Piston by Andi Rhodes

Chapter Three

_{A story like this could open a lot of doors, put me on a trajectory that would at least resemble the life I built overseas.}

Holland

“Ihear what you’re saying, but why do our readers care?”

I tune out my boss as I stare at the clock on the wall above his head. Our weekly staff meeting has already lasted an hour longer than normal because Bob suddenly wants to pick apart every single idea. Ever since we received that tip almost two weeks ago about the underground fights, he’s been pushing for more enticing stories. Apparently, he’s forgotten that we’re a newspaper, not a gossip rag.

“Because, who doesn’t want…”

My co-workers' explanation of the latest fad diet fades as I recall the text from my dad I received as I entered the conference room. He wants me to pick up a bottle of wine to go with dinner. A very expensive bottle of wine. Nevermind the fact that he has a personal shopper that he could send to do his bidding. Nevermind the fact that the bottle he wants is likely going to set me back a week’s worth of pay.

I swallow down my frustration. I’m not really angry at my dad for the request. He has very specific tastes and that’s nothing new. No, I’m mad at myself. I’m annoyed that, even at twenty-seven, I do what I’m told. Langston Tibideaux raised me to exist in a very black and white world. To know the difference between right and wrong, good and bad. And the absolute worst infraction would be for me to not do as he asks.

And honestly, I wouldn’t. Even if I could bring myself to stand up to him, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. He’s my dad, the only family I have left in this world. I love him, demands and all.

“Holland?”

I refocus on Bob. “Hmm?”

“When can I expect your finished piece on the biker gang and the underground fights?”

I cringe at his words. I may not have landed an interview yet, but between my recon missions and research, I’ve learned a few things. A lot of things, actually. One of which is that ‘biker gang’ isn’t a term that would be appreciated.

“I’m still working on it,” I admit. I think back to the business card I left on the Harley this morning. “I’ve made contact with a club representative and am waiting to hear back about when his schedule will be free.”

Bob nods. “Okay. I want your story on last week's fight in Friday’s edition.”

I have no idea if that’s feasible, but I can’t exactly refuse. Especially since this could be a huge win for me. Expose an illegal fight club and a motorcycle club that operates outside the law. A story like this could open a lot of doors, put me on a trajectory that would at least resemble the life I built overseas. I’d be able to cover stories that no one else wants to cover.

“I’ll have it done,” I assure him.

“After that article, I want one article a week to focus on the gang’s activity. I also want you to dive into the underground fighting. With your experience overseas, this should be easy for you.”

“Got it.”

The more I think about this story, the more excited I become. This is what I’ve been waiting on for a year. Now all I need is the owner of the Harley to cooperate.

“Everyone has their assignments,” Bob says as he gathers the paperwork spread out on the table in front of him. “Get to work.”

We all file out of the room, and I make my way back to my cubicle. Before I can sit down, Janessa pops her head over the partition.

“Still haven’t heard anything?” she asks, referring to my brazen move this morning.

“Nope.” I pile all my work into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. “But I always get my story.”

“Girl, I know you do.” She laughs. “You’re relentless, that’s for sure.”

I roll my eyes at her. When I first met Janessa, she was tasked with showing me around the office. It didn’t take long for me to realize she knew exactly who I was and was aware of my work. After a few days, she stopped treating me like a glorified celebrity and that was all it took. We’ve been close ever since.

“You don’t have the career I had by waiting for the story to come to you,” I quip, ignoring the pang in my chest at the thought of my life before returning home.

“Yeah, yeah.” She smiles and then stands up straight. “So, what’s Daddy Dearest have you doing tonight?”

“Not too much. Just dinner.”

I leave out the request for wine. Janessa claims to like my dad, but she has little tolerance for anyone who demands anything from others.

“Sounds fun.” Her tone suggests otherwise.

“If it sounds like so much fun, why don’t you join us?”

I ask her this regularly and very rarely does she agree. I know tonight won’t be any different. She’s got a date with her latest Tinder match and nothing is going to stand in the way of that.

She lifts her hands, palms up, as if weighing something on a scale. “Sex or dinner with you and your dad? Hmmm?” Her face scrunches like she’s deep in thought. “Yeah, sex wins every time.”

“Glad one of us is getting some,” I mumble.

“You should try it,” she says. “It’s a great stress reliever.”

“And when would I have time for that?”

Janessa stares at me, deadpan. “Holli, there’s always time for sex.”

“Well, there’s no time today.” I turn away and head toward the elevator that will take me to the ground floor. I call over my shoulder, “See you tomorrow.”

The doors slide open, and I step into the enclosure. Our office is only on the third floor so it takes no time at all for me to be on my way to the parking garage. When I reach my car, I push the button on my key fob to unlock it.

Just as I open the door, my phone rings. I toss my bag to the passenger seat and climb in, slipping my cell from my back pocket as I do.

Without looking at the number, I hit the answer button.

“Hello?”

Silence greets me. I pull the phone away from my ear to look at the screen. All that tells me is that whoever is on the other end isn’t someone in my contact list. The number reads as ‘unknown’.

Harley guy?

“Hello,” I say again. “Who is this?”

The voice that comes through the line sends a shiver down my spine. It’s familiar, and not in a good way.

“I need to talk to H. Tibideaux,” the man demands.

I take a deep breath and remind myself that I can handle this little wrinkle. I have stared down danger before and I can do it again. This is what I’m good at, what I live for, what I want.

The only problem with this is I specifically chose a Harley that I knew didn’t belong to this particular biker, so why is he the one calling this number?

“This is Holland Tibideaux.”