The afternoon became a flurry of activity. I had to ride back to the Belle to change clothes, to the firm to get some intake paperwork in case Grant was serious about hiring me, and ride back up to Delaware. Thankfully the rain had abated but it was still a cold day spent riding, rather than shut away in Gen’s Wilmington apartment like I had hoped.
There were also text messages from my boss, telling me to take a weapon, that I ignored. For all I knew, Grant—or the company—wanted me to find a lost dog, check if a partner was cheating, or do a background check on someone.
It was also possible they wanted me to stand around looking severe and handsome, which I supposed I could also do. Finally, after the third text message imploring me to take some kind of weapon, a ship that had already sailed as the firm and its weapons lockers were far behind me, I listed these reasons to Jason, while pausing in my hasty lunch of an apple, a carrot, and three tablespoons of protein-enhanced almond butter.
Isn’t there an outlaw biker gang that has a mark out on you?
Well, that part was true. I suddenly felt the lack of a holster on my belt. But then, it had been two months, a few members were in custody, and others were dead in the woods somewhere, done in by the locals who resented their encroachment.
In the weeks since I’d witnessed some local boys carry out the rural Maryland version of a gangland execution, I’d started to relax a bit.
I stopped doing that all at once. My shoulders began to itch as I remembered crime scene photos of a man who was probably one of those local boys with ribs cut out and his lungs pulled out over his back.
The Blood Eagle of Viking sagas brought to the twenty-first century. Though not eager to be their next practice case, I couldn’t exactly tell my boss that. I needed to show him confidence, even if I had to do a better job of keeping my guard up.
Been two months. Haven’t heard a peep. They’ve either moved on or been put to bed.
I got no reply, which meant he’d let it go. Then I got back on the road. The entire way back up to Wilmington, I kept a sharp eye out for other bikes. I felt a little itch in the middle of my back every time I saw or heard one, though none of the riders I saw were wearing a cut, much less any Aesir symbols.
* * *
I was back up in the trendy part of Wilmington an hour before the tickets said the doors would open to touch base with Gen and meet her dad. I parked It a few blocks away from her place because I wasn’t sure that announcing my arrival with the rumble of a motorcycle’s engine was really a winning play. I slipped off my gloves and helmet and stopped to adjust my jacket and my shirt at least half a dozen times before I made it into her building and knocked at the door.
She opened it, having changed into a dark t-shirt and black jeans that were tight enough to show off some of the muscle-tone of her legs, tucked into calf boots. She’d put on subtle makeup and just swept her hair back and tucked a simple brown woven band atop her head to keep it in place. I had yet to see Geneva Lawton wear something that didn’t look great on her. I was interested to see how long that trend could continue. I was willing to bet it was an enduring character trait.
She took my hand, smiling, winked, but didn’t lean up to kiss me as she might usually have. She led me into her apartment as her dad was levering himself up from a recliner.
He was a big barrel chested guy—not as tall as me, but not short. Big thick arms and neck, the kind that didn’t have the tone of training, but had plenty of mass from a life of hard work. He had the kind of sun-browned skin that a person gets when their work and their leisure are all outside and probably near the water and they just don’t have the time for a whole lot of sunscreen. He wore a black t-shirt with a faded deco of a bunch of big-name wrestlers of the 1980s, gray cargo shorts, and boots. He was apparently the kind of man who wore shorts unless it was actually snowing.
He shook my hand, firmly, but not in a way that was asking any questions about dominance. His hand was calloused and hard and quite frankly I wasn’t sure who would’ve won a grip contest. I was just as happy not to find out.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Lawton,” I said. “I’m Jack.”
“Call me Bill,” he said, “Mr. Lawton was my grandad.” He had a graying handlebar mustache that had once been blond and a fringe of similarly colored hair around the sides of his head. “Thanks for bringing me along,” he said. “Appreciate it.”
“No problem,” I said, then I stood there awkwardly with helmet and gloves in hands for a moment. “Gen tells me you’re a big wrestling fan.”
“Always was,” he said. “Used to go down to Baltimore or up to Philly when the big shows came to town. Not so much these days since Genny don’t want to come with me anymore,” he said, teasing her, grinning.
She came up to his side and wrapped her arms around one of his. “Well, we can make up for it tonight,” she said.
“Right,” he said. Then he pointed at the helmet I was holding. “What do you ride?”
“Indian Scout,” I said. “Twenty-fifteen.”
He nodded lightly. “We’ll take my truck to the show,” he said. It was not phrased as a question. Gen smiled at me. While it was possible I might need to stay later than they wanted to if there was anything to Grant wanting to hire me, I didn’t think that would be a particularly good argument to pick.
“Of course,” I said with a grin. “No sense taking more than one car over.” I set the helmet and the gloves down on a table and out the door we went.