by Steve Reeder
I dialled the farmhouse number. Julia answered.
“Simon. We were getting worried. Are you Ok?”
“I’m fine, Jules and I’ll be back in a moment to tell you about it. In the meantime, could you book me a ticket to Cape Town for tomorrow? I’m going to a wedding. Mine.”
“Simon. That’s great. Congratulations, but I hope your honeymoon will be over by the first of February.”
“Why?”
“Because we begin preparing for next year’s championship in February and we need two riders. And we’d like you to be one of them.”
Isn’t life just bloody wonderful?
THE END
Of course, I should really have considered the Israeli’s reaction when they discovered that the blueprints were not originals. But that’s another story.
Coming soon to Read This!
Books, From Steve Reeder
Turn Killer
My name is Andrew Shaw. It’s a fairly normal name, which is fitting because I am a fairly normal man: six feet two inches, one hundred and ninety six pounds, or eighty nine kilograms if you like, fit and healthy, strong but not over muscled, with light brown hair cut shortish and with greenish eyes. As I say, a fairly normal man of thirty-six.
Actually I’m forty next week, but not many people know that and I don’t advertise it. Yeah, it is vain of me, I know.
The fact that I am a motoring reporter, or a motorcycle journalist I should say, who has written and published a four hundred page biography of reigning British super bike champion Simon Roberts is perhaps not that normal, but most biking journalist are normal, likable, sane people, even those from SuperBike and MCN, both of which I have been employed by in years past. The biography of Simon Roberts you will most likely remember. It was uncommonly successful in both the UK and, surprisingly, the USA. This is why I don’t work full time for anyone at the moment. It’s also why I have a one-year-old metallic green Aston Martin DB9 parked in my neighbours’ parking space along with a new silver Honda Accord in my own and a Triumph Tiger in between. It is very unlikely that I managed to get all the details of Simon’s extraordinary life into the book, especially the episode involving the industrial spying, kidnapping by Israeli Agents - alleged but not proven - and his surviving alone for five days in the north African deserts, but I faithfully recorded what he told me along with what details I could find from other sources. And since Simon and I are still friends I guess he was happy with what I wrote, and the two and a half million pounds that I now have invested in my name would definitely indicate that the public liked the book.
But as I say, a fairly normal man of thirty-six. Alright then, nearly forty - I’ve already admitted that. I’m not married which some say is not usual for a man of my age, but up until recently I had two women in my life; Wendy, a twenty five year old Australian barmaid working at the Red Lion in Arundel Town who spends Tuesday evenings and sometimes Thursdays with me, and Chantal Du Toit, a South African woman of thirty with a degree in business management who works in BP’s London office. Both are very attractive girls; Wendy blonde and voluptuous and Chantal has dark hair and can be described as sleek. Chantal spends the weekends with me either at my flat in Little London Road in Chichester or at one of a various motor race tracks around Europe if I decide to grace them with my presence. Both girls know about each other and still manage to seem friendly towards each other. Not that they meet that often, you understand.
Anyway, that’s me - Andrew Shaw, fairly normal Englishman nearing his fortieth birthday with a fair bit of money, a very pleasant apartment, two fantastic girls, one good car and one great car. Plus the Triumph Tiger of course.
So, knowing what you now know about me, you would be hard pressed to explain, as am I, what I am doing standing in the desert outside of Las Vegas as the early morning sun spears the cold desert floor, with a pump action shotgun in one hand and a .375 Magnum in the other and the first hostile sounds of an approaching helicopter in my ears.
Oh, there are also three recently deceased bodies at my feet, one of them dressed in black with a priest’s dog collar around his neck.
Coming soon to Read This! Books, From Steve Reeder
Bad moon rising.
“Cash up-front, OK?” She said, spitting her gum into a tissue. The tissue was dropped into an oversized handbag.
He handed her a twenty and three tens, then showed her two more twenties.
She smiled. “We can’t leave the area, OK? I need to be back on my spot within twenty-five minutes.”
He nodded and selected first gear. The rental Ford slipped easily back into the sporadic traffic, then turned down a poorly lit alley and came to a stop half way down.
“Over there, against the wall.” He demanded.
“What’s wrong with the back seat?” She wanted to know. “It’s a sight more comfortable, you know?”
He ignored her and climbed out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Swearing under her breath, she slipped out of the passenger seat and swayed up to him, putting on her professional smile. The extra two twenties? Her pimp wasn’t going to know about them.
He positioned her against the wall and unclipped the single hook holding up her top. The slip of material fluttered to the ground and her breasts sagged into his hands. ‘She’s young’, he thought, ‘no matter, she’d do’. Bending down, he sucked roughly on her left nipple.
“A titty man: My favourite. I knew you were going to be fun,” She said; Standard professional talk. He said nothing, his hands feeling southwards to her barely covered crotch. She rolled her eyes with boredom and tried to think about Phil. If she did three more guys tonight she’d be able to score a hit for them both. She knew Phil was in a bad way, and really needed some crack, badly.
The john’s hand was searching in his coat pocket, ‘hopefully for a condom’ she thought. She didn’t know if she had picked up HIV yet, but it would be better to not risk it. He raised his head and looked her in the eye, then smiled. He was really turned on now. She could see it in his eyes, and smiled her professional smile back at him. She barely registered the sharp pain in her lower belly till it spread upwards through her stomach.
“Oh shit!” She gasped, a thin trickle of blood escaping her lips. “What …?” She felt herself sagging back against the wall, slipping down till her legs collapsed under her.
He looked down at her and saw the terror and confusion in her eyes as her hands desperately tried to stop her insides from spilling out. Smiling, he closed his eyes, feeling the orgasm building in his brain, bigger and bigger until it burst out of his mind and flowed through his body. It was a good one, perhaps as long as twenty seconds. When it finally ended he felt drained and yet somehow renewed. He looked down at the young whore. Her eyes were still looking up at him, but the terror and confusion were gone: she was dead.
A bit about the author:
Steve was raised in Africa, has lived in Zimbabwe, South Africa, England, Ireland, and Spain. Currently living in the Garden Route of South Africa and running a marketing business in Johannesburg and Durban mainly via Skype and cell phone.
Worked as; salesman, sales manager, marketing manager and even did three bouts of commentary on national motorcycle racing for the Top Sport programme; Owner several businesses including a golf tour & events company. Now spend most of his time in Knysna and Durban with trips to Spain and home to England when the weather there is pleasant.
Steve is a combat veteran with South African army – combat in Angola; he survived 2 fire fights and having vehicle blasted out from under him by an anti-vehicle mine, and accidentally walking through a mine field.
He competed in national and provincial motorcycle racing championships in South Africa and was the 1989 provincial 400cc champion.
Steve rates the bungeed off Victoria Falls Bridge - over the Zambezi River between Zimbabwe and Zambia - as one of the most thrilling experiences of his life, although
parachuting naked from 4000 feet over the Moroccan
desert, as a dare from a friend, rates a very close second.
One of the funniest incidents Steve rates was been shot at by the younger brother of a Russian smuggler for dating their sister while he was living in Mallorca, fortunately the smuggler was very drunk at the time and missed by several yards!