Page 4 of Bounty
“Brilliant idea, Lenny,” she cooed and sashayed past Dad.
He watched her walk away and grinned sheepishly at me. “I’ll, uh, help Mom try to convince Slice to spend the evening with her and her readers.”
Not if I convinced him to spend it with me.
The moment Dad left, I grabbed my phone and shot off a text message.
My mom told me you’re attending. Let’s meet for drinks tomorrow evening.
“Come back as soon as you can, Pretty Boy.”
The national president of Red Rum smirked and stared into my eyes as he said ‘Pretty Boy.’ I held my tongue since I couldn’t very well correct the president, unless I wanted my ass beat for disrespect. Besides, I’d had that nickname since I was a tyke. To me, it had never crossed over intothislife, but Riker never gave a fuck. My twin, Drifter, and our father thought I was shitting them when I announced I wanted to abandon the name. They backed me up, but Riker Reinhardt was the president, not them.
Unfortunately, he declared my road name remained Pretty Boy. I wanted a more badass name. My modeling career was already the subject of jokes, and my moniker didn’t do shit to help me. No matter how fucking accurate.
“Did you hear me?” Riker snapped.
Fuck, I hadn’t answered.
I quickly amended that and nodded. Didn’t want the motherfucker thinking my tongue was useless. More than one chick would counter that point. I fought back a grin at the thought.
Riker’s severe look wiped away my smile and sent a chill down my spine. He had salt-and-pepper hair, leathery skin, and mean eyes. When Riker visited, I got my marching orders long before he arrived.
Except my request to attend the book signing as Daria Monroe’s model put me directly in Riker’s path. I didn’t understand how Drifter dealt with him on a day-to-day basis. Thank fuck, I patched in at Dad’s chapter instead of hightailing it to Vegas so my twin and I wouldn’t be apart.
It was hard in the beginning. Drifter and Dad didn’t have the best track record, so I understood why my brother jumped at Riker’s offer. But I’d take Dad any day over that psychopath.
Riker looked at Dad. He sat on the other side of the bar, since Riker—as national president and the president of the Mother Chapter—planted himself at the podium. I’d thought the matter of me attending Motorcycles, Mobsters, and Mayhem was settled, since I’d put in my request when Daria first contacted me several months ago.
BeforeI ended up with a bounty on my goddamn head. But Austin, TX was not Las Vegas or Oklahoma City, my home chapter and the second largest in Red Rum MC’s fifty-chapter organization.
Not one in each state. More like clusters across ten states.
Recently, I was accused of stealing a big drug shipment from one of our biggest rivals.
Stealing was beneath me. It was aninterception.
Goose—Dad—and Riker congratulated me. Even after the shit hit the fan with the Satan’s Sinners MC. I was doing it on their orders anyway. They didn’t like my modelling gigs much and wanted me to prove I still belonged in the club, that I hadn’t gone ‘soft.’ They would’ve been fucking outraged if I shared that I’d once considered modeling full-time again and abandoning the outlaw lifestyle.
“If I hadn’t given my permission, your ass would be gearing up to ride out with me, Goose, and Drifter.” Riker’s tone was just short of chastising. “Lucky you, you accepted that writer bitch before you stole that merch.”
Still didn’t say shit. The motherfucker was notoriously erratic, but he was all about money. It bought loyalty.
I glanced at my brother. It felt good having my twin with me again. Since he’d left, I didn’t see enough of him. Drifter sat next to me, drinking a beer. Riker hadn’t shut his goddamn trap since they blazed in an hour ago to scoop up my dad and several of our members to head to Jackson, Mississippi.
For me, it would be a straight shoot down I-35. Dad, Drifter, and the others planned to branch off around the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex and take I-20.
“Pretty Boy,” Raptor called. He held up one of Daria Monroe’s books. One of her bestsellers, which featured me against a blue and black background surrounded by dark smoke.
She’d gotten this idea to pose me like that actor in the centerfold ofPlaygirl Magazinefrom decades ago. She swore it would catapult her sales through the roof. She was right, and she compensated me well for it.
One of the club chicks loved romance novels. I thought they filled a woman’s head with nonsense, but that was just me. I was feeling the chick at the time, so I agreed to take her to the signing.
And chitty bang, chitty bang, bop boo. Next thing I knew I was posing for Daria’s covers, immersed in modeling again.
It dawned on me that Riker had finally walked away from the podium. A glance around the room didn’t reveal his location. He’d either gone through the bat wings that led to our small kitchen or went to the can.
Dad walked over to me and clapped me on the back. “Be careful, son.”
