“You need a subject that’s going to speak to the people of Reno. Have those who haven’t bought a broadsheet in years grabbing a copy,” he suggests. “A story that opens up a world the public know little about unless you’re already living amongst it.”
I pace the small space of carpeted floor in front of Bill’s desk while delving into the deepest recesses of my mind for a flicker of an idea.
“The only quality news we have in Reno these days is old news,” he sighs making me realize he’s just as frustrated as me with the lack of life stories around here. Sure, we have the opening of a new store, the construction work that’s going on in the city and the British bulldog puppies that got stolen from the breeder’s backyard, yet nothing with any true grit. “I’m sorry Tenley, but this,” he points to the printed draft of my corrupt cop story on his desk. “I can’t print it, not without more evidence that what’s in it is indisputable.”
Bill’s not wrong. What he says is true, and the weight of it, after all the work I’ve put into the article, lays heavy on me. I walk back to the chair and drop like a rock onto the seat, my posture that of a sulky teenager.
“Look, you’ve not taken a break since you moved into the city. You must be due some vacation leave. Why not get away for a few days to recharge or catch up with family?”
It’s like I’ve been hit by a lightning bolt.
Oriana.
Oriana, despite our relationship being disjointed and , in fact non-existent, I still find myself using my contacts and investigating skills to keep up to date with where and what she’s doing.
Of course, when my parents’ relationship fractured, Iblamed her mother; nonetheless I still held out hope that my dad would come to his senses and come back to us. But when the bitch (aka Oriana’s mum) became pregnant with Oriana, I slowly saw my dreams of being a whole family again whoosh away like sand in a sandstorm.
I was young, only five, and Oriana soon became the metaphorical punchbag to my painful ache that filled me with the loss of my perfect childhood. In turn, I made hers a living hell. Something, that until this day, I still haven’t sought forgiveness for. Mainly because I don’t deserve it.
Sure, I knew Oriana was living in Nevada. Did that influence me at all in taking this job? Maybe, except I won’t ever admit that to anyone other than myself.
What I do know is that Oriana is a nanny to the VP of the local biker gang. Sorry, I should say club because those dudes hate being called gangs despite them being involved in a ton of illegal shit.
I digress.
Back to the lightning bolt.
What could be more interesting than an exposé into the day-to-day life of an MC. The corruption, violence, secrets and lies that go on behind closed ranks within a 1% motorcycle club.
“I’ve got it.” I fling open the door and walk back out into the open office space, ignoring Bill’s call after me. When I get to my space, I snap shut my laptop and slide it into my bag, grab my jacket from the back of my seat and make my way to the elevators.
I’m going home to my tiny apartment where I can start on my new subject.
I admit my first thought was to use Oriana. I couldbase my piece on what her life had become working within their organization. Manipulate her into getting the dirt, details of what goes on behind closed doors. Except our relationship is pretty much non-existent, and the chances of her actually talking to me will be bordering on a miracle.
So, I’m setting my sights higher.
The President of the Young Outlaws MC.
I’m going to seek out the telephone numbers for the club, and I’m going to torment the fuck out of them until I get an interview with the man in charge. Once I’m in, I’ll work my charm until they’re so used to seeing me around, they feel relaxed. That’s when the members will start to open up and let me in on all the gory details of being a tattooed, gun-slinging, Harley-riding, dirty biker.
Who doesn’t love a dirty biker?
Although most men will deny it, they’d love to be one. Whereas women. Hell, it’s most women’s fantasy to have tattooed fingers fucking their greedy pussy while laid over the fuel tank of a leather-clad, muscle-bound bikers ride.
No? Just me then?
Shit, I’ve always had a thing about rough looking boys, motorcycles and leather.
They’re my goddamn kryptonite.
This could be more troublesome than I thought.
Chapter
Seven
Tenley
