Page 5 of Joker's Ghost
As Road Captain, Rattler is in charge of keeping every member’s bike in top condition. Granted, I did the big jobs on the bike at my shop, but Rattler took care of the general maintenance—or he was supposed to.
Two minutes later, Rattler saunters out the back door with his usual smirk in place. “Prospect says you got a bug up your ass.”
I shoot a death stare at the prospect, who has the goodsense to lower his eyes to the blacktop. “He better not have said that.”
“What’s the problem?” Rattler looks over my bike.
“You were supposed to switch out the plugs.”
“I did.”
I point to the plugs, and it’s clear they’re burnt out and definitely not new.
“Swear to fuck, we worked on them yesterday.”
“We?” It didn’t take two people to change spark plugs.
“I had one of the prospects do it.”
“Well, maybe the next time you oughta do it yourself, or at least make sure it’s done. I hadda ride over an hour with it backfiring and giving me a shit ride.”
Cobra and Rattler exchange a look as I drag my hand through my hair. Even I heard the amount of pissed-off in my voice.
“Cool out, brother, I’ll get the job done.” Rattler slings his arm over my shoulder. “But right now, I think you need a nice cold beer.”
I shake him off, and we all head to the back door of The Gold Mine, then directly to the bar. “Seriously though, I know those plugs were switched out yesterday. I saw him do the job myself.”
Cobra shoulder-butts me. “Maybe that old man really did put the wooky on you.”
“Shut the fuck up.” I dismiss Cobra’s joke, but I was thinking the same shit myself.
“What are you talking about?” Rattler pulls three ice-cold bottles out of the cooler and lines them up on the bar.
“The meet we had with the Nomads was a little off. I’m gonna lay it all out tonight at church, but apparently they still abide by some of the old Shoshone customs.” Cobra gives me the side-eye. “Along with a senior member who kinda put a curse on Joker.”
Rattler narrows his eyes. “What?”
“It wasn’t a curse, so much as a warning.” I pick up the bottle of beer. “He said I was gonna have a violent death.”
“Big surprise. We’ll probably all have violent deaths. We’re fuckin’ outlaws.”
I twist open the beer bottle, and the fuckin’ thing explodes all over me.
Cobra and Rattler try desperately to hold it in, but they erupt in howls of laughter as I swipe up a bar napkin and wipe my drenched face and hands.
“Did you shake that bottle?” I accuse Rattler.
“Yeah, right, I’m back here shaking up all the beer bottles just to fuck with you.”
“Looks like today just isn’t your day, brother,” Cobra chokes out around a huge belly laugh.
I slam the bottle on the bar. “Ya know what, I’m out.” I push away from the bar with Rattler and Cobra laughing and talking shit as I head for the door.
When I get out to my bike, the same prospect—can never remember his name—is hovering around my bike. His eyes widen as I approach, and he moves to the side of the bike.
“I switched out all the bad plugs,” he says to the pavement.
The twenty-minute ride to my condo did nothing to improve my mood. I consider stopping at my shop and taking my bad attitude out on the bikes waiting to be serviced, but with the way my day is going, I’d probably get pinned under a lift. Normally, working on the bikes in my custom shop eases the demons, but not today.
