Bikers and Pearls

Bikers and Pearls

Vicki Wilkerson

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Vicki Wilkerson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce,
distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary
rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at
www.entangledpublishing.com
.

Edited by Libby Murphy

Cover design by Jessica Cantor

Ebook ISBN 978-1-62266-194-7

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition
August 2013

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners
of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Ford Taurus, Cadillac Escalade, Lincoln Town Car, Jaguar, BMW 700 Series, Harley-Davidson
(Road King Custom, Fat Boy, Softail, Roadster, V-Rod, Cruiser), Yamaha, Honda, NASCAR,
Vance and Hines, Polo, Ann Taylor, Calvin Klein, Brooks Brothers, Armani, “We’ve Only
Just Begun,” “Born to Be Wild,” “Amazing Grace,” “You Raise Me Up,” “That’s What Friends
Are For,” Z Z Top, Steppenwolf, The Carpenters, Brut, English Leather, Neosporin,
Jell-O, Ping, Clemson,
GQ
,
Golf Digest, Business Week, Gone With the Wind, Shag, The Food Network
, Anne Rivers Siddons, Meals on Wheels, Daughters of the American Revolution, National
Highway Transportation & Safety Administration, Oscar’s Restaurant, Oaks Country Club,
Slightly North of Broad
.

To Thomas, my soul’s echo…

Chapter One

Motorcycles were everywhere. April Church had never seen so many in one place in her
entire life. Row after row and side by side, they had been lined up like opposing
armies. Was there some kind of biker rally in town that she didn’t know about? No.
That couldn’t be. Surely, something like that would have been announced in the
Summerbrook Gazette
.

She looked for a well-lit parking spot near the door of the buffet steakhouse, but
after circling the bikes three times, she finally squeezed her car into the last space
at the rear of the dark lot. Motorcycles flanked both sides of her car. Flames embellished
the tank of the bike immediately to her left and razors decorated the one to her right.

She was trapped.

Trapped like she had been in her father’s car the night he’d accidentally hit a motorcycle—the
night the dead man’s “pack” had surrounded them like wolves. And here she was again,
encircled by bikes. She looked toward the building. In that steakhouse were the same
kind of people who had left her father with a limp, bound to a cane for the rest of
his life.

Why on Earth did she tell Mr. Houseman that she’d go to the meeting? Well, for many
reasons, but the most important was Ben. He was special. Every time he saw her, he
gave her a hug. Started out when she first helped him learn to climb a tree when the
Humanity Project volunteers built his home. When he dropped down from that tree and
into her arms, he also dropped into her heart. Ever since that day, he drew pictures
of trees and gave them to her as gifts. Yep. He was special, and she had to do something
to help the little boy’s parents with the mounting medical bills. Mr. Houseman was
her mentor at the Humanity Project, and she owed him, too. She also thought about
Miss Adree, the sweet, elderly lady in her condo building who taught Ben music lessons
every Thursday evening. April loved picking up the little guy and remembered Miss
Adree doing the same for her when she was a child. It was time to return favors.

Inside would be all the civic-minded organizations from town that were helping Ben,
including the Summerbrook Ladies League. The bikers were probably at the restaurant
for a completely different reason—some ride or party they had to plan. She glanced
around at all the motorcycles again. There were so many.

Taking a deep breath, she gingerly opened the car door. But before she got the chance
to put her foot on the asphalt, the painted flames on the motorcycle next to her pitched—almost
imperceptibly at first. Or perhaps she was simply denying what was happening.

Down it went. The mirrors tilted and flashed the light of a distant streetlamp over
the body of the beast.
Stop!
Somehow, it appeared to have picked up momentum on its way to its death. And then
it crashed against the pavement, the
clang
grating up her spine as it hit.
No!
She couldn’t have touched that bike. She had been so careful.

As she stepped outside the car, a shiver iced down her spine in a cold gust of March
air. The motorcycle lay there like a fallen soldier. The crash had amputated its rearview
mirror, which was now in the middle of the lane. She looked all around her.

For a brief moment, she thought about bolting. But she’d never do that. She worked
at a local insurance company as a risk assessment manager. Assessing her own risk,
she determined that she was in real trouble.

She knew she could analyze her way out of this. Maybe she could set the bike upright
again and no one would notice. That might work.

Fighting some awful thing inside that wanted to paralyze her, she drew up every bit
of her strength, bent down, and grabbed the handlebars. With her eyes closed, she
strained and jerked with all her might. But the beast wouldn’t budge.

Maybe she could at least fix the mirror. Though her hand shook—probably from the cold—she
picked it up and tried to attach the cracked piece to the bent chrome on the side
of the bike. She pushed and twisted and rocked the thing. Nothing worked. Now what
was she to do?

She could call the police. But it wasn’t a traffic accident. She still didn’t believe
that she’d touched the bike. No matter. What could she do but try to find the owner
and tell him? Dread rose up in her. She would offer the biker her insurance information,
and she could let her company argue the claim later. And if the bike’s owner grew
angry with her here, she assumed the bystanders in the steakhouse would provide some
protection.

Glancing around the dark lot, she noticed several other bikes with flames on their
tanks. Great. Now she’d have a band of angry bikers come after her when she would
announce that she’d knocked over a motorcycle festooned with flames.

Shaking her head, she tried to rid herself of the images of that night so long ago.
But this was very different. No one had died. And she would accept complete responsibility,
unlike her father, who’d blamed and angered the drunken bikers from Rebel Angels the
night they’d played chicken with him.

Still holding the metal thing, she had an idea. The mirror was a totally different
shape from the others around her, and it had a sticker with flames on the back. That
would help. She’d find Mr. Morrow and a few of the people there for the fundraiser,
and with their assistance, she’d approach the bikers with the mirror.

So she summoned all of her courage and bravely walked toward the entrance where a
giant fake cow stood with an ominous look in his eyes. It watched her every step.

When finally inside, the scent of old coffee and burned grease assailed her. A gap-toothed
hostess greeted April. “Welcome to Carolina Cow Steakhouse,” she said in a particularly
slow Southern dialect—the brogue of her small town.

Not immediately seeing the people from the Summerbrook Civic Club, she turned to the
waitress. “Umm, I’m supposed to meet a group here.”

The hostess perked up and smiled. “Are you here for Ben Evans’s Leukemia Fundraiser,
too?”

April nodded and glanced around again, still hiding the broken mirror behind her back.
She spotted members of the motorcycle crew secluded away at a couple of tables in
a shadowy corner. Oh, boy. In a few short moments, she’d have to face them and confess
what she’d done. Well, at least they weren’t going to be a part of the civic club
meeting. After she gave them the broken mirror and her insurance information, it would
all be over.

“You’ll have to wait here a minute ’cause I’m moving everyone into the larger banquet
room. Y’all have more people than we expected,” the hostess said as she grabbed a
few more menus and walked away.

April backed up against the wall to better hide the crooked chrome she held. Of all
the stupid things that could happen.

With her free hand, she brushed at the pleats on her skirt to straighten them. Then
she switched the mirror into her right hand and smoothed out the other side. Everything
was under control.

“What do you have there?” inquired a low, masculine voice from above her head.

She snapped to attention like she was about to undergo a military inspection.

A handsome, muscular man in a black bomber jacket towered above her, larger than life.
His shoulder-length hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. Golden streaks highlighted
his nut-brown mane. His indigo-colored eyes perused her face. “Is something wrong?”

She twisted the strand of pearls that draped from her neck between her fingers with
her free hand. “No. Everything’s fine,” she said. It would be as soon as she could
meet up with Mr. Morrow or some of the other members from the civic organizations.

“Then what are you hiding behind your back?”

He had seen. Oh, no. He had seen.

“Just a little mishap. I’m going to take care of it.”

“You ride?” The left corner of his mouth curled up. “In a skirt?”

“No.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound strained. “No, I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle
before,” she said calmly.

He narrowed his eyes. “Then why are you walking around with a Harley dome billit mirror?”

That was a good question. Why was she? She held out the broken piece of the bike in
front of her. “I don’t know how it happened. I was opening my car door, and then—”

He took it from her, examined it, and gave it back. “Let me guess. It just fell.”
He tilted his head, exposing a strong, angular jawline. “All by itself.”

“That’s right. It really did happen that way. Exactly.” He probably didn’t believe
a word she said. And she couldn’t blame him. She heard unlikely stories like hers
from claimants at the insurance company all the time.

“Ahhh, I see. Sure it did,” he said. But the left side of his grin inched upward again.
His eyes radiated light like the mirror in her hands. “Believe I know who owns that.
’Cause of the sticker on the back there.” He nodded at the chrome and took a step
toward her. “Won’t be too happy, though. You want me to take you to him?”

A spicy scent replaced the old coffee and burned grease in the air. She looked around,
half expecting to see one of the men from the Summerbrook Chamber of Commerce or the
hostess with a can of air freshener. But April hadn’t ever experienced anything like
that fragrance—not on a businessman or from a can. “No, thank you. I’m meeting some
people here for a fundraiser first. They’ll help me.”

“I know where they are, too. It’s where I’m headed.” He touched her elbow. A warm
tingle ran up her arm.

“The hostess said to wait here.”

“We don’t have to wait.”

“But—” Before she could protest, he placed his hand on the small of her back and guided
her through the large, open restaurant and around a corner. With each step she took,
her pulse beat faster.

They stopped at a door, which had a sign on it that read
Banquet Room
.

“You sure you don’t want me to handle that for you?” He arched his brow and glanced
at the mirror.

“No, thank you. I’m going to ask Mr. Morrow to walk back with me. To tell those people
in the corner of the main dining area.”

He opened the door. “Be my guest.”

As soon as she walked into the room, she knew she was in trouble. The large table
in front was filled with people sporting leather fringes, rivets, Harley insignias,
and long hair. Motorcycle people. But what kind of motorcycle people were they—the
weekender kind who had regular day jobs, like the safe ones they insured at her company?
Or some other kind?

A guy with a Z Z Top-looking beard stood up and said, “Hey, that’s my mirror.”

The packed room became silent.

April wanted to sink through the floor. “I’ll pay for it. I have insurance. I don’t
really even know how it happened.”

The whole room stared at her like she was a liar. Trapping the mirror between her
arm and side, she fumbled in her purse to get one of the copies of her insurance card
she’d made at work in case she might ever have the need for it.

“She was probably standing there and it just
fell
over,” said one of the bikers at the table.

All the people at the table laughed. She turned to see Mr. Morrow standing silently
behind the lectern, looking at his notes. Why wasn’t he backing her up? Surely he
recognized her. She wanted to say, “It’s me. April Church.” In case he didn’t remember.
But he only stood there looking unconcerned.

The tall, handsome guy who’d walked her back took the broken mirror from her and tossed
it toward the biker with the long beard. “Okay, let’s go, Slug. I’ll give you a hand
to upright your bike. This time. But you’d better fix that kickstand before that old
motorcycle falls over again—with the
next
stiff breeze.” The handsome man looked at her. “Might accidentally hurt a pretty young
lady next time.”

The group laughed more. Slug kept his eye on April as he inched around the table.
She didn’t see anything funny. She’d known she hadn’t hit the motorcycle with her
car door. But she’d been discombobulated all the same.

The man in the bomber jacket gave Slug a reprimanding look and then turned to her.
“Slug here’s real sorry he hasn’t fixed that old kickstand. Even though we’ve been
warning him about it for months. Right, Slug?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry and all,” said Slug. He reached out his tattoo-covered hand and snatched
the mirror.

The two men left with the twisted chrome.

Slug didn’t
sound
very sorry. Even if the broken mirror wasn’t her fault, she didn’t want to face him
alone in that dark parking lot. She was staying right where she was for the time being.

She wanted to do this for Ben. She’d have to stay no matter what.

Mr. Morrow said, “April, if you’ll take a seat, we can get started.”

So
now
he knew who she was.

Glancing across the room, she saw the ladies from the group she wanted to join all
decked out in their Lilly Pulitzer sweaters and pearls, cozily talking around a couple
of the round banquet tables they’d pulled together on the other side of the room.
Shoot. All the other chairs were filled—except for two at the table with the bikers.
The evening couldn’t possibly get any worse.

An older man with long, gray hair and a woolly beard stood up and said, “Here’s one,
miss.”

Things had just gotten worse. All she could do now was to sit. She clutched her purse
tightly against her body and eased her way between the tables to one of the two empty
seats.

Nothing was going to happen. Everything would be fine now that her little mirror emergency
was over. These people had to be good people, right? They were here to help Ben, too.
And Ben needed lots of help.

April fidgeted with the pearls at her neck. She knew there was no good reason for
her insides to be so tense. These people weren’t the same rioters from Rebel Angels
who’d burned down her father’s old hardware store for revenge. She straightened the
pleats again on her skirt, trying to forget about the unfortunate event that had divided
the town. But how could she possibly forget with all the reminders at the table? The
earthy scent of leather hung all around her.