calm into my voice. This isn’t Bran’s fault. He did me a solid by trying to intervene on my behalf when the realtor ghosted on me, but some things have to be dealt with in person, it seems. “Thanks for trying, man. I’ll let you know when I get to town.”
We hang up and I drop my phone to my desk just as the door swings open behind me—without a knock, of course. I don’t need to look to know it’s Betts. “I swear I’m gonna quit if you don’t fire that little pissant.”
“Not now, Betts.” My eyes stay glued to my phone as I mentally rearrange my schedule.
“Yes, now! I’m gonna rip my fuckin’ ears off my own fuckin’ head if I have to hear him complain about invisible specks of dust on the damn merchandise one more time.”
“Think of all the money you’ll save on earrings,” I reply, still preoccupied.
She shows no appreciation for my humor and instead slams the door. The number of times I’ve regretted hiring her is only surpassed by the number of times she’s made a sale I was sure would be hopeless. Still, she’s a pain in my ass.
“Betts!” I yell, not sure if I really want her to come back or not. She’s right about Wertz being super anal about the shop, but if I left things to her, the place would be a shithole within a week. And that’s not how I like to do business.
I’ve been accused of carelessness in many areas of my life, but the shop isn’t one of them. My grades were never all that good back when I was in school, and it’s possible there might be a fossilized take-out container or five in my fridge. And then there are the women. It seems I have a bit of a reputation around Greensboro for working my game with hot women, but I can’t help it if I was born with charisma and good bone structure. It certainly didn’t hurt when I perfected the art of seducing women with my first motorcycle back in high school. That’s when I was officially christened with the nickname Ponch. At first I didn’t understand the name, but once I traced it back to an eighties TV motorcycle cop who had a similar way with women, I found it dead accurate. And, besides, everyone knows you can’t pick your own nickname.
Yeah, my reputation as a ladies’ man was secured early in life, and I’ve made the most of it ever since, although I like to think I’ve become a lot more careful since the old days. But the nickname sticks. Pretty much everyone has called me Ponch since I was sixteen—except my parents, of course. And my sister, Ari, when she’s pissed at me. Which is pretty much all the time.
Giving up on Betts, I snatch my phone up again to double check my schedule. I’m supposed to give my brother Gabe a ride to the airport tomorrow, but I’m sure I can get someone else to do it. And Wertz is always looking for more hours at the shop, so he’ll pick up the slack if I head out to Carolina Beach to deal with this realtor bullshit.
That rental space is unquestionably perfect with its industrial feel and exposed fixtures and pipes. And the natural light from the floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides of the building mean extra visibility on the busy thoroughfare. The shop will be sure to attract countless walk-in customers browsing out of curiosity, envisioning themselves straddling a growling titanium beast of their own. And that’s not even counting the generous motorhead population that’s been well established in the area for years now.
Yeah, I need that space, and I’m not letting it go without a fight.
Mind made up, I grab my jacket before heading back out to the floor and breaking the news to Betts that she may need to start selling off her earring collection.
Ari: I saw you called. What do you need this time?
My sister’s text comes just as I’m pulling on my riding gloves, and I’m quick to respond. As soon as I get a ride for Gabe, I can take off for Carolina Beach.
Me: What makes you think I need something?
Ari: Because you didn’t leave a voicemail. That means you want to ask me for a favor but you don’t want to give me time to think of an excuse.
I frown at my phone. Damn, she’s way too sharp.
Me: Fine. I’m supposed to