To Betray A Brother
Read To Betray A Brother Online
Authors: G.W. Gibson
To Betray a Brother
By
G.W. Gibson
Text copyright © 2015 G.W. Gibson
All Rights Reserved
Previous published as Queen of Speed
(Secret Cravings Publishing 2014)
Dedication Page
To Betray A Brother is dedicated to the men and women of our Defence forces, who offer themselves in the greatest service possible to their community.
And to my beautiful wife, Kew, who selflessly encouraged me to have a go at writing beside her as she creates her own marvelous works. There is no competition in our family home, only active creativity compelling each other to write and encouraging each of us to be the best we can be.
How dare he!
Penny removed her helmet, flung it onto the rack and stormed off through the pits to find Jack. Furious, she struggled to bring her temper in check.
Wanting to make sure she had Jack’s attention, she shouted. “What the hell do you think you were doing? You almost killed me out there!”
He sat on his chair with his back to her and spoke to his mechanic. “She’s got no place here. Get rid of her.” Jack casually unzipped his boot letting it drop to the floor with a soft thud.
“Why you rude, ignorant savage!” Penny moved to confront him. “Who in the h…” She didn’t get to finish. Jack’s face filled her vision. His fetid breath engulfed her, forcing her to step backward. Dark, lifeless eyes bore into her, as if seeking to rip the soul from her body.
“Why don’t you get back to the kitchen where you belong, instead of prancing around, playing at being the little girl racer?” A horrible grin filled with teeth yellowed from years of abuse split his face. For a fleetingly moment she looked into the maw of an evil clown, the kind found stalking children in their nightmares. “That way you won’t end up like your father.” He turned to walk away.
Penny grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t you dare turn your back on me!”
Jack spun on his heel. He snatched at Penny’s forearm, his fingernails digging into her skin. He yanked her hard toward him. She almost lost her balance. Blood pounded in her ears as she struggled to pull free. “Get your hands off me you filthy …”
“Whoa, whoa you two!” A pair of hands interceded. Justin Byrne pushed them apart, putting himself between Penny and Jack. “What’s going on here?”
He swung his head, ensuring he had the attention of both riders. “While I don’t know what happened, I do know you can’t go beating each other up in the pits.”
Penny gulped her breath. She struggled to slowly bring her anger under control. Blood pounded through her head as she tried to burn a hole right though Jack with her eyes.
Justin tried to diffuse the situation. “Whatever it is, it won’t look so bad once we have all cooled down.” Still in his leathers, his usually ruffled sandy blonde hair clamped with sweat to his head. Beside Jack he looked like an Adonis. His bright blue eyes gleamed as he regarded both of them in the growing silence.
Without waiting for a response, Justin took Penny’s arm and guided her away, through the pit area toward her own space. He winked, turned, and headed back to his own pit area.
Penny rubbed her arm where Jack had grabbed her sure there must be bruising. Her eyes followed Justin as he walked away.
Are those leathers real or sprayed on?
Racing leathers were designed to fit snugly, yet somehow his accented the shape of every lean muscle, making them pop just a little.
Cute butt too
.
Her mechanic’s voice brought her back to reality. “I saw what happened. You can’t let Jack get to you.” Mick stood, wiping his hands on an old rag, a frown etched on his brow. “You’re better than that. Next time, pick your line, hold your ground. That way you can’t get squeezed into a rail.”
Penny shook free of her daydream as Mick turned back to packing up the pit. He was right. Not even for a second could she afford to lose focus out on the track. Motorcycles and racing were in her blood. She had been in the pits since the day she’d been born. She’d never known life without either in some form. Her dad and Mick built her first motorcycle as a gift for her fifth birthday, triggering for her lifelong passion for speed. She discovered Time Trials, also known as TT, and street circuit racing. Before long Barbie dolls were consigned to the rubbish tip and dress-ups meant wearing leathers and riding motorcycles.
Penny changed out of her leathers into a loose fitting T-shirt and a pair of old jeans. Helping Mick pack up their pit area did little to calm her. She threw three the spare tires into the trailer. Jack’s behaviour really grated.
There are a handful of women who race, and it’s about time these dinosaurs started to treat us with a bit of respect.
She banged about, packing parts into their boxes and tossing them into the trailer.
I’ll make the bastard eat his words one day. So help me I will.
* * * *
Light reflected off the solid line marking the center of the road as the full moon shone clear and bright over the hills. The speedometer’s needle hovered over fifty miles per hour, the sticker converting speed to kilometers having long disappeared. Bryce rode, enjoying the warm balmy night. He rolled off the throttle. The exhaust crackled, echoing off the hills as he rounded the bend.
He patted the mutt sitting between his legs. “Not too far to go now.” The town of Jarred glowed orange in the foothills as they came down from the mountains, indicating the end of his journey. “We’ve had a hell of a ride, haven’t we, old mate.”
Ten years passed since he’d lived here. The last six months he’d spent travelling back and forth from Brisbane while he worked through the final stages of his rehabilitation. Now it was time to come home.
The night lit up, red and blue flashing lights exposed the hiding police car. “Here we go again, old mate.” Bryce brought his Harley to a stop on the side of the road. He killed the engine, flicked the bike onto the side stand, removed his helmet, sat, and waited. His hands rested on the shoulder high ape hanger handle bars.
The car turned across the road. Its tires crunched on the gravel verge as the vehicle came to stop behind him. Red and blue lights bounced off the guide posts and hills. The headlights shone onto his back, casting a shadow ahead of him. A thump signaled the closing of the patrol car door.
“Step off the bike. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Bryce didn’t move. He sat still—waiting.
Louder this time. “Get off the bike and keep your hands up.”
Slowly Bryce stepped off the motorcycle. His actions deliberate, he removed the brass rimmed flying goggles and slung them from the handlebars. Things were tough enough riding a motorcycle these days. He didn’t need to make this any harder on himself. Russell, his dog, jumped down off the bike, cutting a comical figure. A white tuft on his chest and one ear highlighted against his brown steel wool like fur as he sat beside the rear wheel facing the officers. Bryce turned to face the officers.
“Stop.” Two voices shouted as one.
Bryce stopped.
“Hands in the air. Straight up.”
He lifted his arms until his shoulders touched his ears.
“Okay. Turn around. Slowly!”
Bryce turned. Blinded by the headlamps, he squinted in an attempt to see more than just the outline of the two officers. Both men moved toward him, pistols drawn and pointed at his chest. One moved to his right and the other to his left until they were behind him, out of sight. Russell didn’t move a muscle.
“Walk toward the car. Legs apart, hands on the bonnet.”
Bryce walked to the car, planted his feet on the ground, bent at the waist, and put both hands on the bonnet of the squad car.
“License and registration.”
With practiced movements, Bryce removed his wallet from his hip pocket. He flipped it open, removed the requested documents and handed them to the officer.
“Is this your bike, Mr. Bryce Huntington, provided you are Bryce Huntington? Don’t move.” The officer didn’t wait for an answer, instead he walked around and opened the driver’s door and slid into the seat. Sitting behind the steering wheel, he punched information into the police computer system.
After a few minutes the officer returned Bryce’s license and registration. “
Dogs of Dereliction,
eh? Can’t say I ever heard of them. Can’t be a
real
gang.” His tone mocked as he baited Bryce.
Bryce stood up, returned the documents and wallet to his pocket, and turned to face both officers.
“Stand still so I can photograph you.” A camera flashed in the officer’s hands.
“Roll up your sleeves so I can photograph your tattoos.”
Bryce didn’t move. “We both know you need a warrant, and I’m guessing you don’t have one handy.” He spoke with control, determined to show no hint of emotion.
The second officer walked around the motorcycle. “I’d say these handle bars are too high, and the exhaust is way too loud to be legal as well, wouldn’t you? Bald tires, no indicators. This is a dangerous machine you have here.” He tried to stare Bryce down as he spoke, challenging him, looking for an opportunity to make Bryce respond.
Bryce glared for a moment then turned to the first officer. “We finished?”
“We’re finished when I say …”
“Ah, shit, damn it!” The other patrolman stood on one leg, shaking the other. A large damp patch just below his right knee was spreading fast, and Russell was nowhere to be seen.
Bryce struggled to keep a straight face. The offended officer stormed toward the car. “You are screwed now!” He grabbed a note book from behind the passenger’s seat and wrote, furiously scribbling. Finished he ripped the page out and thrust it at Bryce.
Bryce read the document. The words ‘
Defect Notice’
were printed across the top of the page. The defects listed were comprehensive as handle bars too high, exhaust too loud, tires bald.
“Take it.” The officer shook the page as Bryce read. He shrugged, stuffed the notice into his jeans pocket, turned away, and walked back to his bike.
Both car doors slammed, and the engine of the car roared into life. The patrol car took off, showering Bryce and his motorcycle with rocks and dirt before the tail lights disappeared into the night.
“
Wheet.
” He whistled into the darkness. Russell bounded from behind the scrubby bushes fringing the roadside to stop at his feet. Bryce squatted down and scratched between Russell’s ears, the fur coarse and wiry on his hands. “You rat bag.” He received a lick across the face in return.
“Well, we still have a way to go, so let’s make tracks.” He pulled out the kick starter and stood on the lever. The old Knucklehead Harley started as easily as day it rolled of the show room floor seventy-odd years ago. He shook his head. “Defect notice, my arse. None of those rules apply really apply to you do they.” He patted the tank. “You are way too old for that shit.”
“Russell, come on.” The dog sprang up onto Bryce’s lap, spun around faced the handlebars, and sat down. He adjusted Russell’s goggles so the wind wouldn’t hurt the little dog’s eyes. He slipped his own helmet and goggles on, selected first gear, and after a quick check over his shoulder roared off into the night.
* * * *
Penny placed her ritual morning coffee on the ground as she flicked through her keys looking for the right one. She unlocked the shop door and pushed it open, picked up her coffee and paused. Even though she saw the 1922 Sheffield Hendersen motorbike every day she could not walk past it without stopping. The bike, restored to perfection by her father, filled the shop window. A mannequin, dressed in the latest
Leather and Lace
fashions, sat astride looking for all the world as if riding down the highway—complete with leather riding helmet and brass framed flying goggles.
She dumped her bag and coffee on the glass service counter and flipped the light switch, illuminating the shop. An Indian Chief, complete with its valance guards and red paint held pride of place, dominating the shop from inside its display cabinet. Racks of clothing lined the shop walls. She wandered over and turned on the coffee machine nestled between the clothes racks running down one wall. Opposite, in the centre of the small shop sat an old brown leather couch. Standing guard at the rear of the shop, a concourse condition 1938 Knucklehead Harley nested amongst long sleeved T-shirts and leather jackets.
Penny counted the float into the till and checked the answering machine for messages. A new shipment of stock had just come in. Each seasonal change always challenged the clothing business, and this year was no different. The days were starting to shorten, and the nights chill as autumn began to set in.
After several hours in between customers of unpacking, racking, and rearranging clothes, Penny leaned back and stretched out. “
Sunshine of your Love
” blared loud and crass from her phone, shattering her peace.
“Hello,
Leather and Lace
, this is Penny.”
“Hey, it’s Justin here. I wondered if you any plans for dinner and wanted to catch up. I need to make sure you’re okay after the other night at the track.”
“After the incident with Jack you mean?” she asked, hanging the last of a new range of gorgeous burgundy long sleeved T-shirts on the rack.
“I know he comes across a bit of a prat, but he’s not really all bad once you get to know him.”
“Downright rude is what I would call him.” Justin’s velvety voice did little to soothe her. She had to work hard to keep her temper from boiling at the reminder of Jack’s behaviour. Penny changed the subject determined not to let Jack get to her. “Anyway, about dinner. Sounds great. Not tonight though. I have a shipment of new stock I need to get onto the shelves.” She checked the boxes were all empty. “How does tomorrow night sound?”
“Great. I’ll pick you up at seven. Chinese okay?”