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Helpless, I ask, “What can I do?”
“Call Butch. Tell him to bring my laptop.”
“What do you need with the laptop?”
His fingers continue to run over his bike, checking the entire surface area of the motorcycle. “To hack into the hotel security cameras. I need to see who the fuck tipped my hog.”
I pull out my cell from my purse, hitting Butch’s number. “Tipped your bike? Like on purpose? How do you know this wasn’t an accident?”
Chase gestures to the bitch seat on his bike, where months ago he had my nickname—Numbers—embroidered into the leather cushion. The embroidery has been slashed away, like someone wanted to remove it.
Shocked by the sight, I gasp, my hand covering my mouth.
“This was no accident,” Chase spits wrathfully. “It was Trent. And I’m going to prove it.”
Butch picks up the call. I don’t waste time with pleasantries. “Butch, we have a problem.”
His gravelly voice greets me with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Bring Chase’s laptop to the garage. His bike was…” I struggle to find the correct verbiage.
“It was fucked with by that fucking fuckhead!” Chase grunts, using his anger to lift the metal beast. His Thor-like body makes it look easy, but I know otherwise. Harleys are heavy. Sweat collects on Chase’s brow, but he gets her standing upright.
“I’m on my way.” Butch disconnects.
Five tense minutes pass before Butch and Punk race into the garage with Chase’s laptop. Butch hands it off to Chase, his eyes scanning over his brother’s hog. “What’s the damage?”
Chase is already typing away on his computer. “Mainly my seat and a decent dent in the gas tank, where it took the brunt of the fall. The chrome is scuffed in a couple areas as well. Doesn’t look like there’s more, but I want it thoroughly checked before I ride her anywhere.”
“I’ll call Eagle. He may have connections to bike shops in the area,” Punk offers, already on his cell to call their brother, one of the main mechanics for the MC. “There’s got to be plenty nearby in this city.”
“Finding one who can do a rush job will be tricky,” Butch surmises.
Chase’s fingers slow their typing. He must be in the hotel security system. His eyes are trained on his screen, the light reflecting off the lenses of his thick-framed glasses. The guys move to watch the screen behind him. I have to strain my neck to see around their bulky bodies.
The cameras show a man enter the garage—or what I assume is a man based on size and build. He’s dressed in sweats, with a hoodie over his head, hiding his face. How he could bypass the hotel security guard stationed out front is anyone’s guess. The man’s head swivels around, constantly looking over his shoulders as he walks directly to Chase’s motorcycle. He stops beside it, staring down at it for a solid minute. His hand hovers above the bitch seat—the area where my name is embroidered. The suspect digs into the front pocket of his hoodie, pulling out something similar to a Swiss army knife.
What happens next, I can only describe as manic. The man slashes frenziedly at the leather motorcycle seat. His movements are jerky, almost like he’s out of control.
Worried, I glance at my biker to see how he’s faring.
Chase is as stiff as a board, studying the screen. His eyes don’t blink once while he watches the security recording.
My attention pans back to the laptop screen. The suspect’s upper body is heaving. He pockets his knife, turning to leave. For whatever reason, he turns around and kicks with all his might at the hog. It’s just enough impact to cause the motorcycle to lose the fight with gravity. The suspect is running before the bike hits the ground.
Chase pauses the screen. He looks at his brothers. “What did you see?”
“Suspect is the right height and build of Trent,” Butch states.
My insides twist with regret. Had my actions from this morning at the restaurant caused this? Did Chase and I push Trent too far by making him jealous of our relationship?
“Punk?” Chase asks his best friend. “What did you notice?”
“The perp was smart enough not to touch your bike without gloves.”
My biker nods, his face stern. “You noticed his hands weren’t gloved. Did you notice anything else about them?”
Punk frowns. “Play it again.”
