The living, breathing, biker jungle gym.
He crawled on top of Joker, banging him with his donut, as Joker put his hands to Travis’s sides, where he was most ticklish.
Then he tickled.
No little giggles at that, Travis let loose and that was when I watched biker and baby fake wrestle on the floor among a bunch of toys, Joker letting Travis win while getting clocked repeatedly in the face, head, neck, shoulders, and chest by a plastic red donut.
Joker took it smiling, sometimes chuckling, and giving his full attention to my son, who was no longer crying but having the time of his life.
I watched it smiling and knowing without any doubts that I’d have more moments like that. Moments when Joker would do something where I’d know straightaway I was falling in love with him. And I watched it loving that I knew Joker would give that to me at the same time loving that he was giving what he was giving to my son.
Then I kept watching as Joker grabbed Travis and lifted him up in the air, sent him flying a few inches, Travis’s laughter pealed through the room, and Joker caught him, bringing him down to his face.
“Now, boy, this place ain’t so bad, is it?” he asked.
Travis’s reply was to conk Joker on the cheekbone with the donut he hadn’t let go and shout, “Bah la dah!”
“That’s what I thought,” Joker muttered.
I drew in breath through my nose and did it deeply to control the emotion swelling inside me.
Then I went to the kitchen and got myself a soda.
A brand name one.
One a biker named Joker put in my fridge.
Joker
The next day, safety glasses and gloves on, welding gun in his hand, sparks flying, Joker heard, “Joke! Cherry wants to talk to you in the office!”
He turned from the metal he was working on to see Roscoe at the top of the stairs that led to the office through the garage of Ride. When Roscoe got his gaze, he jerked his head to the closed door then turned and jogged down the stairs.
Joker dealt with the equipment, pulled off his gloves and glasses, and moved to the office.
He was through and the door was closing on his back when he went solid at the look on Cherry’s face.
He took a quick step forward. “Babe, you need me to get Tack?”
“I… uh…” she shook her head, her long, thick, dark red hair brushing her shoulders, and seeing it, it wasn’t first time she gave him proof why she was worth her man literally walking through a hail of bullets for her. “This is about you.”
His gut froze as he pushed out, “Carrie?”
“No, honey,” she said softly. “You.”
“Me what?” he asked curtly.
“Twenty minutes ago, I got a call from Wilde and Hay,” she told him.
“Say again?” he asked.
“Wilde and Hay,” she repeated.
“What the fuck is that?”
Her brows drew together. “You don’t know Wilde and Hay?”
Joker began to get impatient. “Respect, Cherry, but got shit I wanna get done today on my car and Carrie’s got the day shift. Means I wanna be at her house when she’s there, which means I gotta get shit done.”
“Wilde and Hay is a magazine, Joker,” she informed him.
“Right, and…?” he prompted.
“A very good magazine,” she kept on. “Glossy. Respected. They do serious stuff, big-time exposés. They also do in-depth interviews with celebrities. Not the ass-kissing kind. The no-bullshit kind. They get into politics. They do travel spreads. They do reviews of movies, music, TV. They dig into social issues. They use the best photographers—”
Joker cut her off, “Babe, not sure why you’re tellin’ me this.”
“They want to do an article on Ride.”
Joker stared.
Then he grinned. “Fuckin’ awesome.”
“Yes, Joke,” she said softly, watching him intently. “They said they want to interview the brothers who do the builds but with a focus on the brothers who do the designs. They sent me pictures of the builds they want to feature and asked for the brothers who designed those builds specifically. I just got their email.” She reached a hand to her computer. “And these are the builds they want to feature.”
She pushed her monitor around and he looked down at it. There was an email open with pictures on it. She put her hand to her mouse and scrolled down.
There were six builds. They were all his.
“In other words, Joke”—she said as he watched the images scroll—“they want you.”
He looked back to her.
“They’re sending Henry Gagnon,” she kept going. “And before you ask, he’s the freaking best photographer out there. He does celebrities. He does models. He goes to war-torn nations and he does that. He does everything. He had an exhibit at the Denver Art Museum, and I dragged Tack to it and even Tack said the guy was the shit. Because he just is. And they want him taking pictures of your builds, you building them, and you.”
“If you’re askin’, tell ’em yes. It’ll be good for Ride,” Joker said to her. “But there’s more than just me to any build, Cherry. They come, they focus on all we do here.”
Her head tipped to the side, “I don’t think you—”
She didn’t finish because the door to the front opened and they both looked that way to watch Tack walk through.
He smiled at his old lady but then he looked to Joker and came direct to him.
Joker knew by the expression on Tack’s face and what came next that Cherry had called her husband with this news.
And what came next was that Tack walked right to him, lifted his hand, gripped Joker at the back of the neck, and yanked him forward.
At this, Joker went still.
He’d seen Tack do that to Rush, back in the day when Rush was a kid and Joker had stood at the fence watching, and he did it still.
He’d also seen Tack give to Rush what he did next.
Tack yanked him forward and their chests collided, Tack’s hand tightened rough on Joker’s neck as he wound his arm around and pounded Joker on his back, doing it hard.