B01MUG7DJX EBOK

by Mathew Ortiz

  The Custom Bike Maker (The Myer Triplets)

  © 2017 Mathew Ortiz

  Editor: Millie Buvamonteezi

  Cover Designer: Christine Eberle Barrron

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actually persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only; any person depicted in the Licensed Art Material, is a model. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to prosecution. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission of the author.

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Thank you for your purchase of this title. I sincerely hope you enjoy this read but would ask that you please remember that the only money authors like myself make from writing is from the sales of my books. If you like my stories, please feel free to spread the word and tell others, but please refrain from sharing this book in any form, as I depend on sales to support my family. If you see this book or any other written by me offered on pirate sites, please report the offending entry to: Mathew Ortiz

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Hyacinth Bouquet: British Broadcasting Company

  McVities: McVities UK

  AA: Alcoholics Anonymous (AA)

  Waffle House: Waffle House Inc.

  Papi: Papi Inc.

  Nasty Pig: Nasty Pig Inc.

  Andrew Christian: Andrew Christian

  Calvin Klein: Calvin Klein

  Pokemon: The Pokemon Company

  Absolutely Fabulous: The Movie: Fox Searchlight Pictures

  Harley-Davidson: Harley-Davidson Motor Company

  Coca-Cola: The Coca-Cola Company

  Bass: G. H. Bass & Co

  BBC: British Broadcasting Company

  Mini Cooper: BMW

  Dedication

  To those who cheered me on during the worst year of my life, you are the many and the loved.

  And for Tim, my heart, my soul and no one will ever replace you… ever.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  About Me

  Also Available

  =

  The Butcher,

  the Baker,

  the Custom Bike Maker:

  The Myer Triplets

  the Custom Bike Maker

  By Mathew Ortiz

  Chapter 1

  Caleb

  “Good evening, everyone. I’m Caleb Jaspers and I am a survivor of domestic abuse. Being a victim doesn’t make you weak, it means you put your trust in the wrong person.”

  *

  Bollocks! Bollocks! Bollocks!

  I can’t believe I got shafted with another bloody milk run from Atlanta to Raleigh! Don’t get me wrong, I need to work and, most days, I love my job as a flight attendant. But these short hops are murder on a body and spirit. It’s only an hour and twenty-some-odd minutes from takeoff to landing, so you really have to hustle your arse. Enough time to unpack, then serve one round of refreshments and snacks before having to pack it all up again. On a good day, you might do this run four times. A bad day is six or more and today was a bad day, with the first flight at 06:15 out of Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport.

  I parked my car in the staff lot, snagged my carry-on and trooped up the stairs to the platform to catch Atlanta’s subway system, the MARTA. The day matched my mood, gray and bleak; charcoal clouds turning the disk of the morning sun a fuzzy, sickly yellow. I popped my umbrella open to ward off the light, miserable drizzle that threatened my perfectly coiffed, blond hair. It should’ve repelled water, considering the amount of product in it, but it was better to be sure than a mess.

  Shifting my weight from foot to foot, I didn’t feel the rain at all. I’ve lived in Atlanta for just over eleven years and still find the humidity a tad much on a good day; and this icky early spring day was already shaping up to be too much for my delicate English sensibilities.

  Yes, I hail from the United Kingdom. My family moved here when I was sixteen for my father’s job. Good old Dad worked for the Health Protection Agency and when the CDC came head hunting for a viral pathologist, they enticed him with a great salary and a massive bonus. My mother grudgingly packed up me and my three siblings, together with my Grandma, and we headed off across the pond.

  For the most part it went well—for the most. My mother refused to let us attend public school, so she found a private one that impressed her which—believe me—wasn’t easy. Mum was raised in the upper echelons of London society. Nannies, private girls’ school, finishing school; you name it, she had it. She also had the regal bearing of the posh and there was no way was she going to let her children grow up to be common gutter trash.

  I adjusted well enough. Most of my classmates were from privileged families and I had the whole English accent thing going. Americans really do eat that up. Living in Atlanta, my bearing and countenance made me appear like English royalty and, according to my mother, we are related to the Queen in some round about aunt-uncle-sister’s-mother-four-times-removed-cousin kind of way. Absolute rubbish of course, but it makes her happy.

  My mother is definitely the type that, when company visited, the good china came out, along with the linen napkins and Sunday best, all to impress. They even used to greet guests in the ‘drawing-room’ with the huge fireplace and very English furniture. Not to mention the dozens of tastefully overdone flower arrangements that made my allergies flare for days.

  However, I managed to survive my mother’s overbearing, Hyacinth Bucket zealotry by not embarrassing her and keeping my head down. My sister and brother, Edwina and Benton, who were three and six years younger than me, similarly followed my lead and we wove our way through our loving, but crippling, upper crust English upbringing with relative ease. It was the baby, our brother Michael, who caused mother’s hair to turn gray.

  Michael took to the southern-ness of Georgia like a fish to water. His accent had faded within the first couple of years and he sounded, and acted, more like a redneck every day. Much to mother’s consternation and father’s great amusement. She had three proper English children and one hillbilly. Poor Mater, Mikey as he preferred to be called, loved Atlanta and all things redneck.

  Balls, almost missed my train.

  My hangover from another night of drinking with my sister had left me with a pounding headache and dry throat. I hadn’t even had time to have a proper cup of tea this morning and, in letting my mind wander, I didn’t hear it pull in until the hiss of the automatic doors jolted me awake. Grabbing the handle of my bag, I hurried in, jostled for a spot and grabbed a strap to hang from. One wouldn’t think it would be this busy at 05:00, yet the train car held quite a few bodies. I braced at the last second as the car surged forward and let the smooth whoosh of the engine lull my thoughts.

  I flipped out my mobile and checked the status of my flight. Unfortunately, it was a go and I sighed disappointedly. I’d hoped it would run late so I could grab some breakfast before we took off. Having gotten up late, I hadn’t been able to eat either. My grandmother, Phillippa, or Pippa as we ca
ll her, would have scolded me for skipping breakfast. She always says I never eat enough and am too skinny. I can’t help it. I’m naturally lanky like my dad and have his fast metabolism. I also inherited his blue-green eyes, strong nose and big feet. My mother’s contribution to my genetic make-up is my hair, very fair skin and, thank goodness, beautiful teeth. I also look a lot like her or, as a former boyfriend once pointed out, I’m pretty. Yes, indeed, that’s me, a delicate, soft English lad. Add gay onto that and everyone labeled me a twink.

  God, I hate that word.

  Not that anyone could call me fit or muscled—I do come across as soft. I gave up trying to change myself to fit some ridiculous gay image of a muscle boy a long time ago. Mostly because I love McVities biscuits and a good plate of bubble and squeak. What you see is what you get: a tall, slender, pale-skinned bloke with a pronounced cupid bow’s mouth and a weak chin.

  Ugh, enough with the self-ridicule, Caleb.

  The MARTA slowed and I blinked in surprise. We were already at the airport stop. My brain had been on auto pilot for almost thirty minutes. I exited with the throng, all seemingly going to work at the airport, and made my way to the main terminal for Cloud 9 Airlines.

  After high school, I’d drifted for a year or two until my friend Annie sold me on the idea of becoming an attendant. She’d already worked for Cloud 9 for a few months and gushed about how much she loved it. I adored her, but there was no way an airline company would have hired her in the old days. At all of five foot with a huge bust, she didn’t fit the traditional mold of the slender, tall attendant of the past. Yet there she is, waving at me from our teams’ employee entrance. I waved back and hurried my step until I strode through the door she held open for me.

  “I was about to call you!” she chirped. She’d already changed into her uniform. She let the door go and turned to the mirror on the back of the door and checked her hair. Pulled up into a loose bun and capped with a large aqua bow, her signature accessory, she stared pointedly at me past her reflection, still primping. “Did you get lucky last night?”

  I groaned and swatted her at her. “God no! Sunday’s not date night. Besides,” I pouted, “no one asked me out.”

  “And no one will if you keep staying home and drinking alone. I told you to meet me and Cheska at the Organic Monkey. They had a live band and snacks from 350 Degrees! I’m not trying to be rude but, if you don’t go out, you won’t get any!”

  “I wasn’t alone and, FYI, saying you’re not trying to be rude while being rude, doesn’t make it any less rude! Edwina came over and we polished off a bottle of gin. And how the bloody hell do you stay so thin eating rich deserts from 350 Degrees?”

  “Same way you do, sweetie. Youth and a good metabolism.” Her cheeky grin made me smile.

  “Meet any guys?”

  “Nah… they were all too short.” She huffed and adjusted her jacket. I donned my uniform quickly and we left the employee lounge. We headed out into the main terminal, making a beeline to our gate. Annie had a type. She like them tall, over six foot, Caucasian and clean shaven with a John Mayer vibe. No exceptions.

  I giggled as we passed a group of pilots and she almost tripped over her bag in her efforts to stare at them. Her face flamed red and I laughed louder as we approached the gate. Franco and Betty, the gate attendants, waved to us as we walked up to them and I handed Franco my ID badge.

  “Ready for a humdinger of a day?” Franco guffawed as I wrinkled up my nose.

  “How full are we talking?” I asked and Betty huffed.

  “Full house. All thirty seats taken.”

  Annie and I groaned in unison. We’d hoped for a half-full flight for our first out, instead we’d hit the ground running. Franco scanned my badge, then Annie’s and let us through.

  “Oh, by the way, Captain Chad is your pilot today.”

  “Why don’t you just shoot me?” Annie cried.

  Captain Chad had the hots for Annie, but had zero game. He was about as subtle as a nuclear bomb. Normally, Annie would be interested but he reached only five-nine and, in her book, that knocked him off her list.

  “Girl, you need to loosen up your requirements. He’s a doll.” Betty wagged her finger.

  “And he’s as big as one,” Annie groused and pushed past me.

  I shook my head and told them goodbye, following her toward the plane. As I drew closer, the tang of jet fuel reached my nose and I breathed it in. I love the smell of recycled air on the plane and the scent of the tarmac. Yes. I am an odd duck. I checked my watch as I boarded. We had twenty minutes or so to ready the cabin, so we were behind again. The cleaning crew had already taken care of the bulk of the work, but we had to go through our checks.

  “You want back or front?” I asked Annie as I slipped off my jacket and hung it in our little closet off the galley.

  “I’ll take the front,” she replied. “Besides… don’t you like it in the rear?”

  “Someone’s wearing her sassy pants today!” I smirked. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  The twenty minutes we had flew by in a whirlwind of ticking off checklists and the occasional mad dash down the aisle. We were comparing lists when the clomping of feet heralded the arrival of the captain and first officer. Captain Chad Merritt walked in, followed by Tarik Moussa, the co-pilot. Tarik gave us a quick good morning while Captain Chad made a point of stopping to say “Hi,” to Annie.

  Professional and cheerful, she bid him good morning and that was it. He left to join Moussa in the cockpit, completely crestfallen and once he closed the door behind him, I nudged her with my elbow. I mean, the man was seriously scrummy. About five nine, wavy blond hair, ice-blue eyes with a strong clean shaven jaw, and he had a drool worthy body. His white long-sleeve shirt stretched to its maximum around a broad chest and big shoulders, and his ass was like two melons in his pants.

  “He’s gorge. Why not go out with him?” I whispered and she shook her head briskly. I rolled my eyes just as the intercom went off and I picked up the cabin phone. “Hello?”

  “You guys ready?” Betty asked, her voice tinny and far away. “The terminal’s full.” I looked over to Annie and arched a brow, to which she gave me a thumbs-up.

  “Unleash the hordes, Betty!” I instructed and hung up. A minute or so later it sounded like a herd of buffalo were stomping down the gangplank. We took a deep breath and braced ourselves for the onslaught. I stood at the greeting point as Annie checked off the passenger list.

  One by one, sleepy passengers filed into the plane. I bid each a good morning but only received a few grunts of good morning in response. When most of the passengers had boarded, I called the gate to see if there were any stragglers, as we were four short. Betty informed us that two more were walking up to the gate and two had called off. I relayed this to Annie, giving her the names of the two no shows so she could cross them off the passenger list. A portly, disheveled businessman type bustled through the door, mumbling apologies as I confirmed his ticket. He hurried to his seat and I checked the time. If the final passenger didn’t get a wriggle on we were taking off without them.

  “’Mornin’”

  I turned at the greeting from behind me and the breath caught in my throat. “Good morn… ing.” I stumbled over the word and he gave me a small smile.

  “‘M sorry ‘m late.” His thick southern drawl tickled my ears and I drank in the sight of him. Tall, over six foot, he had a rangy body and loping gate. His shoulders were nicely wide and a deep blue shirt stretched over his chest. Tattoos covered both arms, even down to his hands. Hmmm… wonder how much of him is inked? His worn jeans clung to long legs and cupped a rather nice pouch.

  “Not at all. Welcome aboard Cloud 9 Flight 62 to Raleigh.” I tried to be smooth but then he smiled, wide—bugger.

  Even white teeth peeped out of thin lips and a bushy beard. Full and lush, it was squared off at the bottom and hung a good four inches from his chin. His dark brown hair fell to the right of his face, all floppy, the tips touching
the end of his strong nose. Unconsciously, he shoved a hand through the shock of hair, only to have it fall right back down. Big brown eyes gazed at me for a few seconds too long and I knew he was gay. No straight man looks at another man like that. He had that whole bearded, bad boy hipster look down; even to his boots and worn duffle bag.

  Why, oh why do men like this push all my buttons?

  “Thank you.” He sidled past me and his scent, clean and crisp, wafted over me. Damn it if my dick didn’t perk up. Now was not the time. I watched him walk down the aisle until he found his seat and—Yes! There is a God!—he was in the last row at the back of the plane.

  I indicated to Annie that we were ready and she confirmed we were clear from the gate. I pulled on the door and the hydraulics kicked in, shutting it tightly. I turned the lock to close and hit the security button on the keypad. The ‘womp’ of the door as it sealed filled my ears and I nodded to Annie.

  Ready for take-off, I made my way down the aisle, making sure the overhead compartments were secure and checking the passengers had their seatbelts fastened. I stopped at the last seat and shamelessly watched Mr. Hottie fumble his belt closed. He caught me and smirked self-consciously. The click told me he was fine, so I unfolded my jump seat. I picked up the phone and Annie answered up front.

  “All green back here.” I hung up and sat down, buckling up while Annie did the safety check spiel to the half-asleep passengers. She was perfect for the morning run, which usually held nothing but tired business men. I flipped through my mobile as she did her thing. Hmm… two texts from mother—no surprise—and one from Mikey. Junk. Not dealing with this now.

  An itch ticked behind my ear and I looked up to see Mr. Hottie staring at me. He snapped back around quickly and I hid my grin. So, he liked what he saw. Chuckling to myself, I let my mind go blank as we pulled away from the gate and rolled to the runway. The Captain rattled off his usual greeting and told Annie and I to prepare for takeoff.