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Gone are the days when women read Jane Austen and gathered in needlework clubs. Long gone, it seems.
If it weren’t so damn dangerous, I might have laughed until tears streamed down my face. Ever since I brought my first child into this world, I’ve known that women are far from the weaker sex. Anyone enduring the pains of childbirth for the sake of humanity’s survival is stronger and braver than any random guy. If I hadn’t realized it before, I’d have to seriously reconsider the conventional definitions of “strong” and “weak” now.
Before swinging my leg over my bike and making a run to the next three or four ATMs (because there’s no way I’m getting a hundred thousand from a single machine), I bump up the daily withdrawal limit on my Platinum card to $120,000 in my banking app, just to be on the safe side.
Then I hop on my bike and ride off.
In the She-Devil’s Lair, the next unpleasant surprise awaits me. The two hulking guys at the entrance compare my face with a picture on their phone and give me a nod after thoroughly patting me down for weapons.
The idiot Gavin has even provided them with a photo of me. I shove all emotions to the background, much like I do during a challenging birth, and navigate my way through the club. The bartender signals to a massive giant as soon as he spots me, and this mountain of a guy guides me to my destination: the back room. Standing over two heads taller than me, he has to bend down to reach the door handle. Of course, he lets me go first—not out of courtesy, but to ensure I don’t turn back immediately.
At the other end of the room, at a bar, stands a man who stares expressionlessly at me when I enter. His tall figure is clad from head to toe in black leather. His once-handsome face is marred by a web of scars, effortlessly catapulting him into the league of Freddy Krueger.
He’s the boss.
Amidst the muscle-packed, testosterone-bursting men, he seems almost slim, like a ballet dancer in the midst of a group of orcs. A delicate white-blonde beauty hangs on his arm, her cool, glittering cat eyes revealing that she’s the one who threatened me with Gavin’s emasculation earlier.
Speaking of Gavin. Where is my buddy?
A swift scan of the room yields no insights. However, as soon as Freddy Krueger starts speaking, it becomes immediately clear that my assumption about him being the head of the gang is correct.
“You got the money?” His gruff voice, deep and authoritative, effortlessly carries from one end of the not-so-small room to the other.
Behind me, the door softly closes.
At sunrise, I stand in my kitchen and tend to Gavin’s injuries. He’ll have to move a bit more cautiously than usual for the next few weeks, but a few broken ribs and a black eye are more than an acceptable price for him still being alive.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am, bro,” he whispers, his voice shaking with emotion.
“It’s okay, Gavin,” I wave it off, pulling a stretch bandage tight around his chest.
He yelps. Good.
“Listen,” I say, reaching for a cooling ointment and a sterile dressing pad in my first aid kit. “I’ll say this only once.”
Gavin opens his mouth, but when he sees my dark expression he closes it again, and nods.
“Lesson learned, buddy. Next time the boss’s lady from a criminal biker gang wants her $100,000 bike fixed, you politely but firmly decline. You say, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ I don’t know if you really made that scratch on the rims, as she claims, or not—and frankly, I don’t give a damn.” Gavin has solemnly sworn that it was all in her imagination, but it doesn’t matter. “We’re both fucking lucky they didn’t decide to make us permanent residents.”
Alone against the overpowering force of battle-hardened bikers, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. Not even with Colt, Jorge, Cal, or anyone else by our side.
“You owe me a hundred thousand,” I tell him.
Gavin gasps as I apply the compress to his eye. Through the pain, he mumbles something that sounds like, “I owe you my life.”
“I want you to do the following,” I continue, ignoring his expressions of gratitude.
He’d have done the same for me, I know that, but on the way back from the She-Devil’s Lair, I hatched a pretty genius idea on how he could repay me.
“You quit your job,” I say. “I know you have stashed away a bit”—nowhere near a hundred thousand, but it isn’t necessary—“and kickstart your own business within the next six months.”
Casually, I pick an eye patch from the first aid kit. Gavin stays silent.
“If you don’t make one and a half million in annual profit within the next three years,” I continue, “forget about repaying me the 100,000. But if you do, it’ll be a piece of cake for you to settle the score.”
Gavin’s healthy eye seems to be swimming in tears.
Quickly, I hand him the eye patch and instruct him to wear it for at least two days until the swelling subsides. “You have it in you, man. You’re solid at your job. Make something out of it,” I say, heading over to the coffee machine. “This time next year, you’ll thank me for pushing you into this. And if not…” I smirk to myself. “Well, at least you’ve held onto your balls.”
