Page 53 of StoryTeller's Tale

“What the fuck is that?” My eyes widen as I view the green monstrosity.

The man, usefully wearing a name badge which denotes he’s calledShout, gives a snort. “We kind of acquired this in lieu of a debt,” he tells me, with a glint in his eyes that doesn’t give me warm feelings about what happened to the previous owner. “You wanted a loaner, this is about all we got.”

Beggars can’t be choosers. Although I’d prefer to have an American steel horse, I won’t turn my nose up at anything with two wheels and an engine. I take the key he’s holding out to me with sufficient grace and thank him.

“You want to follow me to the clubhouse?” he asks when I finish checking it out and putting the shit I brought with me into the saddlebags.

“Nah, Shout. I got somewhere I need to be. I know where the clubhouse is. I’ll catch you there later.”

“Sure thing, Bro.” He slaps my back. I slap his and add my thanks for him coming to drop off the wannabe motorcycle, then he gets back into the cage and drives off.

Starting the engine which purrs rather than roars, I click on my phone and begin to listen to the tinny instructions being sent through my Bluetooth earplugs and begin to navigate the unfamiliar streets of Austin. Of course, I’ve hit it at rush hour, and even the benefit of being on two wheels and not four doesn’t prove to be of much assistance.

Eventually I’m out of the traffic and heading into the suburbs. The sat nav takes me to an area that I feel slightly dubious about. I stop at the apartment block when the GPS tells me I’ve arrived. I sit on the bike, examining my surroundings.Sheri lives here?For a moment, I wonder, or maybe hope, that Legend has got it wrong. Though looking around I see no discarded drug paraphernalia, so perhaps it’s not as bad as I first thought.

It does remind me, I know little about her.

I dismount and arm the alarm on the bike, not wanting to omit security in this neighbourhood. Then I go inside and take the stairs to the second floor. Checking the number, I knock at the door.

It’s opened cautiously. I note the flimsy chain that I could break easily, and also that the person who’s answered isn’t the woman I want.

“Is Sheri here?”

“No,” is the blunt answer.

Okay then. I swallow down my frustration. “Can you tell me where she is?” She might be at work, at a friend’s…

I get an unfriendly response. “Why should I?”

Fair enough. I’m a stranger, and possibly not a very savoury looking one, with my long hair, tattoos, and that I’m wearing a cut. Belatedly I wonder whether I should have removed it.

“I’m a friend,” I tell her, then, in the off chance Sheri might have mentioned me, I add, “My name is StoryTeller, and it’s important I find her.”

“I’m her housemate, not her keeper. I’ve no idea where she is.”

It’s like pulling teeth and I’m getting nowhere. “Any idea when she might be back?”

“No.”

From the closed look, she’s going to tell me nothing. And indeed, before I can ask anything else, the door is slammed in my face.

Frustrated, I bang my palm against the wall, then retrace my steps down the stairs. At the bottom, I call Legend.

“She’s not at home,” I tell him as soon as he answers. “You got any other info you can dig up? Where she works, perhaps?”

After asking me to hold on a moment, he comes back on the line with information. “Looks like she’s got family close by. They might be able to tell you more. I’ll text you the details.”

Hopefully family might be more forthcoming than the housemate.

The traffic’s clearing a little now as we’re heading into the evening.

I pull up and park just past the property that I want and decide it might be expedient not to wear my cut. I fold it carefully and place it in the saddlebags, and for good measure, make sure it’s securely locked away.

After loosening then retying my hair to neaten it up, I approach the front door.

I lean on the doorbell for a few seconds, trying to summon up words to say to the woman I haven’t seen in two months. Should I start by explaining I’m here as she could be in danger, or do I keep that tidbit to myself?

Footsteps sound long before I’m prepared to face her. I glance at the door in expectation but when it opens, it’s not the person I want, but someone far older.

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