The Filthy Few (Iron Disciples MC) (4 page)

“How come all
your clients are rich?” Cade asks me.

“Because…pikers
don’t pay me enough for the risk I take.”

“What do you
mean? And what’s a piker?”

“A piker is a
guy who wants to place an order to buy 3 shares of a twenty dollar stock. No
fucking way I’m going to risk my career on a trade that’s gonna net me fifty
dollars. I don’t deal with anyone who doesn’t have at least three million in
the market. It’s not the wealthy people who cause problems with brokers. It’s
the idiots who don’t understand the market and how it works. They’re the ones
always looking to blame others and never take responsibility for their actions.
It’s not worth the risk for me. I’m in this business to make money. I spent way
too much money and time getting my MBA and another eighteen months being my
boss’s lap dog until he finally cut me loose. No way in hell am I going to take
unnecessary, career ending risks.” 

“You remind me
of Robin Hood. Except your robbing the rich to pay the rich; that means you
honey.”

“Nothing that
I’m doing is either illegal or unethical. My clients have an investment plan
and I follow that plan and I make their retirement dreams possible. How is that
a bad thing?”

“Because you’re
helping people who are already rich get even richer. You’re the reason there’s
such a disparity between the haves and the have not’s in our country.”

“Oh really? You
think that I have that much power? One twenty-eight year old woman who manages
only $300 million is assets is the reason our world is in such shitty shape? I
apologize,”

“Did I just
hear you taking responsibility?” Cade asks.

“What? Oh, you
mean the apology? I was apologizing to you. I mistook you for someone who has
brains and I now realize you don’t; hence the fucking apology.”

Stacy is in
front of me biting on the end of her four hundred dollar Mont Blac ink pen.
Whenever she’s stressed about something she does that. She’s gone through three
this year already.

“What is it
Stacy?”

“I need to get
going. I’m sure your desk is piled high of paperwork so if I’m going to get out
of there before eight I’d better leave now.”

I glance at my
watch; it’s three in the afternoon.

“I thought
that’s what Jason is supposed to be doing.”

“Normally yes,
but they had that branch wide meeting today that begin soon as the market
closed and it supposed to go till four thirty.”

“Fine, go
ahead.”

I almost don’t
want her to go. With her out of the house who know how things are going to
deteriorate between Mr. Grubby and I. Stacy’s a beautiful and girl and I don’t
think Cade wanted to look bad in front of her even if she is his cousin.

“Do you pay her
well?” Cade asks as Stacy leaves.

“Moderately so…about
125k.”

“Holy shit,
that’s a moderate salary?”

“Well…she does
work about 70 hours a week, sometimes more.” Now I have a question. “Why are
you two sharing this house? She makes enough to have one of her own. I mean
this is a nice place and all…”

“This is
actually her place. I’m just here temporarily. My years end I will have cobbled
together enough money for my own place. Is my cousin going to be an assistant
forever? Why doesn’t she have her own assistants?”

“It’s a long
story. But soon she’ll be on her own. Right now she can make a lot more working
for me than on her own because she gets a lot of commissions from trades she
does on my clients accounts.”

“And you have
another assistant?”

“Jason. He
makes a little less. He works fewer hours and has fewer responsibilities.
They’re both amazing assistants. I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

“Geeze…for a
hundred grand…I certainly hope they’re indispensable!”

“I depend on
them and a lot of people depend on me.”

“Yeah I get
that. The very rich depend on you to make them the filthy rich. You’re a real
humanitarian.”

“What do you do?”
I ask.

“I have a
custom bike shop, Nor Cal Choppers, over on 98
^th
and Highland.”

“Make good
money?”

“Not as good as
you. Hell, I probably don’t make what your assistant makes either.”

“You mean you
don’t know?” I ask incredulously.

“Most of the
money the shop makes goes back into the business. I also have one full time
machinist, a full time fabricator, one part time, and one part time painter,
designer.”

“So…you take
bikes and personalize them?”

“Sometimes, but
mostly we built custom bikes from the ground up. No two are alike.”

Finally my
curiosity gets the best of me. “What’s that stuff on the back of your vest
mean?”

“This cut (the
biker name for vest or jacket) is worn by members and prospects of the Iron
Disciples motorcycle club. Stacy never told you about me?”

“No… we pretty
much just talk about work. There’s no time to get personal.”

I notice
several things on the front of his jacket. First there’s a rectangular patch
that just says president. There’s a similar one that says filthy few. There’s
also a small diamond patch that has the numeral one, and a percent sign. And
finally there’s another one that says founding member. I believe I can guess
the meaning of that one.

“So…what do
those things mean?” I finally ask.

“Well…I’m the
president…I’m also a founding member.”

“And the one
percent patch?”

“Means
something like…we’re not like the rest of the clubs around here; were not like
the other 99% of motorcycle clubs.”

“If you have to
go around telling people you’re different kinda means you aren’t. I mean if you
gotta tell peop-”

“There’s more
to it than that! I just can’t tell you.”

“I see…and what
about the filthy few patch. Why the hell would you want that patch on your
vest?”

“If you don’t
already know what that means, you don’t need to know what it means.”

“Fine…be
mysterious. I’ll just google it then.”

“You won’t like
what you find.” He replies mysteriously.

“Then why don’t
you tell me.” I ask, getting a little ticked off at him for being so cagey.

“Just Google
it.”

“Fine!”

I grab my
Google Glass, glasses and put them on. Fifteen seconds later I have my answer
on both what the filthy few means and the 1%er patch. The filthy few patch
means he has killed for the club and the 1%er patch means that they are an
outlaw motorcycle club. Apparently only one percent of all clubs are outlaw
clubs and only outlaw clubs wear that patch.

“You’re a
fucking criminal!” I conclude.

“Did I not say
you wouldn’t like what you found?” He asks.

“Yeah…it’s just
too bad you didn’t have the balls to just tell me.” I retort.

“Well it’s none
of your fucking business!”

“Hey, as long
as you’re playing nursemaid I have a right to know who is watching over me.”

“Then why don’t
you leave?”

“Maybe I
fucking will!”

I start to get
up so I can storm out of the house in a dramatic fashion but my crutches are
nowhere in sight. He correctly discovers my plight.

“Ah, so you
need me to get your crutches do you?”

“Yes I need my
fucking crutches! Where the hell are they?”

When they don’t
magically appear I unwisely decide to get up anyway and just hop to wherever
they are. I get up just fine, but it takes about two seconds for me to lose my
balance and I go down hard on his coffee table. It’s a pretty sturdy wooden one
and it hurts like fuck! Suddenly the floor is littered with magazines, my laptop,
my papers, and a tall glass of ice and Red Bull. I wind up wedged between the
couch and the table. My leg hurts worse than the day it was broken which makes
me wonder if I have re-broken it.

“Fuck!” I
scream in pain and frustration. “Mother fucking fuck!”

“Don’t move!”
He shouts as he hurries to my side. “I’ll help you get back to the couch.
You’ll need to elevate your leg again.” He says as he kneels at me side.

He shoves his
coffee table and books off to the side so he can get to my side. Then without
asking he just scoops me up like a baby with one arm under my legs and the
other under my arms and he sets me gently back on the couch. Then he grabs a
hand full of pillows and props my leg up higher than my head which actually
does wonders for my leg pain. Then he puts a pillow under my head. For a big
strong guy he can be amazingly gentle. He fusses over me like my mother used to
do when I was a kid. Like she used to do before cancer took her when I was
thirteen.

And just like
that I’m back home fifteen years ago and I’m bursting into her room with
breakfast on a tray. It’s her birthday and I have just made her breakfast. I
made her favorite, eggs over hard, crispy bacon, and a tall glass of orange
juice. I remember balancing the try in one hand praying I wouldn’t spill it
while I was opening the door. I didn’t spill it; not yet anyways. I remember
bursting into the room.

“Happy birthday
mama!” I shouted as I whisked my way into her room, past the different medical
paraphernalia, taking great care not to trip on anything.

“Happy B-Day
mama! Wake up; it’s your special day!”

I thought it
was a little odd that she didn’t wake right up. She’s always been a light
sleeper. The slightest thing will usually wake her up; but not this morning.

“Mama?”

I didn’t want
to believe it. No way could she have died on her birthday. Holding the tray in
one hand I put my hand on her shoulder meaning to give her a little shake to
wake her up. But when I touched her bare shoulder…that’s when I dropped the
breakfast tray! Her shoulder was icy cold. Even then I couldn’t believe it. I
was thirteen years old and I was going to spend the day with my mom on her
birthday and she couldn’t even live long enough to do that.

With both hands
I grabbed her by her shoulder and rolled her over. That’s when I totally lost
it. She was stiff as a board and her eyes were just staring at me blankly. I
remember collapsing on the floor and just screaming over and over. That’s when
my dad found me. He reached down and scooped me up into his arms and carried me
to my bed. He set me down with great care, pulled the covers up over my
shoulders and I just lay there and cried until exhaustion took me and I fell
asleep.

Waking up was
the worst part. Every time I woke up I would start to get up thinking I’m going
to go talk to mom then it hits me like a sledge hammer over the head; she’s
dead. Then I’d collapse again on my bed and cry myself to sleep. I think I
repeated that pattern for two or three days and it wasn’t until the funeral
that I finally made myself get out of bed. I still can’t believe it. My mom was
still dead. With my dad gone so much of the time, I should have been there for
my little brother, but I wasn’t. I just retreated into my old world of pain and
suffering.

That day
changed me! I didn’t see it then, but years later I realized it. Not so
gradually I distanced myself from everyone; using anger foul language to keep
people at bay. I learned how to get what I wanted by being focused, determined,
and by bullying everyone else into giving me what I needed. Kinda makes me
damaged goods when it came to having any kind of relationships. I don’t have a
best friend; I just have co-workers.

“Morgan…Morgan…Morgan!”

“I’m right here
mom. No need to shout.”

“Mom? What were
you dreaming Morgan?”

I open my eyes
and leaning over me is Mr. Grubby himself with a worried look on his handsome
face.

“How long have
I been out?”

“Maybe five
minutes. Do you need something for pain?”

“Yeah, it’s a
real bitch right now.”

Cade nods, and then
produces a cup of water and a little white, oblong pill. Thank God for modern
medicine! I eagerly swallow it and lie back to wait for the magic. I don’t have
long to wait either. Cade is sitting in a recliner watching CNN when a
delicious warm glow starts in my head and gradually works its way down my body.
And just like that, in minutes all is well. A girl could get used to this. I
resist my eyelids for as long as I can, then give up and close them. Seconds
later I’m asleep and another dream is served up.