But I’m a businessman too. I might not look like one, but I am all f**king business.
And if she wants to play a game to see if I’m serious, well, I can play as well as anyone.
In fact, I’m a damn good player.
I’m the best f**king player this town has ever seen.
So game on.
Chapter Two
I jingle my keys in my hand as I walk back up to the house. I pass by the shop and sigh. We’re moving into town for Shrike Bikes Season Two. Biker Channel has had about enough of Bellvue—too f**king small. And really, this isn’t even Bellvue. I live ten miles north of the intersection that thinks it’s a town.
But I like it out here. It’s quiet. Too quiet for some, but not for me. I spent a lot of time here growing up because this was my gran’s house. So it’s always felt like home.
I brokered a deal with the Biker Channel people though, got them to foot the cost of renovation of the new shop if I bought the building. They do get to put a bunch of promo material in the shop, which is fine, I guess. The more people watching the Biker Channel, the more people watching the Shrike Bikes show. That’s more money for me. Win-win.
Last fall Rook was annihilated in the media when she took her story public and outed a huge human trafficking ring in Chicago. She got a lot of publicity for the show because she’s been part of this project since the beginning. First as my body art model for the Sturgis pilot show, then as the Shrike Bikes receptionist for Season One. But no one knew that Season One would be almost all about her. No one knew all that shit would go down and change the whole production schedule. But the publicity worked in my favor and I renegotiated the contract with the Biker Channel to get the building remodel paid for.
I key in the security code to the house and let myself in the kitchen, throw my keys down on the granite counter top, and open the fridge. Empty.
I haven’t eaten at home in a while. We’ve just been too busy in town getting ready for the new season. In fact, I haven’t even built a bike in over a month. I slam the fridge door closed and open the pantry.
Mac and cheese. And Campbell’s Soup. I’m living like a fourteen-year-old who has no parents.
Fuck. I take the businessman’s ID out of my pocket and study it. He’s got his hair slicked back, and not in that I’m dangerous way like Ford does it. No. This guy’s hair says I use product. In fact, this ass**le’s hair says I have a stylist. Not a barber, a stylist. I bet he gets his fingers done while he’s there. And his toes.
Asshole.
I’m on f**king TV and I don’t even let the makeup girls touch my f**king hair. I just buzz that shit off when it gets too long.
I check him out again. Banker. I bet he’s a f**king banker. He looks like one. Wearing some fancy suit like he’s important. Plus, he’s got beady eyes. Beady brown eyes, says his ID. That’s a sure sign that he’s no good. Every cartoon connoisseur knows that beady eyes are a tell.
I study him for a few more seconds. He’s even got a suit on in his driver’s license photo. I glance over to his name. Carson. What kind of stupid name is Carson?
Last name of Reed—Veronica Reed? Nope. Ronnie Reed? Fuck, that one sounds pretty good. But Veronica Vaughn has always hated the fact that her names start with the same letter.
I happen to like it, myself. And my name is the shit. Spencer Shrike. It’s got a nice ring to it.
Veronica Shrike? Maybe.
Ronnie Shrike. Better.
Ron the Bomb Shrike? I laugh at that. Fucking girl makes me smile even when she’s not here. I sigh. Fucking Ronnie. I fish my phone out of my pocket and flop down on the couch. I press her number in my contacts and wait as the phone rings.
Voicemail. “You’ve reached Ronnie Vaughn. I’m either working or playing. If you need me for either, leave a message and I’ll get back to you!” She makes a slurpy kissing sound and then the beep.
“Hey, Ronnie. You should come over. Call me back.” I sigh again and pocket my phone, but it buzzes an incoming call before I can release it, so I pull it back out. I look at the screen. “Yello, baby! Wanna come over?”
“Oh,” she says. “It’s you. I was expecting a call from the bank. I deleted your number and didn’t recognize it, sorry.”
“What? You deleted my number? For why?” I’m stunned. Like my hand is up in the air and I’m mid-shrug with wide eyes.
“Why? Why? You have some f**king nerve, Spencer. I haven’t talked to you since f**king Halloween!”
She’s on drugs. She might need a blood test. “I took you out for New Year’s, you hot little amnesiac.”
“No, you did not take me out. You saw me at Antoine’s. Dates pick up their girlfriends, Spencer.”
“We ate, we drank, we f**ked. How is that not a date?” This is what dates usually entail.
She growls at me though the phone. “The food was free, the drinks were free, and I was too drunk to remember most of the f**k, so it hardly counts. I definitely don’t recall an orgasm.”
“Ha!” I pull the phone away from my ear and find the voice memos, then push play on the one dated New Year’s.
“Ohhhh, Spencer!” Veronica wails in the recording. “Baby, yes!”
My phone does the three-beep thing that says the call ended. I laugh and call her back. It rings through again. “Ronnie, come on! It was funny, you know it was. Since when does this shit piss you off?” I stop talking. And wait. I’m not sure why, it’s a f**king voicemail, she’s not gonna respond. I frown and let out a sigh. “Well, f**k. You’re mad, I guess. Sorry, Rons. Seriously. Call me back, OK?”