Page 49 of Nuts

He put his hands on his hips. “Who founded Harley-Davidson?”

I proudly recited the story as best as I could remember. “In 1901, William Harley and his friend Arthur Davidson had a dream. Through their friend Henry Melk, a machine shop owner, they developed the first engine. It took two years to complete, but in 1903, the first Harley-Davidson was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.”

“Impressive,” he said. “Six-month probation period. If you meet the goals I set, you can have the permanent job. If you don’t meet your goals, you can go right back where you were as a sales clerk.”

I cocked a playful eyebrow. “Should we discuss wages and benefits first?”

“Fifty-five thousand a year plus monthly bonus, a 401-k that I’ll match, Blue Cross health insurance, and two weeks paid vacation.”

Fifty thousand dollars?

Despite the fabulous offer, I wanted him to know I was a good negotiator. I folded my arms over my chest, took a step back, and studied him. “Make it sixty-five.”

He let out a laugh. “Sixty.”

“Seventy.”

“Sixty-two-five.”

“Seventy-two.”

“Sixty-five it is,” he said with a laugh.

Holy cow!

I clenched my fist and held it between us.

He looked at my fist, clenched his, and grinned.

With a racing heart, and a prideful smile, I pressed my fist to his.

And, just like that, we made the deal.

Chapter Eighteen

P-Nut

I twisted the throttle as tight as it’d go. Blaring down the street at 90 miles an hour, I was going three times the legal speed limit. When the shop came into my line of sight, I swerved across the oncoming lane and into the parking lot.

In a full-throttle run, I blasted past the shop’s open garage doors, locked up the rear brake, and spun the bike into a 180-degree tailspin.

Halfway through the controlled skid, I released the brake, downshifted two gears, and hit the throttle.

Now pointed directly at the open doors, the bike shot through them and onto the spotless concrete floor of the shop.

I grabbed a fistful of front brake and the pressed the rear brake pedal at the same time. The bike came to a screeching stop in the center of the shop.

After whacking the throttle a few times for good measure, I killed the engine.

Crip was leaning against the work bench drinking a beer. Unless he was taking care of beating someone’s ass, he could always be found in the same spot.

Against the bench with a beer.

“God fucking damn you, P-Nut,” he howled. “Don’t come in this shop like that. You’re going to kill someone one of these days. And, I’m sick and fucking tired of you revving that piece of shit up in this shop. It’s un-goddamned-called for. This is the last time I’m telling you.”

He was the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC, and a former navy SEAL. He was a wise man, a great leader, and someone I comfortably called a brother. Despite holding him in such high regard, I treated him as if he irritated me. In fact, I never let anyone know how I felt about them.

I considered doing so a sign of weakness.