“Excuse me?”
“I shoulda known better than to do business with some well-to-do college boy. But these bikes were designed for the moneyed, so I figured that’s where I’d get one.”
I stared at him blankly.
He sighed. “That kid in there, Conner something-or-other, owes me a bike.”
“I don’t know him!” Conner yelled from behind the door.
I reached around and pulled him out of the space and face to face with the angry man. “This kid?” I asked.
The man pulled out a piece of folded paper from inside his leather jacket, smoothed it out, and handed it to me.
I laughed out loud.
“Something funny?” the guy griped.
It was a listing on BikeList.com, which was sort of like the eBay of motorcycles, dirt bikes, four-wheelers, and jet-skis. It was well known for buying and selling a lot of really good and sometimes rare small engines. Including Harley’s.
I took the paper and held it so I could read it, and I felt Conner looking it over as well. The listing was for a Harley Davidson Seventy-Two. The description listed the bike as: Mint condition Harley with a fully rehabbed body. This bike is especially sought after because it doesn’t represent any specific body type, but instead represents an entire era. It went on to boast the extras and features, which were frankly impressive.
There were even two pictures of the bike, and right there in the background was the Omega house.
The price was listed, which I found to be an impressive number, and then the deposit, which was marked paid in full, was subtracted from that total.
Five hundred bucks.
The seller listed was Conner.
Stapled to the front listing was a printout of what looked like message or email traffic between this biker (whose username was Hog_Heaven) and Conner (whose username was plain Conner). I skimmed quickly and caught the gist of what was happening.
Conner listed some fancy bike on Bikelist.com, got a bite from an interested buyer, strung him along, and then charged a five hundred-dollar deposit (nonrefundable) to hold the bike until this man could come test drive it and hand over a full check.
Only there was no bike.
So when this guy showed up this morning, expecting to drive home a new piece of hog heaven (hey, his words, not mine) and got the door slammed in his face, he was understandably stubby.
I glanced at Conner. “Why would you sell this nice man a motorcycle you don’t have?”
Conner flushed. “I didn’t!”
“It’s all right here. You can’t deny physical proof.”
Some of the guys behind me stepped up, and I passed the listing back. We were all brothers after all. It was their business.
“He’s lying!” Con shouted.
“You little bastard!” Bearded man lunged at him.
Since I was still half asleep, my reflexes weren’t that great, and I wasn’t fast enough to pull him out of the way.
Oh darn.
Con was snatched up by the front of his white T-shirt and literally dragged out onto the porch.
“Where’s my bike?” the man growled.
“Get off me!” Con demanded, struggling to get away. “I told you I don’t have a bike!”
“I gave you five hundred dollars for a deposit on a bike you don’t have?”
“No—” Con began, and the man shook him.
“You little thief. I want my money back.”
“I didn’t take your money!” Con looked at me, a plea in his eyes. “I didn’t!”
I smiled at him. “Just give him the cash back.”
“I don’t have it!” Con wailed. “I barely have twenty bucks.”
“Prove it,” the biker growled and shoved Conner back. He slammed into the door casing and bent forward.
“Just show him your bank balance,” one of the bothers suggested.
Conner’s face cleared, and he pulled out his phone. We all watched as his fingers flew over the numbers.
I knew the second he was in his account and the news would not be helpful because his face went stark white. “That’s not right,” he muttered.
Biker dude snatched the phone and glanced down at the screen.
“Argh!” he yelled and threw the phone, then a punch.
Con’s head snapped back, and I admit I enjoyed his pain.
When the biker went back for another, I stepped between them. Letting Con take one hit was fine, but any more than that and I’d look like a pansy prez.
“Look. This kid doesn’t have a motorcycle. He was clearly trying to scam decent people like yourself out of their hard-earned money.”
I glanced over at Conner. “That’s a really low thing to do, man.”
“I didn’t do it!” he roared.
“It’s all right here,” one of the frat members said, passing the papers back up front.
“Sir, on behalf of Alpha Omega, I’d like to sincerely apologize for the cruel and thoughtless actions of this boy.” I held out my hand as I spoke.
He stared at my hand like I had two heads. “I’m calling the cops.”
“We’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t.” I inclined my head. Secretly, I was having a dance party in my mind.
Karma. That’s what this was.