SEVEN
Muse stood back as far as he could from the commotion on the desert. Normally, he loved the desert—the wide open space, the horizon far away, the general lack of human or natural obstacle that allowed a rider to get and maintain real speed for long distances—but his work with the entertainment assholes was starting to wear on his good feelings about the dusty brown landscape. Seemed like everybody and his uncle wanted to shoot in the desert.
Right now, he was surrounded by vehicles and gear, and little chairs with big umbrellas attached to them, keeping the dastardly sun off delicate skin. Even the nobodies were fragile flowers in this world.
The company had signed with the Horde for three bikes and two stunt drivers, so Muse was out here with his brothers Ronin and J.R., both of whom worked stunts, and with the Prospect Fargo, who’d become his assistant by virtue of being the one who was usually around when he needed a grunt. He’d gotten good at the routines of prepping the bikes, tying them down on the flatbed, driving the flatbed, and cleaning up at the end of the day, so now the job was his.
This was just an insurance commercial, but there were easily two dozen people milling around, and they’d been out here all damn day, doing take after take. Because of the dust, the bikes had to be washed down after every take, so Fargo was working his ass off. It looked like they were wrapping up, though, or close to it. With a few exceptions for obvious problems, Muse couldn’t tell from one take to the next how they were different. Most commercial shoots were more cost-conscious than this one had been. But this was a huge international company, working with a huge international advertising agency, and they all thought they were artistes .
While Muse watched Fargo shine up a green metal-flake Dyna Street Bob, J.R., dressed all in black, armored gear and probably sweating off about a pound a minute, walked up and handed him a bottled water.
“You look pissed, brother.”
Muse took the bottle with a nod of thanks. “Nah. Tired. Distracted. Don’t rise to the level of pissed.” He broke the seal on the bottle’s cap and took a long drink. “That’s not to say I wouldn’t be glad to put my fist in the director’s face. Ass thinks he’s fucking Tarantino or some shit.”
J.R. laughed. “You’re telling me. At least you can stand over here and look mean. I’m the one he’s telling how to ride a fucking Harley. I hate these gigs that the riding isn’t even stunt work. Just rolling across the frame, looking like a badass mofo.” He grinned. “’Course, that’s my natural state. But what’s-his-name wants more ‘attitude.’ Whatever. I’m wearing a full-face helmet. Where’m I supposed to show ‘attitude’?”
J.R. tipped his head back and swallowed down the rest of his water. Nobody was fussing over him because he’d have a helmet on in his shots, so he could wilt all he wanted inside. His short, black hair sparkled with sweat, which ran in rivulets down his temples. He was African American, the only black member of the Horde. It was unusual for MCs to be integrated along the black and white color line, but there had been no language in the Horde bylaws preventing J.R.’s membership, and the Missouri mother charter had not raised an objection. Muse figured some Podunk little town in the middle of the heartland was probably so lily-white, they’d never even thought to consider the question before. The mother charter was all about their ‘Viking’ heritage, and a lot of club traditions carried that idea on. But Southern California was a different place. It was practically a different country. And the SoCal charter reflected that somewhat, with members of various backgrounds—white in all manner of combinations, as well as black, Latino, Native American.
Muse had not grown up in a racially enlightened household, not hardly, but he’d lived his
Muse stood back as far as he could from the commotion on the desert. Normally, he loved the desert—the wide open space, the horizon far away, the general lack of human or natural obstacle that allowed a rider to get and maintain real speed for long distances—but his work with the entertainment assholes was starting to wear on his good feelings about the dusty brown landscape. Seemed like everybody and his uncle wanted to shoot in the desert.
Right now, he was surrounded by vehicles and gear, and little chairs with big umbrellas attached to them, keeping the dastardly sun off delicate skin. Even the nobodies were fragile flowers in this world.
The company had signed with the Horde for three bikes and two stunt drivers, so Muse was out here with his brothers Ronin and J.R., both of whom worked stunts, and with the Prospect Fargo, who’d become his assistant by virtue of being the one who was usually around when he needed a grunt. He’d gotten good at the routines of prepping the bikes, tying them down on the flatbed, driving the flatbed, and cleaning up at the end of the day, so now the job was his.
This was just an insurance commercial, but there were easily two dozen people milling around, and they’d been out here all damn day, doing take after take. Because of the dust, the bikes had to be washed down after every take, so Fargo was working his ass off. It looked like they were wrapping up, though, or close to it. With a few exceptions for obvious problems, Muse couldn’t tell from one take to the next how they were different. Most commercial shoots were more cost-conscious than this one had been. But this was a huge international company, working with a huge international advertising agency, and they all thought they were artistes .
While Muse watched Fargo shine up a green metal-flake Dyna Street Bob, J.R., dressed all in black, armored gear and probably sweating off about a pound a minute, walked up and handed him a bottled water.
“You look pissed, brother.”
Muse took the bottle with a nod of thanks. “Nah. Tired. Distracted. Don’t rise to the level of pissed.” He broke the seal on the bottle’s cap and took a long drink. “That’s not to say I wouldn’t be glad to put my fist in the director’s face. Ass thinks he’s fucking Tarantino or some shit.”
J.R. laughed. “You’re telling me. At least you can stand over here and look mean. I’m the one he’s telling how to ride a fucking Harley. I hate these gigs that the riding isn’t even stunt work. Just rolling across the frame, looking like a badass mofo.” He grinned. “’Course, that’s my natural state. But what’s-his-name wants more ‘attitude.’ Whatever. I’m wearing a full-face helmet. Where’m I supposed to show ‘attitude’?”
J.R. tipped his head back and swallowed down the rest of his water. Nobody was fussing over him because he’d have a helmet on in his shots, so he could wilt all he wanted inside. His short, black hair sparkled with sweat, which ran in rivulets down his temples. He was African American, the only black member of the Horde. It was unusual for MCs to be integrated along the black and white color line, but there had been no language in the Horde bylaws preventing J.R.’s membership, and the Missouri mother charter had not raised an objection. Muse figured some Podunk little town in the middle of the heartland was probably so lily-white, they’d never even thought to consider the question before. The mother charter was all about their ‘Viking’ heritage, and a lot of club traditions carried that idea on. But Southern California was a different place. It was practically a different country. And the SoCal charter reflected that somewhat, with members of various backgrounds—white in all manner of combinations, as well as black, Latino, Native American.
Muse had not grown up in a racially enlightened household, not hardly, but he’d lived his
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