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Chapter Six
Nick
I stared at the exterior wall of the shop, not sure whether to get off my bike, or fire it up and go for a ride. Peyton Price had my interest – and my attention – and I didn’t like it one fucking bit.
She was a sexy little bitch, but I had no business with a woman in my clubhouse or on my mind, no matter how attractive she was. While contemplating a ride up the PCH, the unmistakable lyrics from Cypress Hill’s How I Could Just Kill a Man blaring over the rumble of Pee Bee’s loud pipes snapped me out of my funk.
I turned toward the sound.
With his long legs stretched out onto his floorboards, and his arms draped over his handlebars, he leisurely rolled into the lot.
“What’s shakin’, Motherfucker?” he said as he came to a stop at my side.
I shrugged.
“Comin’ or goin’?”
“Thinkin’ about havin’ a beer,” I responded.
“Sounds good.”
I nodded toward the shop. “Of all the shit you could be listening to, you’ve got to listen to that song?”
He pulled off his helmet and ran his fingers through his long hair. “Cypress motherfuckin’ Hill, Boss. It’s good shit.”.
“How I Could Just Kill a Man. Remind you of anything?”
“Sure as fuck does,” he responded.
I gave him my signature look. A cocked eyebrow. I’d used it so much over the years that one side of my forehead was wrinkled, and the other wasn’t.
“That night Wood dumped his bike in front of that mansion up by Torrey Pines.”
Pee Bee may have been absent minded when it came to the passage of time, and his sheer size alone removed fear from the list of emotions he felt, but other than that, he was real damned close to normal.
Most of the time.
“What in the fuck does Wood hitting a fox in Torrey Pines have to do with that song?”
He looked at me as if I was a complete fool. “Wood hit the fox. Then that chick in the nightgown came out to see if we were okay. While she was tryin’ to get Wood bandaged up, I was starin’ at her tits and flippin’ through my iPod for something cool to listen to. I saw Cypress Hill, and thought it sounded good. So, that’s what I was listenin’ to the whole time she was standin’ there with her titties pokin’ out of that nightgown.”
The owner of the thirty-million-dollar mansion was the widow of a Hollywood producer, and built like a porn star. In a sheer nightgown and a pair of designer flip-flops, she rushed from the house and offered to bandage Wood’s arm. The entire time, her silicone D-cups were all but hanging out of her nightgown. It was a story we’d talked about for years, but it had nothing to do with what was now on my mind.
I got off my bike and turned toward the shop. “Well it reminds me of something else.”
“Like what?”
I unlocked the door, opened it, and motioned toward the steel drum. “We need to get rid of that body.”
“Still in that drum?”
I shot him a glare. “Where the fuck else would it be?”
“Fuck, I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”
“Do you really think I’d take that two-hundred-pound dead prick out of that drum and do something with him?” I asked. “He’s been in there cooking for three days.”
“Two.”
