Page 6 of Come Ride With Me
Bell nodded. “I respect your opinion, son.”
Bell always called Nash ‘son’. He didn’t use that word on anyone else at the shop, a fact that made Nash feel special and wanted.
“But you’re hiring him anyway.” It was Nash’s turn to nod because he knew that tone Bell was using. It was the I’ve-made-up-my-mind-so-you-can-shut-your-mouth-now tone. The one Nash had grown up hearing from the adults in his life at the time.
Only Bellamy Anderson was different. Ten years ago, he’d stood outside that jail on the day Nash had been released in the pouring rain. Hearing his name called on that bleak, yet slightly joyous day, had Nash’s head coming up quickly. Just in time to see the tall, broad chested man standing in front of him wearing a leather bomber and an Orioles baseball cap. Bell had offered Nash an umbrella and a ride home. By the time they’d arrived at the duplex where Nash’s uncle lived, Bell had offered him a job as a shop clerk at his dealership. At that time all Nash knew about motorcycles was that he loved riding them, loved the purr and gust of the engine directly beneath him as he pushed full speed ahead. What Nash also knew for certain was that he didn’t have a job. He’d been having trouble finding one with just his high school diploma in the years before his arrest. Now that he had a record, he was sure the job search wouldn’t go much smoother.
“Why are you offering me a job when all you know about me is that I’m a convict?”
“You’re a man,” had been Bell’s response. “You did your time and now it’s time to get on with your life. Besides, I know you can ride because I saw you with the Platinum Ryders before. I remembered you.”
Bell had remembered him and he’d given him a second chance. Nash would never forget that. Never.
The knock at his door was effective in pulling Nash out of those memories. He adjusted the chair and stood up, heading to the door.
“Wat up, big bro?” Henley said before giving Nash’s shoulder a punch and making his way into the apartment.
“Hey, Henley,” Nash replied and shut the door. “What brings you by?”
Henley Lawrence Waters was a five foot, ten-inch-tall guy, russet brown complexion, with a mega-watt smile and wavy black hair. He was thin and funny as hell. He couldn’t play basketball worth shit and couldn’t hold a job much longer than it took for him to collect the first paycheck.
At thirty-two, Henley was three years younger than Nash. He’d already walked into the kitchen just across from the door and small walkway, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and was presently twisting the top off and tossing it over to the trash can as if it were a ball and hoop. He missed. Nash shook his head, not at all surprised.
Nash returned to his seat in the recliner, but pressed the button to bringing it back into an upright position.
When Henley picked up the top and put it into the trash can joking about how he was feeling a little off today, Nash didn’t say a word.
“So, you still down at Bell’s?” Henley asked when he’d made his way into the living room and sat down on the love seat across from Nash.
“That’s where I work,” Nash replied.
Even though he wasn’t sure how much longer that arrangement would last.
“I thought old scar faced Banyon would’ve tossed you out on your ass by now. You know he never approved of you working there,” Henley stated before taking a swallow of his beer.
Nash didn’t want to go over these facts again.
“You came over here to check on my employment status?” he asked his brother. “What about you? Where are you working?”
Henley was shaking his head before Nash could finish speaking. “You know I don’t like a nine to five. I don’t take kindly to nobody giving me orders and expecting me to shuffle around trying to follow them just for a measly minimum wage paycheck.”
“That’s how the world works, Hen. You work, you get paid, and you live peacefully. The end.”
“Nah, that’s your life. You and Bell subscribed to that theory and look where it got him. Dead as dirt with nobody worth a damn to run his company. Plus, he was all talk. Telling you how much he appreciated all that you’d done for his dealership, all the customers you brought in and made sure they kept coming back. Then, he doesn’t even leave the place to you. What kind of bullshit is that?”
“I wasn’t his family,” Nash said, the words rough and a bit painful in his throat.
“You were the closest he had to a family,” Henley countered. “Plus, he could trust you. That damn Banyon, you know you can’t trust him as far as you can throw his rusty old ass.”
Nash did not disagree with his brother, not on this.
He shrugged. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen with the dealership and neither does Earl.”
“That’s not true,” Henley told him with an arch of his brows.
“What do you mean it’s not true?” Nash asked as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What do you know?”
Because Henley always knew something. One of the first things Nash had taught his younger brother after their parents died and they’d been shipped off to live with their uncle, was to keep his head up and his ear to the streets. Henley took that advice very seriously.
