Page 49 of The Biker and the Gamer
Five feet from my bike, I stop, double over, palms on my knees, and take deep breaths to calm the hell down. It's ridiculous that even after five months, just seeing hisnameon a screen can have me feeling like this.
Once my head is clear and I feel mentally safe to ride, I hop onto my bike and zip back to The Metal House.
Lisa, the receptionist, holds up my cellphone when I walk in. Apparently, I’d left it behind. How did I not realize that? "You missed some calls."
I pluck it from her hand and trek to my office, checking the screen. Three missed calls on Skype. From my brother, Scratch.
Goddammit. He called three times and I missed it. The last call I got from him was over three months ago.
Although his communication with us is sporadic and unpredictable, Grunt and I do our best not to think the worse when long periods pass and we don't hear from him. I’ve been looking forward to this call for so damn long and I freaking missed it. I try calling him back, but it keeps disconnecting.
With quick and irritated fingers, I tap out a message to Grunt.
Me:Saw some missed calls from Scratch. He called you?
Grunt:Missed his first two calls but got him when I called back.Connection was shitty tho.
Me:Is he okay?
Grunt:He got hurt. They're sending him home.
Grunt:That's as much as I was able to pick up from his spottyconnection before the call dropped. I’ll try again later.
Me:OMG
Me:Did he say how badly? Was he shot?
Grunt:Not sure. Come over after work.
Me:OK
I throw my phone down and slam my fist on the desk. On the one hand, I’m glad my brother is alive and well and, most importantly, that he's coming home. But I hate that he's hurt and that we don't know how badly. I hate that he's hurt at all.
I try to remind myself that the news could have been much worse.
My mood is shit for the rest of the day. I bitch on the workers, reminding them that they hate me andwhy. At one point, I scream like a banshee at one of the mechanics for mixing up the collection dates on one of his assigned fixes; the client who was told that their car would be ready today arrived for the pickup, only to find out that their car hasn't even made it to the Service Station yet. Which meant I had to offer the client a 30% discount for the inconvenience to ensure we didn't end up with a scathing review.
After damn near biting the mechanic’s head off in my office, I overhear him telling someone outside the door as he’s leaving, "I wouldn't go in there if I were you. She's peaking on the Bitch Meter today."
Grown men. Grown ass men and they can't get their shit straight without me looking over their shoulders.
I need another vacation.
Later that evening, I instruct Lisa to lock the door and flip the “Closed” sign, then begin wrapping things up in the back in preparation to leave. I check with all the mechanics before I go to ensure everything is on schedule for tomorrow’s pickups. We can’t have another reputation-damning incident like today.
Once I’m done, I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head out to the front to sign off on the paperwork for all of tomorrow’s collections. I find Lisa hunched in the corner away from her station with her handbag hooked over one shoulder—which means she’s over this day and ready to go—elbows to the counter, scrolling away on her phone as she pops her gum.
Her and that damn phone. Bet she's on Instagram lying about her life again.
Snagging a pen from The Metal House mug, I plop down on the highchair at her station behind the counter and begin the process of double-checking each paperwork before scrawling my signature on them.
A few minutes of scanning and signing later, I hear the chime go off, signalling that someone had entered the shop.
Cursing under my breath, I don't bother to look up as I ask while scanning the paperwork for a Toyota Tundra, "You like working here, Lisa?"
"Um..." From my peripheral vision, I see her quickly tuck her phone away. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I thought I closed it." Then to whoever entered, "Sorry, sir, but we're closed."
"You say that at least three times a week," I mumble in a bored tone. "So, here’s what. You're now banned from using your cellphone at work."
