Page 100 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

“I get it. Go on.”

“It was the first time I’d messaged him in a while. It wasn’t awkward or anything. We just sort of picked up where we left off like there hadn’t been a long period of silence in between. He couldn’t talk, though. It was the middle of the night, so I can understand why.”

“Why couldn’t he speak to you? It’s not like he’d have much else going on.”

There’s a pause, and that hollow space in my chest where my heart used to be echoes loudly to remind me it’s not there. Deep down, I already know the answer.

Perfectly lonely.Unlike him.

“He had someone with him. Didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Rip that band-aid right off why don’t you, Jaine? Another pause. This time to allow me to swallow the great big lump of self-pity that’s formed in the back of my throat.

“What did he suggest you do in your time of need, then?”

“Call Irish.”

“Jaine, you didn’t?” If I sound shocked, it’s because I am.

“I did.”

“And?”

“He didn’t pick up.”

* * *

“This really needs to go,”I’m home alone again, or at least I think I’m alone. And for the nth time since I’ve been back, I curse as I bang my head on that big old chandelier that takes center stage in our front room.

It’s tasteless. It’s something you’d see in a casino. It was most likely some prize in a game of outlaw Russian roulette in Sin City. I wonder if my daddy won or lost. That if by losing, he had to swear to have this vulgar monstrosity on display from now until eternity as punishment. Then again, my daddy really does like to flaunt our wealth. Any opportunity to advertise the fact we have squillions in the bank. This piece showcases just that.

I’ve never relied on any of daddy’s squillions. I’ve always earned my own.

I always knew I wanted to work with figures. Most people likely take one look at my physical appearance before concluding that The Almighty likely only bequeathed me with enough brain cells needed to breathe, eat, and shit. And that if I do actually possess the ability to speak, it’s all about clothes, make-up, and what piece of jewelry the husband I rely on for everything has just rewarded me with for being his perfect little piece of arm candy.

I’m a straight-A student. I always have been. And my natural gift was in forensically analyzing and shrewdly manipulating figures. So, I left high school and headed straight to college, which I paid for with my own money by working in the accounts department of one of the city casinos.

I purchased my first apartment at twenty-five, which I still own to this day. And I’d be living there right now if it wasn’t rented out. I’d definitely never choose to be living under the very watchful eye of my daddy.

Having started my own little business in Vegas helping professional gamblers manipulate their easily won millions, I then dabbled in money laundering.

It's an art form not many can master, but it came easy to me for some reason. Some might say too easy. Maybe because it involved doing something wrong. Let’s face it. I’m a biker. Doing wrong’s what I do right.

Jaine’s correct about outlaw accountants. Apparently, my kind really are the walking-talking equivalent of rainbow-shitting unicorns.

Having initially been introduced by Rod as potential business acquaintances, she and I kept gravitating toward each other. Bikers are like pack animals. We like to be with our own kind. So, it was only ever a matter of time before we ended up working together.

“I’m going to see Ghost.”

My moment of reflection is interrupted as I take in my lean, mean fighting-machine brother Tadgh who’s lounging against the door frame with his arms folded across his chest. Tall, blonde, and perfectly formed with ink covering most of the visible parts of his thirty-two-year-old body and with a beard covering that handsome face of his. There’s no hell for him. Nope. He’s heading straight to Valhalla. That's how much of a Viking he looks.

“Will Ace be there?”

“Yup. He’s heading back to California this morning if you want to meet him before he goes.”

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