Page 5 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

Dash points at him immediately. “See? That right there is what I’m talking about, and people say I’m the funny one. You should be a stand-up comedian, Shadow.”

Shadow huffs, shaking his head and returning his attention to his book.

“You know, you’ve gotta let the rest of us get a word in edgeways, Mr. Chatty,” Dash adds, with his signature crooked grin.

“Knock it off,” Trigger tells him. He launches an unopened beer at Dash, who just barely catches it.

“Jesus! A heads up next time, that almost smashed in my face!”

Trigger smiles sweetly, an expression of boyish innocence that jarringly contrasts with his rough, heavily tatted look. “Who says I wasn’t trying to do that?”

The clubhouse door opens briefly as one of the prospects hurries through carrying another case of beer, letting in a burst of cold, wet air. Rock music crackles low through the speakers near the bar, distorted from age and blown-out wiring. Dash replaced the playlist with some pop princess’s album once and practically started a riot. Trigger was only too happy to fan the flames by singing along loudly and off-key, pretending he loved it and daring anyone to try to change it.

The burner phone the four of us use for club business buzzes loudly against the table. Nobody reacts at first. That thing goes off constantly—club girls, business contacts, people needing favors, people who owe us money, people looking for trouble. They all get given this number.

Trigger catches it before it vibrates off the table entirely. “Probably another one of Dash’s girlfriends,” he says.

“You say that like it narrows things down.” Dash runs his hand through his sandy-blond hair, shrugging.

Trigger tosses the phone toward me one-handed. “Handle your minions, Chief.”

I catch it automatically and glance down at the screen. I pause, my brow furrowing as I read what it says.

Dash notices immediately because Dash notices everything that might entertain him. “Well? Who’s it from?” he asks.

I shouldn’t smile. Honestly, I don’t even mean to. But something about the message catches me off guard enough that the corner of my mouth pulls anyway.

Dash sits upright immediately. “Oh, now I know it’s good.”

I toss him the phone. He reads the screen aloud, dramatically, in a high-pitched, breathy Marilyn Monroe voice, “Free to play?” He pouts, pressing his index finger to his cheek by the side of his mouth for comedic effect.

Silence hangs for exactly one second. Then Trigger laughs. Not a small, polite laugh either, it’s full of rough amusement that bounces through the room. Even Shadow lowers his book and looks up.

Dash presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “Gentlemen. It’s difficult being this desirable.”

“You look like a divorced magician,” Trigger tells him.

Dash knows well enough to move Trigger on from that idea before he starts throwing knives at him. “Women love mystery.”

“Women love when you shut the fuck up.” Trigger tosses the knife up in the air, catching it by the handle as it spins down above him.

Dash ignores him completely, still grinning down at the screen. “No contact name,” he says. “Interesting.”

I lean back in my chair slowly, watching rain hammer against the windows. “Probably the wrong number.”

“Or…” Dash says reasonably, “fate.”

Trigger makes a disgusted noise. The phone buzzes again in Dash’s hand. Another message:

Hello???

Dash gasps. “She’s impatient. I like her already.” He clutches his chest.

“You like everybody already,” I point out.

He spreads his arms wide and leans back on the couch. “That’s because I’m warm and approachable.”

“Like herpes,” Trigger says, tossing a peanut in the air and catching it in his mouth.