Page 14 of The Biker and the Gamer
He smokes too much, drinks too much, and has a fickle ambition. First, he wanted to be a doctor, before he decided it would take too long and switched his ambition to becoming a bank investor. He studied business for a while until last year, when he claimed he wanted to become a tattoo artist instead. I managed to convince him to finish up his degree as he would still need to know how to run a business. That if he did, I would help him financially with a startup for his own tattoo shop.
Now he’s talking about dropping out of college to do music.
Eric and I have been dealing with him so Mom and Dad can live their traveling dream, but I’m starting to grow tired of Isaac's shit.
“And who’s gonna support his music career? You?” I ask. “Because I’m done shelling out cash for his whims.”
At that, Cedric chimes in, “I believethree hundred thousand dollarsshould be enough to set yourbrotherstraight, Alec.”
I ignore him.
“No one's giving him money,” Eric clarifies. “I just want you to talk to him. He won’t listen to me, because apparently, at thirty-one, I ‘just don’t get it’.”
“And you think he'd relate to me,why?”
He shrugs. “You speak ‘young people’ better than I do. Plus you're dispassionate enough to not lose your shit five minutes into the conversation.”
What a load of garbage. I sit up, clear Kendra’s thumbs-up emoji off my phone screen and check the time in the upper-right corner. “You know who’d be perfect to talk to him? Your Viking buddy, Nero—or Grunt, or whatever he’s called. I’ve heard that he knows a thing or two about life on the bad side—guns, tattoos, jail. And he mostcertainlyknows how to level-up from all that. There's no better mentor for Slytherin Sibling.”
Eric scratches his jaw contemplatively. “You know, I’ve never thought of that. Nero's only like five years older than him so Isaac might relate to him more.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Viking dude is onlytwenty-five? You're joking.”
“Seriously?” Cedric seconds me. “I thought that guy was older than you, Eric. Dude speaks like he's lived nine lives already.”
Eric tosses his head back and barks out a laugh. “Ha! He’s gonna love that one.”
“Don't tell him I said it,” Cedric backs out. “I'm good-looking, but not enough to pull off a black eye. And that guy looks like he could give you a concussion with just alook.”
I shove to my feet and stretch. “There, you've found a solution to your problemanddelivered Mom and Dad's message. Now, I’m gonna grab some takeout. Any of you want anything?”
“Some spring rolls for me,” Cedric answers as he types away on his computer.
“Nah, I’m good,” Eric says, taking out his phone. “I’m gonna be leaving in a bit. Just waiting for the traffic to clear up.” Then he glances around. “Where’s Tiffany? I noticed she wasn’t at the office.”
Ah, so that’s therealreason why he’s here. He went to our office first and she wasn’t there so he thought she’d be here. My brother’s had a silent crush on my assistant for the longest time and she’s completely oblivious to it.
“She’s on a date,” I lie.
His fingers curl so tightly around his phone I’m surprised the screen doesn’t crack. “Oh. Really?” He tries to sound casual. “With who?”
I look at him deadpan. “Anyone who isn’tyou.”
Cedric stifles a chuckle while Eric throws me a death glare.
I point a finger at him as I head for the door. “Stop sniffing around my assistant, Eric. It’s not happening.”
Takeout is my excuse for leaving without suspicion. But once I’m outside the loft, I flip up my hoodie, trek to the B-Cycle station a few blocks down to rent a bike, then start the forty-minute journey to The Metal House in North Denver.
By car, it's less than half the time. But with traffic at this hour, it'll take me four times that. So, just as I did yesterday, I cycle to within two blocks of The Metal House, getting there right before closing time, and wait within the shadows like some creep so I can watch her leave.
I don't know what it is about her, but I can't seem to get her out of my head. So much so that I’ve damn near become a stalker. Walking a mile just to get a glimpse of her as she leaves work.
Eleven minutes after closing time, she walks out and treks across the street to where a bunch of bikers are loitering. She laughs and talks and shares a blunt for around ten minutes before she treks back across the street. Minutes later, her Ducati sings.
She zooms past me, winding through the traffic, owning the wind. And I smile. Because she's such a badass.
Then I feel sorry for myself, because dammit, I'm a creep.
