Page 6 of Being Lost

Pennywise stops me as I’m walking toward the bar. He’s got a Harley brochure open in front of him, and he’s tapping at something on the page.

“Nice, but pricey.” I admire the new model he’s pointing out. “Thinking of upgrading?”

“Got to get hold of some money first.” He grins. “I can dream, though, can’t I?”

Like most of the members, Pennywise lives at the club and has few living expenses. “Perhaps you could work out a payment plan.”

“Can you see a bank giving me credit?” he scoffs.

I can’t. But that wasn’t what I was thinking of. “If you need a new bike, the club can pay upfront, and you can pay us back.”

He brightens. “I’ll think about that, Prez, thanks. I’ll have to work out whether it’s a need or a want first.”

“Need.” Salem, walking past, has overheard. “Your bike’s in the fuckin’ shop more than you ride it. What is it? Twenty years old? You’d be doing us all a favour if you replace it.”

Pennywise grins. “She’s a classic.”

Salem, our enforcer, snorts and wanders off. “Fuckin’ classic,” he mutters under his breath.

“You ready, Prez?”

As ready as I ever am,I muse, as I give my VP a chin lift and make my way into church, noticing Pennywise closing the brochure and following.

It’s not long before all the seats are taken.

Dart, as my VP, takes his seat to my left, and Grumbler, the sergeant-at-arms, sits to my right. Next to Dart is Salem, and opposite him is the treasurer, Bones. Apart from Salem, who was Snake’s enforcer before he became mine, the rest of us officers have only occupied these particular seats for the past three years. We’ve melded together as best we can after Snake’s betrayal.

Due mainly to the work Dart had put in, we hadn’t lost one man from the club. Every member sitting around this table appears to have faith in its new top team, and I have to be grateful, if not a bit wary, for that. Why the fuck did they put a man like me in charge? I shake my head daily, wondering why the hell they voted me in.

Not that I’m ungrateful, never that. I love and respect each man sitting around this table, but hell, it’s a lot of responsibility. Each day I hope I can live up to the kind of man an MC prez is supposed to be.

Part of which I put into action right now by banging the gavel and starting the meeting.

“Bones. Finance report?”

In the past it was DJ, another out bad member, who handled the books, but it turns out Bones is quite a wizard with numbers which had surprised us.

He sniffs loudly and wipes his hand under his nose, a sinus problem left over from a long-ago coke habit. “Yeah, Prez.” Bones passes out something. “The auto-shop with those custom builds—”

“Pimping,” Dusty interrupts.

“We do not fuckin’ pimp rides,” Salem snarls down the table, while everyone else chortles. “You call us a pimp business one more time, Dusty…”

Dusty is unrepentant. He knows he gets a rise out of Salem whenever he calls him a pimp. To my mind, he’s skating close to thin ice. One of these days, the enforcer’s going to shut him up with his fists.

“As I was saying,” Bones glares at Dusty, “I’ve been able to make some investments with the profits from the shop. Here’s the latest report on the interest.”

“Looking fuckin’ good, Brother,” Smoker tells him, then coughs, bending forward over the table. When he recovers, he continues, “I like making money and not working for it.”

“What sort of account is it in, Bones?” While I like the club having solid money behind it, I don’t like the idea that we can’t withdraw it and use it at any time. You never know when funds will be needed.

“We can pull out what we need whenever we want it. I’m moving the money around wherever I think it’s necessary.”

Bones is our fund manager, and as Smoker pointed out, we’re starting to turn a profit without raising a finger. Well, except for Bones’ on the keyboard moving money around.

“Salem, how’s the work going?”

“Got too much,” the enforcer says. “Starting to turn people away. The waiting list for customisation is over a year now.”

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