Page 7

Chapter

Six

Tenley

S moke has already had the bullet points of what has led me here, but reciting it to this lot is a different matter. All eyes are on me, and I’m sure if I stuck my tongue out, I could taste the secreted disdain from every one of them that lingers in the air.

“So, what you waiting for?” Smoke breaks the silence with his deep, commanding voice.

I suck in a deep lung full of air through my nose, ready for the inevitable backlash of questions and accusations that are heading my way.

“If you don’t already know, I’m a reporter for the Reno City Journal. It all started about three months ago when a story I’d been working my kahunas over got knocked back by the editor in chief…

“It’s not like I don’t know what I’m doing, Chief. I’ve even won awards for my work.” I grumble at the boss I’ve had for the past year I’ve been working here at the R.C.J .

“Being recognized for your work in small town literary awards is hardly winning the Pulitzer Prize for investigative reporting, now is it?” Bill reasons. “Your work is good, I can’t deny that, but a piece about what can only be put down as a rumor of the possible corruption within the Reno police department ain’t going to cut it.”

“You’re telling me you don’t believe what is going on within the system?”

“Whether I believe it or not is irrelevant.” He throws up his hand in frustration. “You’re asking me to put an article on the front page with no actual substantial proof to back it up. If we do that, we would be dragged into the courthouse quicker than a New York Minute. Not only that, but it’s also not a powerful enough story, not when half the city suspects it, anyway.”

“This is BS.” I jump up out of the seat opposite Bill. His office is only small, and the door is always open metaphorically and actually, so I should have known that I was only going to be left disappointed with what he had to say when he’d firmly shut it behind us. “Tell me, what do I have to do to get front page because this is frustrating the shit out of me?”

The reason I’d moved back to Reno and taken the job with a higher profile newspaper than I had worked with in the past was in the hope I could finally fulfill my dream of having a front-page article. In turn, showing exactly what I’m capable of and possibly get me the recognition I needed from the top U.S. newspapers.

End goal.

One of the blue-chip tabloids, the New York Times, The Washington Post or maybe even USA today. I want to play with the big boys .

“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, I blamed 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 could base 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.