Page 9 of StoryTeller's Tale

I shoot him my finger. “Give it to me,” I demand, as Camilla seems to have taken possession of the book that I was enjoying reading.

Instead, she continues in a dreamy voice, “I wanted to go to the signing, but I couldn’t make it to Houston. But this?” She taps the signature page again. “This is a personal dedication by the author. It’s not something a woman would treat casually.” She squints at me. “She’ll be devastated to have lost it. A book like this is a prized possession, especially as the signing was only a couple of days ago. How the hell did you get your paws on it?” Her eyes narrow. “You steal it?”

I shift awkwardly, not comfortable with her accusation. “For fuck’s sake woman, I don’t need to steal a fuckin’ book. I found it, alright? At a rest stop in New Mexico.” I’m probably sounding more aggressive than I should, but I’m on the defensive, for some reason feeling guilty. “It was lying abandoned on the ground. Must have fallen out of her purse or something.” I think back and add, “There was no one around.”

She harrumphs. “I bet she went looking for it as soon as she realised she lost it.” Her reproving stare makes me react.

I did nothing wrong. I just saw a perfectly good book that looked interesting, lying around and took possession of it. “Finders, keepers,” I tell her, snatching the book out of her hands. Standing, I give up any thought of reading peacefully in the clubhouse.

Going back to the room where I’d left my bag, I start to slide the book into it, when guilt makes me pull it back out.Prized possession.Guiltily, I straighten the corner which I’d bent over to mark my place.

I snort at my action. Well, Sheri, whoever the fuck she is, had clearly been careless about keeping it safe. Her loss, my gain.

With the object that had spurred such fascination safely stored, I stretch my arms over my head. As I do so, my stomach grumbles.

Book forgotten, seeking out some breakfast becomes the first item on my agenda. Then, after checking that Prez has no other plans for me, I spend the day tinkering with my bike. It’s in need of some loving attention after the miles I’ve put on it recently.

Hours later, while my hands are covered in grease and dirt, my bike is gleaming. Oil has been changed, filters renewed, belt adjusted, and the timing is spot on. I stand, lovingly staring at it for a moment, wishing I could pack my saddlebags and ride. I’ve gotten used to not staying in one place for long, and, despite only having been back for one day, the open road is already calling.

“Looks fuckin’ good, Bro.” Skunk pauses in the middle of making adjustments to his own bike and spares mine an admiring glance.

I raise my chin, acknowledging the compliment paid to the possession that I treasure most in the world. As I turn away, then glance back at my bike, that thought reminds me how devastated I’d be if anything happened to it. Though it’s not in the same league, my guilt returns about taking an unattended book when it might have meant so much to the person who lost it.

Sheri.

One name. That’s not much to go on, and I’m unable to conjure an image to go with it. She could be nineteen or ninety, or anything in between. Despite not knowing, my mind races with questions.

Does she know it’s missing, or is she oblivious to its loss? Did she go to that signing just for the one book? Or did she go home with bags overbrimming and losing one won’t be much of a thing.

I snort, laughing at myself. Why am I, a one-percenter biker, even worrying about it? She lost it. I found it. End of story.

Except…

Scrubbing my hands free of oil and grit, I wheel my bike out of the workshop and park it alongside those of my brothers. Then I take my cigarettes out of my pocket, and lighting up, go lean on the fence and stare out into the desert, wondering why I can’t seem to get this strange Sheri out of my mind. Perhaps I feel some kinship down to the pleasure I’m gaining reading the book that she’d chosen. Why do I feel so pained at the thought of her disappointment when she discovers it’s missing?

A clearing of a throat behind me warns someone’s approaching.Wise man.You don’t walk up on an unsuspecting SEAL and expect to survive the encounter.

I turn, and on recognising him, greet him briefly. “Legend.”

“Good to see you back, Brother.” When I offer him a cigarette, he takes one, as well as the lighter I hand out. Drawing smoke into his lungs, his mouth quirks. “Longing for the open road already?”

I chuckle. “Always longing, Brother. Always. But Prez wants me here for a reason.”

He sucks in smoke then breathes it out. “Yeah.” He sighs. “The fuckin’ cartel.” He spits out the words with derision. “Got to do this right, Bro, else we’re going to lose brothers.”

“You know the timescale?” I’d forgotten to ask Chaz.

He frowns, thinks, then informs, “Couple of months?”

Shit. Longer than I want to stay rooted to one spot, but I can see the logic in it. If a job’s worth doing right, it’s worth doing well, and for something like this, we’ll need to do a lot of planning.

Legend inhales nicotine and lets out the cloud of smoke. “Think Chaz is getting antsy with you being gone so long, ST.” He cocks his eyebrow toward me. “Thinks you might go loco.” He circles his finger around his brow.

“He’s got nothing to worry about.” Or, at least, I don’t think so. Or maybe it’s too late and I’ve already gone crazy. “My heart’s out on the road.”

Riding alone doesn’t come without its risks. I’m probably lucky to have survived as long as I have. Some people may think I have a lack of self-preservation, but after Fi’s betrayal, I find the lifestyle suits me. Always moving means I never put down roots, nor stay in the same place long enough to form bonds. I lost my heart once and swore I never would again.

In my view, what I do isn’t any more dangerous than staying grounded in the club. Over the five years, brothers have come and gone, some in jail, some underground. But me? I seem to have the luck of the devil and just keep going on.

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