Page 3 of King's Barber
Oli grinned. “Then yes, boss, I’ll close the store for you. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
I gave him the finger. Teenager or not, he had a smart mouth. Potty mouth, too, although he was more professional than I was while we worked. Most of the guys who came into A Barber for Kings didn’t give a shit that I swore; they usually gave me a run for my money. Oli had something to prove, though, and PD had more class than I did, so Oli needed to impress him. Acting like me wouldn’t do him any favors in that department.
“Can you handle the money?” I asked as I leaned down behind the counter to grab my gun and holster from its safe. Sliding off my jacket, I clipped up the straps to my body before I put on the leather again.
Oli snorted. “Don’t I always? I’ll count it and lock it away for you to take to the bank. There’s not much there.”
“Good boy. I banked most of it earlier today.” I patted him on the head, and he shook me off, glaring. “Watson’s got the shop tomorrow. Keep an eye on him?”
He sent me an unimpressed expression. “That’s like looking after a two-year-old.”
“Thanks, kid.” I didn’t deny it because Watson, who usually did Saturdays for me, wasn’t the shiniest bike in the garage—but he was a good barber. I trusted him more if Oli was here, too.
Laughing, I left him there to grab my helmet from the staff room and headed out the front door to my baby, a Ducati Scrambler in icon dark, a beauty of blacks and grays. While most of my brothers preferred Harleys, which were gorgeous, too, I wanted something with more speed than weight. I loved feeling like I was flying, an elegant vision that sped through the streets of New Gothenburg, and my Scrambler gave me that thrill. Every time I drove it my balls hummed in excitement.
The air smelled fresh like rain and I stopped to breathe it in. I loved rain, but as it neared the end of fall, I probably wouldn’t see too much of it in the next few months. I didn’t like cold much, either, because that meant we couldn’t ride without the worry of snow, sleet, and the chilly wind whipping at our faces.
My bike gleamed under the last tendrils of sunlight that gave way to a full moon rising halfway in the sky. Angry rain clouds clumped together to my right and it wouldn’t take them long to come across. It would have been a perfect night for a ride if not for the incoming storm. I’d have enough time for a short stop, though. While I’d told Oli that I’d either be fucking or drinking, I couldn’t give half a donkey’s saggy dick to find an ass or a good bar. I’d just get a drink of my uncle Errol’s homemade liquor, the shit that’d had King walking sideways.
Slamming the full helmet onto my head, I decided to leave the dark smoke visor up as I got onto the black leather seat, kicking the stand up and pushing at the ignition button. The bike rumbled pitifully. Frowning at my baby, I tried again, and while she spluttered for a second, she finally came to life with a roar. The attempts concerned me and I made a mental note to get Scar or Bishop to look at it, even if they’d ream my ass for not bringing it to them sooner. Scar had already warned me she didn’t sound well. While I could service her myself, I wasn’t a trained mechanic like they were.
Taking off down the streets of the city, I weaved through the bumper-to-bumper traffic, giving one guy the finger when he honked his horn and ducked his head out the window to insult me—all because I was the smart asshole with a bike.
“Should have kept it in your pants, then, dude, and you could have a bike, too.” I laughed, nodding at the woman and children in the car before I took off. He cursed something else out at me, but I veered too far ahead to hear what he had to say.
I turned a few corners before I took the highway east to get away from the lines of cars. At least this way I could open my lady up and test her full potential and escape the threat of dark clouds. I closed my eyes, giving myself brief moments to enjoy the sounds of the wind whipping against my face and the rev of the engine.
When I came to a familiar exit, I took it and drove to a small bridge with a parking lot for people who wanted a break. There was a tiny coffee shack there, but it was closed. Pulling into a spot, I killed the engine and then slid off the bike to walk over to the bridge. I leaned on the railing and stared at the water that gushed down the river and toward the lake. It was calming, an array of glinting blacks under the full moonlight. Sometimes a guy like me needed the silence, and this was one of those times. I lived with Uncle Errol and his oops-baby—now a teenager—Sophie. They were my family and I loved them, but this kind of tranquility calmed a racing mind.
But because my brain was a traitorous prick, it went straight to Quain and his pert ass, and how good he looked in the black turtlenecks he permanently wore, not to mention those tight jeans that seemed to become one with his long legs. Hell, even his snitty attitude was a turn on, which was fucking weird. Was that a kink? Getting bitched at by someone hot? If it was, I was definitely into it.
The trash can issue was a constant problem, something he loved to whine about, but it hadn’t been the only subject he liked bringing up. More recently it’d been my brothers taking up his customers’ parking spaces, and how he could smell the weed I’d been smoking out back. Hell, I couldn’t deny that last one. Weed helped quiet the brain sometimes, and after dealing with a neighbor like him, I needed it… only to have him complain about that, too.
So, why the hell did I want to fuck that ass? I’d bet my nonexistent savings that his hole would be tighter than a nun’s.
I snorted and opened my Kings of Men MC jacket, tugging out my cigarettes. I knocked one loose of the pack and shoved it between my lips, lighting it with the silver metal Zippo King had bought me when I’d officially became a King. The damned thing still worked, eight years later. That spoke about King’s idea of quality; he only got the best of everything—at least of the shit he cared about.
Puffing on the cig, I sighed and blew out a stream of smoke, watching it billow in the lazy wind that danced in the same direction as the river.Fuck, that was good. Not quite like weed, but it’d have to do for now.
I stood there for about half an hour enjoying the smoke and the cool breeze. As winter approached the nights got colder, and while I didn’t mind it so much, I preferred to be warm at home with a big bottle of whiskey and a joint.
Rolling out the pins and needles in my shoulders after being bent over the river railing for so long, I headed back to the bike and threw my leg over. I hit her ignition, but this time she didn’t so much as rumble. I frowned and jabbed at it again. Nothing.
I groaned and stared up at the sky as a drop of rain splattered against my face. This was not going to be my night, especially after another three or four dropped in the exact spot as the last. Angry gray clouds crowded together in the sky above me and I gave it five minutes before it poured. I’d be drenched before anyone got anywhere close to me, but I had no choice. I couldn’t stay here, not when the Ducati wouldn’t even give me a hopeful sign of a growl. Whatever was giving her troubles had finally gotten the best of her. That was entirely my fault for not going to Scar earlier. He’d told me she sounded sick, but I’d laughed it off and jokingly accused him of wanting my hard-earned cash.
Fucking karma.
A sleek black car pulled into the parking lot from the road just as the rain started to fall harder, and I narrowed my eyes on it. The bright LED headlights glowed in the darkness, taunting me about my decision to drive my bike here when I knew there was something wrong with her. The BMW stopped beside me, and I reached for the gun tucked into the holster against my ribs, just in case this was a hit or something. I’d seen cars like that before, and while they weren’t unpopular in New Gothenburg, the Killough Company mostly drove fancy vehicles. Who else would be pulling up beside me, a Kings of Men biker with an array of tattoos on my neck and arms. No one else would have the balls.
The window lowered, and I stretched my finger around the trigger guard at the ready, then paused when a familiar but annoying face became visible when the interior lights switched on. Quain smirked at me, laying his arm along the length of the window.
“Well, isn’t this a fun coincidence?”
I gritted my teeth and inhaled, removing my hand from my jacket. At least I didn’t have to shoot, anyway. King would kill me. He always hated the messy jobs I left behind. I leaned against my bike, crossing my arms and cocking my head. “Are you stalking me?”
“Why yes, Mr. Booth, I have nothing better to do with my time than follow you around.” Quain huffed and blinked up at the sky. Rain had begun to fall harder and I was quickly becoming soaked. “Would you like a ride?”
“Are you offering me one?” I raised my eyebrows, not moving.
