while. I've been stewing in my own shit too much lately."
"Don't be too hard on yourself; we all miss him," Elias told her.
"Miss who?" Chelsea asked.
"My husband. He passed away six months ago. He was a patch holder in the club. Treasurer."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," Chelsea said, suddenly feeling guilty for asking.
Doc shrugged. "We had twenty-three beautiful years together. Most people can't claim half of that."
Chelsea bet that didn't make it any easier. In fact, that felt like it would be even worse, but she kept her thoughts to herself. "Are you riding your own bike?"
"No, I thought I would hitch a ride with John since he offered. You riding your own?"
"Thanks to Duffy." Chelsea smiled. "And by the way, where is Duffy? I would like to meet him," she asked, looking around and trying to spot someone who looked like they walked hand-in-hand with the gods of chaos and karma.
"There he is," John pointed, and then called out for Duffy to come over and introduce himself.
The man that turned, and hopped off the bar stool looked like a large, over-sized gnome. He had a bald head, a large gray and brown beard, and wore gold wire spectacles that he blinked behind. He was at least five inches taller than she was, so that put him at probably five-eleven. His shoulders were broad, but his arms were thin and wired with apparently strong muscles and painted with several tattoos. He had a paunch of a belly, and was slightly bowlegged.
"You must be Chelsea," he said with the heaviest Texan accent Chelsea had ever heard—and since they were in Houston, that was saying something.
"I guess I will be, then," she said with a smile, and then gave him a hug. "Thanks so much for letting me borrow the Sportster."
"You know, I have your Shelby at the garage," he told her.
"I know, but can I please keep borrowing the Sporty? I love riding it."
"I can do without it for another couple of weeks, but don't get any ideas about trying to keep her. I like that little bike. It's got style, and grace."
"Yes it does." Chelsea nodded. "Maybe you could keep a look out for a bike that I can buy?"
"I would love to help get you saddled up," he replied. "You got the money?"
"I could afford probably ten grand, but not much more than that," she offered.
"Ten will get you a real nice used Sporty," Duffy told her. "I'll send out the hounds and see what comes back."
"Good, that would be so nice. Do you think you could also help me sell the Shelby?" she asked.
"Oh hell, I could have that sold by the end of the day. I can't tell you how many offers I've already gotten for it. That's a sweet ride, if you are into that sort of thing."
"I was, but I'm thinking bikes are much more fun."
"That's the way of it alright," he agreed. "What you wanting for it?"
"As much as you can get, and then take twenty percent for your effort."
"Won't be any effort at all. Hell, the thing has sold itself at least fifteen times since it arrived on Monday."
"The pink and registration are in the glove box, already signed," she told him.
"That's kind of dangerous, isn't it?"
"Well, I honestly didn't think I would ever see her again. I figured someone should have her," she sighed.
Duffy nodded. "Yeah, I've heard part of the story, and filled in some of the rest with what I heard about that feller coming by here to give you a hassle. The one Elias shot the shit out of the doorjamb because of. Some kind of detective, wasn't he? They're all assholes. Especially those narcs."
Chelsea smiled, having heard that Duffy dabbled in drug running and had been arrested several times by those assholes , although nothing ever stuck on him. Something always happened to mess up the case. Evidence would go missing, reports got screwed up—it was weird but apparently consistent. Elias told her that, despite it all, Duffy still had a clean record.
The five of them got a
"Don't be too hard on yourself; we all miss him," Elias told her.
"Miss who?" Chelsea asked.
"My husband. He passed away six months ago. He was a patch holder in the club. Treasurer."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," Chelsea said, suddenly feeling guilty for asking.
Doc shrugged. "We had twenty-three beautiful years together. Most people can't claim half of that."
Chelsea bet that didn't make it any easier. In fact, that felt like it would be even worse, but she kept her thoughts to herself. "Are you riding your own bike?"
"No, I thought I would hitch a ride with John since he offered. You riding your own?"
"Thanks to Duffy." Chelsea smiled. "And by the way, where is Duffy? I would like to meet him," she asked, looking around and trying to spot someone who looked like they walked hand-in-hand with the gods of chaos and karma.
"There he is," John pointed, and then called out for Duffy to come over and introduce himself.
The man that turned, and hopped off the bar stool looked like a large, over-sized gnome. He had a bald head, a large gray and brown beard, and wore gold wire spectacles that he blinked behind. He was at least five inches taller than she was, so that put him at probably five-eleven. His shoulders were broad, but his arms were thin and wired with apparently strong muscles and painted with several tattoos. He had a paunch of a belly, and was slightly bowlegged.
"You must be Chelsea," he said with the heaviest Texan accent Chelsea had ever heard—and since they were in Houston, that was saying something.
"I guess I will be, then," she said with a smile, and then gave him a hug. "Thanks so much for letting me borrow the Sportster."
"You know, I have your Shelby at the garage," he told her.
"I know, but can I please keep borrowing the Sporty? I love riding it."
"I can do without it for another couple of weeks, but don't get any ideas about trying to keep her. I like that little bike. It's got style, and grace."
"Yes it does." Chelsea nodded. "Maybe you could keep a look out for a bike that I can buy?"
"I would love to help get you saddled up," he replied. "You got the money?"
"I could afford probably ten grand, but not much more than that," she offered.
"Ten will get you a real nice used Sporty," Duffy told her. "I'll send out the hounds and see what comes back."
"Good, that would be so nice. Do you think you could also help me sell the Shelby?" she asked.
"Oh hell, I could have that sold by the end of the day. I can't tell you how many offers I've already gotten for it. That's a sweet ride, if you are into that sort of thing."
"I was, but I'm thinking bikes are much more fun."
"That's the way of it alright," he agreed. "What you wanting for it?"
"As much as you can get, and then take twenty percent for your effort."
"Won't be any effort at all. Hell, the thing has sold itself at least fifteen times since it arrived on Monday."
"The pink and registration are in the glove box, already signed," she told him.
"That's kind of dangerous, isn't it?"
"Well, I honestly didn't think I would ever see her again. I figured someone should have her," she sighed.
Duffy nodded. "Yeah, I've heard part of the story, and filled in some of the rest with what I heard about that feller coming by here to give you a hassle. The one Elias shot the shit out of the doorjamb because of. Some kind of detective, wasn't he? They're all assholes. Especially those narcs."
Chelsea smiled, having heard that Duffy dabbled in drug running and had been arrested several times by those assholes , although nothing ever stuck on him. Something always happened to mess up the case. Evidence would go missing, reports got screwed up—it was weird but apparently consistent. Elias told her that, despite it all, Duffy still had a clean record.
The five of them got a
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