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Mr. Duncan is sitting at the head of the table. “Good morning. We have a new client coming in this morning. I want him taken to my office as soon as he checks in. This account is high priority. Some of you may be familiar with our local motorcycle club, the Deathstalkers, but I ask you to put aside any prejudices you might have. They have a number of businesses and will bring in a lot of money.” He looks around at each of us. “I’ll need someone running point on this, so make sure to be performing at your best.” He stands up and walks out of the room, all eyes on him. A hushed chatter begins the moment the door closes behind him, everyone thinking the exact same thing as me.
I want this account.
Working on a complex account like this is the kind of thing that can get you noticed and advance your career. I have no idea what a motorcycle club entails. I know there’s one in town. It would be hard to miss given the presence of motorbikes in town, but I’ve never spoken to any of the guys. The closest point of reference I have are the books I read, and I don’t know how much of that is realistic. I mean, let’s be honest, those things aren’t real life. Not every girl gets kidnapped, saved by Prince Charming, and ends up married with babies.
I go back to my desk and Google the club to try and gain some insight. Being prepared is one of the things Mr. Duncan takes very seriously, so the more I can find out, the more opportunity I have to prove to him that I’m the best person to run this account.
After an hour of searching I still can’t find much, and what little there is I find intimidating.
The results are mostly articles about crimes they are suspected of. An image search brings up multiple mugshots of known members, none of them looking like the sort of people you’d want to take home to meet your parents. The more I read, the more I wonder why the firm wants to associate with them. They don’t seem like the clientele we would normally accept.
The elevator dings and I hear the secretary speaking to someone, telling them she’ll page Mr. Duncan.
It must be the guy.
I stand up, deciding to welcome our new client and introduce myself. I brush down my skirt and smooth my hair, taking each step toward the desk slowly to try to calm my nerves.
It’s only saying hello, I say to myself.You can do this. You’re a professional.
His back is toward me, the leather vest he’s wearing bearing a symbol comprised of a scorpion, a skull, and what seems to be a pair of angel wings, the name Deathstalkers MC stitched into the leather in bold letters. He is tall, much taller than me, and with his hair long up top but buzzed on the sides, he’s quite unlike anyone I’ve seen before.
“Welcome to Duncan & Shie,” I say, using the most professional voice I can manage.
When he turns toward me my entire body freezes and my fingers grip the reception desk to keep my knees from buckling. My heart is beating three times its normal pace.
It can’t be.
He can’t be here.
Why is he back?
