#Rev (GearShark #2)(64)

Some footsteps in the hall and on the stairs made me think maybe they guys would tell whoever the hell it was to go the hell away.

Instead, all I heard was the slamming of the front door and someone bellowing for Con.

What. The. Fuckity f*ck?

A few more doors opened, and some voices echoed in the hall. I kicked off the blankets, and my feet hit the floor.

“Wha—?” Drew said, lifting his bedhead off the pillow and cracking open one eye.

He looked like a surly pirate.

It was hot.

“Someone’s at the door,” I whispered. “I’ll be back in a few.”

His head hit the pillow again, and then his middle finger lifted off the mattress. I grinned, figuring the gesture wasn’t for me, but for whoever was at the door, and picked up the first pair of sweats my hand closed over. They happened to be his.

They were gray and really soft inside.

Damn. Why did all his clothes feel so much more comfortable?

I didn’t even bother with a shirt, just went to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open a crack. Before shutting it completely behind me, I reached around and locked the handle—you know, just because.

By that time, the front door slammed again, and Con’s agitated voice carried up the stairs. The insistent ringing of the doorbell started up again.

“What the shit is going on down here?” I snapped, jogging down the stairs. It caused a little tweak of pain in my ribs, and it only made me more irritated.

I was pretty much healed from the number Con and the three stooges pulled on me, but my ribs were still healing and the bruising around them was slightly yellow.

“Con’s pissed off some biker,” said one of the guys standing in the entryway.

I glanced at Conner, who had an angry, flushed look. “I told you I have no clue who that guy is!”

“What guy?” I said as the doorbell rang again about fifty times in three seconds.

That was some talent right there, making that much racket with a damn doorbell.

I stalked over to the front door and yanked it open.

Sure enough, there was a biker standing on the other side with his finger pressed to the button. He was close to six feet tall, with a stocky, wide build and a bit of a beer gut. His full beard (which was nowhere near as sexy as Drew’s scruff) was peppered with gray to match the dark hair on his head. He was wearing a pair of jeans and leather chaps. To match, he had a black leather jacket and a T-shirt beneath it with the Harley Davidson symbol on it.

“Who the hell are you?” I asked.

“Where is he?” the biker demanded, trying to see around me. I was bigger than him, so he wasn’t having much success. “That little weasel hiding behind you?”

“Which weasel is that?”

“The one who promised me a Harley Davidson Seventy-Two.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the doorjamb. “You mind explaining a little bit more?”

“Who the f*ck are you?” he growled, trying to look behind me again.

I did him a favor and shoved the door open wide.

All the brothers standing around in the entryway stared out at him.

“What the hell, Con?” one of them whispered loudly.

“He in there!” biker man demanded and started forward.

“Whoa,” I said and put a hand out to stop him. “Sorry, this is private property, members of the Alpha Omega fraternity only.”

“Says who?” the biker challenged.

I straightened and dropped my arms at my sides. “Says me,” I growled. “I’m the president of this house, and if you got a problem with one of my guys, talk to me.”

“You rich types are all the same,” he muttered.

“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.