Page 3 of Gotta Dig Deep
He had a suspicion that pretty much any of the bikers he’d become friendly with at the bar would be itching to get their hands on the bike too. The trick would be to ask for help without putting himself into debt with them.
“It’s a classic.” The man hawked and spat again, the phlegm splattering wetly against a nearby car tire. “Won’t see one of these on the road in a thousand miles of riding.”
“No shit. It’s in such shape you wouldn’t recognize it if you saw one.” Graeme looked at the man from underneath his eyebrows. “Half of half still wouldn’t be fair. Be a favor if I took it off your hands. Junk man would make you pay to haul it away.”
“Now you’re being just unkind.” A tiny lilt at the end of the final word meant the man saw the gambit for what it was and had joined in the hunt from the other side of the fence. “Four billsisa steal, and you know it.” Staring at Graeme, he let his lips twitch a tiny bit, pulling a relaxation of Graeme’s expression from him. The man’s eyes widened suddenly, and he stood straighter, then tipped his head down and glared down at the bike with a heavy sigh. The man’s tone had changed when he said, “Jesus hell. You’re Dot’s boy, right?”
“Does it matter?” There went his hope of escaping without his mother finding out.
“Isn’t right, what she did.” Humor gone, his features were hard, lips pressed thin. No longer pretending to be the jovial businessman, it was a glimpse into his true nature. “What she’s still doing. Tell you what, boy—” He shook his head. “Graeme, that is. Shit.” He straightened, the gaps in his shirt front disappearing as he pulled in his belly, transforming himself even more. He no longer looked like a laconic snake oil salesman, but a man Graeme might have a beer with as they told tales. “Tell you what I’ll do. Could be you’re right about the junk value here. You take this off my hands, I’ll pitch in a couple hundred for parts. I got a shed back of here you can use to work on the bike and connections for what it’ll need to get the rot off it. Days you’re here, if you answer the phone, I’ll think about a little wage, maybe.”
“What?” Coughing through a breath stuck in his chest, he stared at the older man. “You’ll do what?”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Graeme.” There was something ponderous about the man having transferred from calling him boy, to his given name. “I can’t help you work on it, don’t got the knees to do ground work anymore, but I’ll do whatever else I can.”
“I’ll take it, Mr. Embry.” Shoving aside any embarrassment at the generosity, Graeme held out his hand, not hiding a wince when the man’s grip bore down on him. “With thanks.”
“Medric, son. Call me Medric.”
***
Four months later, with days-worth of elbow grease invested in the rebuild and a deepening friendship developed over late nights and copious amounts of beer with not only Medric but a half a dozen bikers—Graeme stood next to the bike as he pushed the ignition button. The rumble of the engine was loud and loping, the rattle of the exhaust stout enough to thud through his chest.
“Sounds good.” Medric punched an elbow into Graeme’s ribs. “Sounds real good.”
He rocked the throttle just enough to hear the pipes ring a little louder. “Does sound good. Hard to believe we finally finished her.”
“Her?” Shepherd Kelmer, also known as Junkyard, stepped up on Graeme’s other side. He was one of the bikers who’d spent an abundance of spare time helping Graeme. “Give her a name yet?”
“Not yet.” Graeme smoothed a hand across the tank, fingers trailing along the edges of hand-painted flames. “Figure she’ll tell me what she wants to be called.”
The shed—downplayed by the label Medric had given it, in truth it was more like a full-service shop—wasn’t overflowing with bodies, but every man in here was someone Graeme had grown to know and trust. To the left of where he stood was Junkyard’s bike, oil plug in a pan sitting underneath the engine, mid oil change. To the right was a small truck, hood up, waiting for Cage Knightly to finish fixing his wife’s grocery getter. Cage claimed to have prospected for two different clubs, never making the jump to membership. According to him, it was the unfortunate first name that doomed him. Graeme was pretty sure it had more to do with his fuckery and less with his name. He might not be in a club, but Graeme had soaked up all the stories the men had been willing to share. Brotherhood wasn’t backstabbing and being shifty; it was developing an understanding of needs and loyalty. Cage didn’t have the last, for sure.
Right now, Cage was propped up along the back wall of the shed, elbow on the bench, lifting a bottle to his lips.
“Cage, you hear this sweet song?” Graeme grinned as he received a casual wave in response. “Seriously, man, you hear this?”
“What I hear—” Cage upended the bottle, draining it in a few swallows, “—is a pretty lady calling for her turn on the road.” He struck a pose, empty bottle positioned as a microphone. “Give the lady what she wants,” he sang, his high falsetto grating. “And she’ll give it back to you.” His eyes lit up. “Damn, that ain’t half bad. I should write that down. Life advice from the experienced and walking wounded.”
“Didn’t suck.” Graeme shot a glance at Medric as he fastened his helmet. “Open the doors for me? I’m going to take her around a block or two, make sure she likes me well enough.”
A second benefit to having these men around him for the past months was that when Junkyard learned Graeme hadn’t actually ridden a motorcycle, he’d arranged for a working bike to be dropped off. They’d spent part of a day in a nearby parking lot, and then had hit the road. The hours riding gave Graeme confidence that he wouldn’t embarrass himself in front of his friends.Hopefully.He’d heard tons of stories of the most graceless moments each man had experienced. Fortunately, most of them involved a much larger audience than was present today.
Leg over the bike, he looked around the room again and over the rumble of the bike called, “You guys coming to the bar tonight?” Every head nodded and he grinned. “All right. Stick around, I’ll be back in a minute.”
Paddle-footing the bike through the opening, he steered towards the side entrance of the lot and then into the street. For the next several minutes, he played back and forth on the small roadway, working his way up and down the gears before he finally gave himself permission to round the corner and put the bike on an approach of the nearby main highway.
No cops in sight, Graeme pounded his way up the shifter to top gear and smoothly rolled the throttle, delighted when the bike leapt underneath him. Wind tears streaming from the corners of his eyes, he cursed his lack of foresight in leaving his shades behind. Speed slowing from the mid three-digits he’d reached, Graeme leaned the bike into the curve of the next offramp. Two left turns and he was back on the freeway, returning to the shop at a more moderate speed.
He’d just heeled the kickstand down when he blurted, “Freedom,” to his friends clustered around him. “That’s her name.”
“And ain’t a damn thing wrong with that name, brother.” Junkyard’s hand landed on Graeme’s shoulder, fingers digging deep. “I take it your virgin ride went well?”
“She’s a dream.” He stood up off the bike and pocketed the keys. “Hurts my heart to leave her here, but I gotta get to work. Thank you.” Shoving a hand towards Medric, he was surprised when the old man pulled him into a hug instead.
“You’re a good man, Graeme Nass.” Medric’s fist thudded against his spine, driving the breath from Graeme’s lungs so he couldn’t respond, but the man didn’t seem to need it as he stepped back and turned away. “It’ll be the town’s loss when you leave.”
“Which isn’t tonight.” He chuckled, hoping to lighten the mood because the faces surrounding him were dark as thunderstorms. “What is tonight, is me working the bar because Freedom’s gonna need regular feeding, so any extra money’s good. But tomorrow? Tomorrow she earns that name.”
