot about it.” He gave back the keys to Wheelie.
“Glad you enjoyed the ride. It cost me a shitload of dough, but it was worth every cent.”
“Hawk can do any customizing you want. He keeps us all happy,” Banger said.
“I saw what he did to his bike at Sturgis last year. Fuckin’ wicked. He gave me the name of a buddy of his in Orange County who does customizing for Harleys. I’m gonna check him out when we head back tomorrow,” Panther replied as he followed Banger to the bar.
Wheelie pushed away from the table and stood up. “I’m gonna head out.”
“Not up for a ride?” Klutch asked, taking Wheelie’s seat.
“When you going again?”
“In a couple of hours. We’re gonna have dinner at the roadhouse.”
Wheelie rubbed the back of his neck. The roadhouse was at the top of Ghost Pass—a favorite ride for the experienced biker. The road was narrow and snaked up and around in hairpins until it leveled out at the top. It was one of Wheelie’s favorite rides. “I’m in.” Shoving his keys in his pocket, he walked over to the couch and sank down on the soft cushions. Stretching his legs in front of him, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
Chapter Eight
“Twenty thousand andyour problem is over,” Tucker said.
Russ squinted against the glare bouncing off San Diego Bay; the rhythmic sound of the gentle waves splashing against the dock as speedboats raced by comforted him. “That’s a lot of money.” He took out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and tapped out two, handing one to Tucker before cupping his hand and lighting his.
“You want me to kill a man. A biker. That’s not so easy. The price is for the kill, but you’ll still have to pay expenses to and from Colorado.” The cigarette dangled from the corner of the stocky man’s mouth.
Russ stared out over the bay watching speedboats, water skiers, and sailboats glide over the blue water. On the other side, people gathered around several artists as they sat in front of easels painting water and cityscapes. Against the pale blue sky, seagulls swooped through the salty air, squawking to one another as they dive bombed just below the water’s surface to catch their prey.
“Let me see what I can do,” Russ said.
The dark-haired man stood up, his beady eyes darting back and forth as if he was making sure no one had heard their conversation. “You know how to reach me.” Tucker turned away and rushed down the wooden planks.
For a long time Russ just sat at the table, occasionally shooing the waiter away with the flick of his wrist. Mallory had the money. She’d inherited some from her parents when they’d died a few years before, and she was doing well in her real estate business. He’d have to come up with a plausible scenario that would convince Mallory to hand him at least thirty thousand dollars; she was ditzy but she wasn’t stupid. He’d need money to pay for Tucker’s expenses, and having a few bucks for himself would give him a bit of freedom from asking Mallory for money every time he needed it.
It’d been three weeks since he’d been set free and there wasn’t one day that he felt safe. The anxiety from worryingwhen and ifWheelie would strike was killing him, and he was a nervous wreck. Even Mallory had commented the night before after he couldn’t get it up while they were in bed.I have to kill the bastard in order to have peace of mind.It had occurred to him that maybe Wheelie had moved on and wasn’t gunning for him, but he just couldn’t be sure, and that was the worst part of all: the uncertainty.
He left ten dollars under his beer bottle and went to the parking lot and slid into the canary yellow Mustang convertible Mallory had bought for him the week before. He started the engine and headed to their three-bedroom rental on Ocean Front Walk.
