A Bride for Jericho Bravo

Tessa explained, “Ash says Jericho was always the rebel of the family, the one with no interest in doing anything his father wanted him to do, ever.”

Davis. That was their father’s name. Marnie vaguely remembered the older man: thick, white hair, a commanding presence, a firm handshake and icy green eyes.

Tessa frowned and ran her finger around the rim of her teacup. “Davis is trying harder now to be a … kinder man than he once was. But he’s a tough character. And he was building a dynasty, you know? He wanted his boys to get good educations and come to work for the family company. He had no patience for a troubled son, and no respect for Jericho’s considerable mechanical skills. Ash said his dad once yelled at Jericho that he didn’t need a damn grease monkey for a son. If he wanted his car fixed, he’d take it to a shop.”

“What a bastard.”

Tessa sighed. “Well, yeah. Davis can be a real jerk, it’s true. But as I said, he’s been working on lightening up—and speaking of people’s fathers …”

Marnie moaned. “Oh, no. In case you didn’t notice, I’ve been putting that off.”

Tessa had on her wise-big-sister look again. “You have to let them know what’s going on.”

“No, I don’t.”

“What if Dad or Gina calls you in Santa Barbara?”

“They’ll try my cell if no one answers. And if Mark picks up in Santa Barbara, he’ll tell them I’m here, safe, with you.”

“Marnie.” Tessa said her name and then just looked at her. In her bed in the corner, Mona Lou let out a long, sad sigh.

Marnie grumbled, “You are going to make such a good mother. You’re so damn sure of what other people need to be doing.”

“Call home.”

Marnie said darkly, “And you know what will happen when I do.”

Tessa broke eye contact first. “Don’t worry about Grandpa.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“You’re not calling him, you’re calling Dad and Gina.”

“I don’t have to call him. As soon as Gina and Dad know, Grandpa will find out. He always finds out. And you know how he is. He’ll probably drive that old wreck of a Cadillac all the way here to Texas, just to give me some advice.”

“Come on, Marnie. He’s over ninety. His days of driving long distances are done.”

“Think again. He’s Oggie Jones.”

“He only does it out of love.”

“Well, right now, I don’t need Grandpa Oggie’s special brand of love.”

“Marnie. Phone home.”

Making that call wasn’t as bad as Marnie had expected it to be. Gina clucked over her and her dad asked her if she needed money.

Why did everyone suddenly want to give her money? It was a little insulting and a lot reassuring. They loved her, she knew that. They wanted to do what they could to make sure she was okay.

She told them to hug her half brothers, Brady and Craig, for her, and hung up feeling good that they knew what was going on. Hey, she could get lucky and they wouldn’t even tell her grandfather about her situation.

Well, a girl can hope….

Next, she called her birth mother in Arkansas. That was a short conversation. Marybeth Lynch Jones Leventhaal had remarried recently and her new husband was a widower with five young children. Marybeth also ran a busy real estate business. That didn’t leave her a lot of time for chatting on the phone. Marnie’s mom said she loved her and to call if she needed anything.

After that, she debated whether to call San Antonio Choppers and ask for the partner, Gus. Or to ask for Jericho first?

And then she decided it would work more in her favor just to show up and apply for the job. After all, she reasoned, it would be harder to turn down a needy relative in person than it would be on the phone.

Northwest of the 410 loop, on a stretch of dusty road studded with flat-roofed strip malls and used car lots, Jericho’s shop was housed in a barnlike structure of gray-painted brick.

The shop’s name, San Antonio Choppers, was written big and bold above the front entrance in a sort of Gothic/heavy metal–looking script on a logo shaped like a bat—or maybe a winged shield. A high chain-link fence topped with coils of barbed wire rimmed the wide circle of parking lot that surrounded the building.

Marnie drove through the open gate and parked her Camry across a stretch of blacktop from the door, next to a Harley that looked like it had been around since World War II, with handlebars wrapped in black tape and a hand-stitched rawhide seat. Feeling a little out of place, she got out of the car, straightened her snug denim skirt and walked tall across the asphalt to the thick steel front door with the wide pane of glass on the top.

Even from outside, she could hear the muffled beat of loud music, and the scream of some metal-slicing saw. And pounding. Someone was pounding with a heavy hammer—probably on steel. There were big bikes in a row close to the door and a number of mean-looking customized antique cars as well. One of the cars bore a giant plaque across the trunk that read Pedestrian Killer.

Marnie refused to be daunted. She marched up to that heavy door and yanked it wide.

The music got louder, so did the pounding and the scream of sawed metal. And she was only in the office, which had a high counter, a desk and file cabinets behind it. Beyond the desk and file cabinets, there was a waist-high sliding window that ran the width of the far wall, mirroring the windows that flanked the front door. Through the glass of the far window, she could see the cavernous shop itself and the men working in there. She counted at least six lifts and a welding area back in a distant corner, and steel-railed stairs going up to another level. It seemed a pretty big operation.

On the customer side of the counter, there was sort of a makeshift gift shop setup, stacks of T-shirts and sweatshirts with the San Antonio Choppers logo, a carousel draped with keychains. She spotted hats and skullcaps bearing the shop logo, and even what looked like rolls of San Antonio Choppers wrapping paper. The display could use a little tidying. Not to mention a serious encounter with a dust rag.

Burly men in old jeans, heavy boots and T-shirts sat in chairs along the wall beneath the windows on either side of the door. Marnie felt their eyes all over her. She sent a slow smile to the left and right, just to let them all know that as far as she was concerned, looking was free.

On the far side of the counter, an enormously pregnant blonde with pouffy side ponytails and some serious facial piercings dragged herself out of the chair behind the desk. “Help you?”

Marnie stepped up to the counter. “I’ve come about the job—the temporary one?”

The woman braced a hand on her hip and shouted good and loud toward a shut door to her left. “Gus! Job applicant!”

The door opened. A tall, lean black man with a shaved head, chin-strap beard and a moustache pulled open the door. He stuck his finger in his ear and scowled. “You got a voice like a band saw, Desiree. I’m right here.”

Desiree shrugged, flipped her blond head in Marnie’s direction, and lowered herself back into the desk chair with a long sigh. She picked up a stapler and began stapling papers together.

The man came toward Marnie, his wiry brown arm extended. “I’m Gus. Gus McNair.” He had a beautiful tattoo of a single rattlesnake that coiled its way down and around the smooth dark skin of his arm. The snake’s head, fangs showing, red forked tongue flicking, extended beyond his wrist, over the back of his hand.

She reached across the counter and their palms met. “Marnie Jones.”

Gus smiled then, a slow, appreciative smile, displaying even rows of beautiful teeth. Suddenly he looked like a movie star. He could have been anywhere from forty to sixty, his skin was so smooth, with only a few crow’s feet around his eyes. And with a smile like that, a girl would find it very easy to forget that he was probably old enough to be her dad. “Come on in my office,” he said.

She went around the end of the counter and followed him into the small room beyond the door, which held a cluttered desk and a couple of chairs. The single window faced the front and the cinderblock walls were one continuous collage: photos of big bikes, a couple of neon-decked clocks, examples of really fine airbrush art and line drawings of several different chopper designs.

Two pit bulls, one brown and one black, lay on either side of the desk. In unison, the dogs lifted their heads from their paws when Gus led her in. The brown one yawned. Neither got up.

Gus shut the door and folded his long frame into the chair behind the cluttered desk. He indicated the paint-spattered metal chair across from him and she sat in it, sliding her purse off her arm to the floor.

“Here.” He produced an application from the pile of stuff on the desk, and then took a pen from the desk drawer and gave her that as well. “Clear off a space on your side and fill it out. Then we’ll talk.” With that, he put his feet up on the corner of the desk, leaned back, linked his long-fingered hands on his stomach and shut his eyes.