Page 6 of The Biker and the Gamer
Kenny, Kenny, Kenny all day long.
And this’d been happening long before I was promoted to operations manager. In fact, that’s precisely the reason I was promoted.
I started here as a bookkeeper, at eighteen years old.
When I was sixteen, I dropped out of high school and got a waiver to take the GED exam. Once I received that, I took an accelerated accounting course to become qualified for gainful employment. Crunching numbers is my thing, and I’d known without a doubt that it’s what I wanted to do.
But my life wasn’t a normal one. I grew up with the shittiest foster parents, cared for mostly by my two foster brothers, Scratch and Grunt. The luxury of finishing high school and graduating like normal kids, going off to college, wasn’t for me. No, I had to survive. No time to throw pity parties, either. So I dropped out, sped things up. Became a woman a lot sooner than I wanted to.
Scratch and Grunt were able to convince Judge, the president of the Den of Heathens MC and owner of The Metal House, to hire me as a bookkeeper. And I worked as such for one year while pursuing more advanced accounting courses.
As the business began to grow and expand, I was promoted to Business Accountant.
Somewhere along the line, The Metal House’s reputation became intensely important to me and I began “managing” the workers. Getting everyone in line. Following up, checking this, checking that, micro-managing, making sure our service was so top-notch that clients would leave reviews that were no less than stellar. Once, even though I had no authority to do so, I fired a lazy, sloppy worker.
For a long time, I was known as “Kendra The Bitch”, and some even pleaded with Judge to get rid of me.
But Judge wasn’t stupid. He saw how the company’s reputation had soared, how we were getting more business than we could handle. More space was made, more mechanics were hired, and the slackers fired. Instead of getting rid of me, he promoted me.
He barely even bothers to come around since then. Popping in for only a few minutes once or twice a week. He trusted me to get shit done, so the reigns were all mine.
I used to be here as early as six in the morning and leave as late as ten in the evening. Took a toll on me. So I had to pull back a little. Hired an accounting assistant and raised Lisa’s—the receptionist’s—salary in exchange for more responsibilities, like opening in the mornings and getting things rolling for me.
So now I don’t have to be here until nine. But the mechanics have become so reliant on me that they won’t go ahead with anything Lisa says or does until I “okay” it.
It takes under an hour after my arrival to abate the chaos and set everyone at ease,as usual.
Not that I’m complaining. I love my job. Care about this company as if it’s my own. I’ve got a good salary, and despite still making monthly payments to the bank for my new Ducati, I don’t exactlyneedanything.
But ever since the break-in incident and almost killing a man, I’ve been suffering from what could be described as an existential crisis. Nothing seems to have much meaning to me anymore. And my life, which I once loved, suddenly feels dull and meaningless.
For my entire childhood, all I ever thought about was growing up, getting a job, not being a burden to Grunt and Scratch anymore. Make my own living. Be tough. Show no weakness. Survive.
And now that I’ve done all that, I’m at a “What now?” point.
When Scratch left to join the army, I didn’t understand it.
When Grunt left the motorcycle club to pursue “a different life,” I didn’t understand it.
They were older than me, wiser than me, rougher than me. They’d been through more shit than me, so they knew their “why.” I didn’t.
Now, I do. I get it. Sort of.
There’s this craving inside of me for something more, though I can’t quite pinpoint whatmoreis. I need some color. Some difference. A change of climate. A deviation from the norm. From the “as usual”.
Do I leave Denver? Hell nah. This is my home.
But after ruminating on things for months now, I know for sure that I want to travel. I want to fly over the oceans, through the clouds, see other places, try different foods, taste different climates... Either intermittently or as one big tour.
Except, to do stuff like that, I need money. A heck of a lot more than what I’m making here. I’ve done enough research to understand that in order to travel the way I want to, I’ll need more than a couple of thousand in my pocket.
It’s a faraway dream that I’ve already begun saving toward. Not impossible, but it does require patience. Lots of it.
The day wears on without incident. Meaning,I’mgoing back and forth on my feet keeping everything in check to prevent unwanted incidents.
Sometime around 1 PM, after sucking down two calming puffs of my Grade A joint in the bathroom, I’m heading to the front to check on Lisa when the chime goes off, signalling that someone has entered the building.
Popping a mint into my mouth as I turn the corner, I glance up, and it’s him. The cute, badly dressed gamer with the Clark Kent glasses, sexy haircut, and sharp jawline.
