He despised anyone who made online purchases for anything they could otherwise buy in person, and wasn’t afraid to speak his mind. He didn’t carry a gun, a club, or a knife. He did, however carry a straight razor in his back pocket, and made it know if anyone ever aggravated him enough to cause him to use it, that they’d end up being cut three ways.
Long. Deep. And, forever.
He worked as a jewelry smith, making custom rings and pendants by hand in his garage. He often turned work away if it was simplistic in nature, believing the complex designs challenged him more. All his work was obtained by word of mouth, as email, telephone conversations, and texting were out of the question.
When he wasn’t sketching his next creation in his notepad, he read literature, focusing not on the likes of The Grapes of Wrath, Pride and Prejudice, or other well-known works. He read pieces of lesser known literature that he believed had artistic merit, most of which his late father left him when he died.
With a jeweler’s magnifying visor affixed to his head, and one thousand watts of light illuminating his workbench, he delicately tapped a sterling silver strap with his brass hammer and awl.
Crafting the flat piece of silver strap into an intertwining string of roses, he worked all day and into the night until the piece was done. Upon completing it, he inspected it under a twenty-power microscope for any imperfections.
After finding none, he set the piece of jewelry aside, removed his visor, and reached for his book.
One thing that I liked about Tate’s MC series was that each book gave a totally different perspective into the lives of the men. They weren’t simply men on motorcycles who sat around the clubhouse drinking beer, farting, and screwing strippers.
They were men who had lives outside the club. Where one man might look at the MC as nothing more than an obligation, another may see the MC as his only family. One character might spend all his time in the book at the clubhouse or with the other men, while another rarely mentioned the men in the club.
I suspected Tate’s portrayal of the men in the fictitious club was accurate, and that in real life, MCs were comprised of people from all walks of life.
To Becker, the club was not a way of life, it was life. The only life he had, the only life he wanted, and the only life he knew.
I flipped through the pages with my thumb, soaking up every morsel of information about Becker Wallace that was available. After what seemed like a matter of minutes, the sound of Perry’s voice caused me to divert my attention to the other side of the observation station.
I lowered my Kindle and gave him a look. “What?”
“It’s one o’clock,” he said. “Time to get back to work.”
I glanced at my watch. Somehow, an hour had passed. I looked at the apple that was clenched in my other hand. One bite had been taken out of it.
Reluctantly, I turned off my Kindle and tossed it in my purse. I took a bite of my apple and then looked at Perry. With his thumb hooked on his belt and his keys swinging at his side, he gazed beyond his reflection and into the silent cellblock.
It irritated me that he spent three or four hours a day looking at cars on the internet, and if I wanted to read, I was chastised for it. Nonetheless, I sat and silently ate my apple.
“So, what’s that book about, anyway?”
“A jeweler,” I said.
He chuckled. “A jeweler?”
“That’s right.”
He gave me a look of disbelief. “Doesn’t look like a book about a jeweler.”
I raised my eyebrows in wonder. “What’s a book about a jeweler look like?”
He stopped swinging his keys and turned to face me. After swiping his flattened palm against the strands of hair that formed his makeshift toupee, he dropped his gaze to my purse. “I saw the cover of it when you got your Kindle out. Had a guy on the front without a shirt that was covered in tattoos and shit. Doesn’t look like a jeweler book.”
“Should he be wearing a suit?”
“He should be wearing something.”
“If he was an old man in a suit, would it look like a jeweler’s book?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
I wasn’t surprised. He was a narrow-minded bigot who was incapable of seeing beyond the surface of anything.
I wondered what someone like Becker Wallace would do in prison. My guess was that he would read, fashion objects out of what others considered to be trash, and take no shit from any man, guards included.
I watched Perry’s reflection in the glass as he walked to his desk, logged onto his computer, and began scoring the internet for cars.
I finished my apple, tossed the core in the trash, and reached for my Kindle. “When you stop looking at cars, I’ll stop reading.”
He looked up. “Excuse me?”
“When you stop looking at cars on eBay, I’ll stop reading.”
He glared at me for a moment, and then shifted his gaze to his monitor.
He continued to look for cars, and I began to read. As the straight razor toting biker forged a piece of gold into a ring, I relaxed. When the club went on a fact-finding mission at a rival club’s watering hole, I squirmed in my seat. Page after page, and chapter after chapter, I allowed Becker to wiggle his way into my heart, having no alternative but to accept him with open arms.
Tate’s previous books were narrated in first person, using an alternating point of view. The chapters were written from both the hero’s and the heroine’s points of view, giving an insight into the lives, thoughts, and feelings of both characters.
This book, for whatever reason, was narrated by an omniscient protagonist. It was different, but I was enjoying it immensely. Becker had just finished an engagement ring for a local attorney, who planned on proposing to his would-be wife over the weekend while on a cruise ship.
Under the illumination of the streetlight, Stephen inspected the ring at his leisure. His previous examination, while in the confines of the jeweler’s home, left him feeling anxious and rushed.
Using his thumb, he roTated the magnificent piece along the tip of his index finger, admiring the detail given in the placement of each of the hand-picked diamonds. His painstaking examination produced not a single imperfection. Finding it to be flawless, and much to his liking, he imagined what Julia would say when he offered it to her. Wearing a grin of anticipation, he folded the blue velvet cloth over the ring and pushed it deep into the pocket of his slacks.
“Give me the ring,” a voice from behind him demanded.
Stephen’s mind told him to run, but his feet refused the instruction. With his hand still in his pocket, he clutched the velvet cloth and said a prayer.
“I…I can’t. It’s…” Stephen turned around, hoping a heartfelt explanation would spare him from being robbed of the precious hand-made ring.
The tip of the assailant’s knife struck the left side of Stephen’s neck, severing his carotid artery. As his hands rose to the gaping wound, the thief thrust his hand into the prospective grooms’ pocket, retrieved the ring, and ran.
With a crimson trail leaving proof of his every step, Stephen stumbled toward the jeweler’s home. Fighting against time and his own beating heart, he somehow managed to stagger to the porch.
His vision blurred as he pounded his bloody hand against the door. “Please,” he pleaded, his voice weakened by the loss of blood. “Help me.”
The jeweler, immersed in reading, rose from his position in his favorite chair. As he took his first step toward the door, Stephen drew his final breath and collapsed on the porch.
The jeweler opened the door, and upon recognizing Stephen, lifted the lifeless body and cradled it in his arms. He tilted his head toward the star-filled sky and asked his glorious maker how nothing more than greed could empower one man to take another man’s life.
The sound of an approaching vehicle caused the jeweler to divert his attention toward the street. He raised his hand at the passing car.
The driver, a school teacher
on her way home from a winter social engagement, shrieked at the sight of the jeweler’s blood-soaked shirt. Instead of stopping, she pressed the button on her steering wheel mounted controls, activating the vehicle’s cell phone.
She cleared her throat, and with a shaking voice, gave the command that would change the jeweler’s life forever.
“Call 9-1-1.”
I looked up. My heart was racing. I felt sick to my stomach. I scanned the observation station. Perry was no longer at his desk. I looked at my watch.
3:25.
In five minutes, my shift was over. I tossed my Kindle into my purse. I would be so pissed off if Tate let Becker go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Tate wouldn’t do that to his readers. He knew exactly what it was like to have that happen, and I doubted he wanted to wish it upon anyone else, book character, or not. I stood, let out a breath, and looked around the room.
Damn you, Tate.
Chapter Two Hundred Nineteen
Tate
In a week, the new book had received over two hundred reviews. According to the amount of praise it was receiving – and the five-star average it held – it was my best received book to date.
I scrolled through the book’s Amazon page and down to the sales rank. Much to my surprise, the ranking was below one hundred.
Sixty-six to be exact.
Notoriety had never been my goal. No differently than any other author, I hoped to one day write a New York Times Bestseller, but made no real effort to obtain the goal. The policies, procedures, and layers of bureaucratic bullshit that were required to be hurdled to reach the objective were beyond what I was willing to give.
I enjoyed writing, sharing my stories with others, and felt blessed that I could somehow manage to pay my bills with the income I received from doing so. Becoming a puppet and allowing the industry to pull my strings wasn’t on my to-do list, nor would it be.
Excited at the book’s progress, I wondered if the success was simply a result of it being the last book in the series.
I decided it was.
I checked the sales rank again, fully expecting it to have jumped to well over one hundred.
Sixty-two.
I grinned at my accomplishment. Having a book ranked in the top 100 out of all books in Amazon’s existence was a benchmark I had yet to reach, and doing so was quite an accomplishment.
For the first two years that I’d published books, I didn’t have the internet at home. I’d write a book, take my laptop to the coffee shop, and upload it through the publishing platform using their free Wi-Fi. Rankings, reviews, and sales data were observed infrequently – if at all – and only when I was able to cart my computer to the coffee shop in the saddlebag of my motorcycle.
Although the woman who later became my agent strongly suggested that I develop and maintain a Facebook profile, I had so far refused to do so. Social media, at least in my opinion, was contributing to the downfall of today’s society.
It only required a visit to my favorite coffee shop to be convinced I was right. Every girl under the age of twenty sat with her nose glued to the screen of her phone. Updating Facebook, posting Snapchat photos, and tweeting their opinions to the masses prevented today’s youth from enjoying everything else the world had to offer.
Seeing two friends sit across from one another, and then spend their leisure time with their faces buried in their phones saddened me. I realized I could do nothing to fix it, so I chose to write about characters who were far more interested in living life than spending time on social media.
I closed my laptop, pleased that the book was being held in such high regard. A ride on my bike along the coast would be my reward for a job well done. It was early morning, and neither Pee Bee or Crip – both fixtures at the clubhouse – would be there for a few more hours.
San Ysidro sat on the US side of the Mexican border, and was an hour away. If I rode the more scenic route, taking the boulevards that followed the coast, it would take a few hours, but the scenery would be second to none.
By the time I got back, the fellas should be at the shop.
The ride along the coast was refreshing. The smell of the ocean brought with it memories of my mother and father, and of having a blood family.
I was grateful for the family I had, but nothing could ever replace the family I lost.
Riding along Highway 5, I exited at East Mission Bay Drive, just west of San Diego. The ride along the less populated route allowed me to not only smell the ocean, but see it. With the wind in my face, and one of God’s greatest creations at my side, I soaked up the late-morning sun as I crept along the stretch of road.
Living along the coast was all I had ever known. I often wondered how people could live inland, or in the Midwest for that matter, and not have the leisure of using the ocean as a place to find solace.
Without it, I was certain I wouldn’t be close to sane.
I didn’t make it to San Ysidro, instead choosing to stop at Mission Beach and watch the surfers take advantage of the early morning swells. After an hour of enjoying the scenery, I rode back to Oceanside feeling cleansed of all that had been on my mind.
When I pulled into the shop, I was pleased to see Pee Bee and Crip standing in the parking lot enjoying a beer in the mid-day sun.
I flipped off the engine and rolled to a stop at their side.
“What’s shakin’, motherfucker?” Pee Bee asked.
I pulled off my helmet. “Just the ground beneath this beast. How’s the shoulder?”
“Not bad, considering the guy that fixed the fucker normally works on horses and dogs.”
Crip chose to stitch his himself, which came as no surprise. I shifted my eyes to him and arched an eyebrow. “How about your arm?”
He poked the skin bedside the wound with his index finger and winced in pain. “Good as fucking new.”
Pee Bee looked at me. “I’d ask if you saw the news about the girls, but I know you don’t have a fucking television.”
I hung my helmet on my handlebars and stepped over the seat. “What did it say?”
“All the girls are doing good. They’re at home. According to the Captain in charge of the gang task force, some Mexican gang got in a shootout with the MS-13 and killed five of their men in the shootout. The cop who came by here was…” He paused and did air quotes with his fingers. “In the area at the time, and got to the house just as the killers were leaving. He said they were driving an old Ford pickup truck, and appeared to be headed for the border.”
I looked at Crip.
He shrugged. “That’s what they said.”
“I’ll be damned,” I said. “A cop’s a cop, unless he’s that cop. Glad there won’t be any heat coming down on us.”
“Felt good to find those girls.” Pee Bee turned his head and looked at his shoulder. “Makes this worth it.”
The bullet that struck Pee Bee came from the rifle of the man I had killed. According to Crip, if it wasn’t for me, the bullet might have hit him in the stomach or chest. Chances of survival from that wound would have been bleak.
I certainly didn’t feel like he owed me anything, but he was more than grateful for my quick reaction to the situation.
I fully realized killing was inherently wrong, but I believed there were often extenuating circumstances that justified the act. If having grown men kidnap children and then rape them at will wasn’t justification, I supposed nothing was.
“Hearing that little girl say ‘thank you’ was all it took for me to realize we were doing the right thing,” I said.
“What girl?”
“The little girl who was wearing Crip’s shirt,” I said. “When you told her help was on the way.”
“I didn’t catch that.”
“I’m sure you were in shock. High on adrenaline, if nothing else.”
“I wish I could have killed that prick a few more times,” Crip seethed. “Killing him once wasn’t enough.”
“The one who had that little girl
in the room?” I asked.
“Yeah.” His jaw went tight. “Makes me sick thinking about it.”
“Me, too.”
“Me three,” Pee Bee said.
Crip finished his beer and turned toward the open door of the clubhouse. “Like I said when we were there. I appreciate you fellas being there. Couldn’t have got it done without ya.”
“Got company, Boss,” Pee Bee said. “Smells like bacon.”
Crip and I turned around at the same time. The cop who continued to meddle in the club’s business pulled into the lot and shut off his engine.
Fuck.
He opened the car’s door and got out. “Good afternoon, fellas.”
To date, I hadn’t seen him up close, but now that I was standing within a few feet from him, my guess was that he could hold his own in a bar fight. He was over six feet tall and built like a running back.
Crip turned his head to the side and spat on the ground and then glared at him. “Something I can do for you, detective?”
“Just in the neighborhood, and thought I’d stop in and give you an update.”
Crip looked him up and down. “Didn’t know I needed one.”
“Matter of common courtesy,” the cop said.
“Since when are cops courteous?” Crip asked with a dry laugh. “Last I heard, cops were shooting men through their car windows for legally carrying weapons, shooting them in the back for having broken out taillights, and gunning ‘em down in the 7-Eleven parking lot for selling CDs.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “There’s good and bad people all over this earth, cops included. Don’t label all cops, and I won’t label all bikers.”
Crip rubbed the stubble on his jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “Wasn’t aware there was such thing as a bad biker.”
“There is, and that’s why I’m here.”
Crip cocked an eyebrow. “If you’re looking for bad bikers you’ll need to look elsewhere. We’re the good ol’ boys club. Hell, Pee Bee, Meat and I were just getting ready to go inside and play a game of parcheesi.”
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