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I was going to be VP before Luke died. Ever since then, election of the title has been put on the backburner indefinitely. It’s like we’re still in mourning…but it’s been two years.
I’m not saying I want it that badly. Maybe I don’t even deserve it, but Dom is putting the line of succession in jeopardy by not making a decision.
I’m stolen from my thoughts when I hear the dumbest thing of the week—it’s Dixon.
“What’s the point of corn on the cob though? I mean it comes out the same way it went in. Why do you eat it?”
“God,” Lara puts her hand over her face. “That’s just the skin, you idiot! The skin is the fiber and helps with a clean bowel movement. When you take a dump tomorrow, pick one of the yellow bits out, it’s not filled with corn, it’s filled with your poop!”
“Fuck no!” Dixon says, screwing up his face in horror. “I’ll just take your word for it!”
Everyone laughs.
“You guys should stop wearing helmets,” Lara nods with a shake of her head. “You’re not protecting much.”
They laugh again. She’s really winning them over.
She hasn’t had any of the food…that’s odd…it almost make me not want any either. Maybe she knows something…maybe…no. That’s my overactive imagination.
Everyone keeps talking and eating. They’re so entertained by Lara that we’ve ended up spending an hour longer than we normally do eating.
Sunday’s are meant for the club to ride through town…show the colors…hoist the flag—That kind of thing.We’re not supposed to be chatting over a leisurely meal.
She’s ruining everything.
“Shouldn’t we get going?”
Dom looks at the time, “Wow, it’s 1:30 already, yeah we should.”
I see Nick put his arm around Lara, “You can ride with me if you want.”
“Gonna get the bitch to ridebitch?” I say the words before I can stop myself. When you’re in a club and someone takes your second seat riding behind you, it’s called riding bitch because it’s for your old lady—Your woman…your bitch.
Probably shouldn’t have said that.
Dom glares at me, “There a problem, Chase?”
Lara stares at me too, then glumly reaches down and gives Nick a peck on the lips, “You guys go, there’s book I’ve been meaning to catch up on.”
Since when are those two an item?
I look over at Bret and see him shove his hands in his pockets, turning from side to side nervously.
What the fuck is going on?
“Chase,” Dom says. “I’m talking to you.”
“Sorry, Dom. No problem. Let’s ride.” I stand and head to the lot out front.
The thing with a whiskey fire on metal, is that the only thing that’s going to burn is the whiskey—Sugary fire.
Rubber, plastic and metal aren’t flammable. It takes a little while.
Yes, she’s a little damaged. A lot more than I’d like, but we got to her in time with the extinguishers. The paint burned quite a bit and the seat is a little fucked. Everything else is okay.
She still works. No wiring got hurt and let’s face it…a Harley Davidson is built to be indestructible.
I woke early this morning, gave her a good wash and went for a ride to make sure everything was okay. But the thing is…no level of damage isokay. You maintain your bike like it’s your wife.
