2. Mica
Her laptop was open to the spreadsheet she’d created for the dealership. It was almost a duplicate of the one she’d worked on last night for the household finances. Her father had been a semi-organized man, keeping his bills in a file cabinet even if they were marked paid or not. It had taken her hours to go through every bill in that old, scratched cabinet in a room that looked like he may have used it for his home office.
That room at the house was small, probably only a little bigger than the one she sat in now. Still, that one had a homey feel with its thick burgundy carpet and striped curtains at the window. This tiny office had no window and the floor was old, chipped tile. The desk and chair were utilitarian; however, Mica was not going to complain.
She was going to work, she told herself for about the tenth time in the last few minutes. There had been a couple of files she’d found in the cabinet of the home office that she thought pertained to the dealership, so she’d brought them along with her today. Flipping them open she began to read, inserting figures into the columns of the spreadsheet, where she thought they best fit. Income for Bellamy Motors consisted of bike sales and repair fees. A figure that so far appeared substantially lower than the expense columns. Mica wasn’t certain but the unevenness was more than alarming. It was, for lack of a better word, wrong. These new figures didn’t match the financial statements she’d read, even though these were worrisome as well. The bottom line was, there was no way this business could still remain functional today, if these figures were correct.
Sitting back in her chair she stared at the screen as if maybe her puzzled gaze would make the answer magically appear. Not a chance, but another man did show up at the door and Mica quickly came to her feet.
“I’m Earl Banyon, general manager,” he said, walking into the office with his arm and hand extended.
Mica shook his hand. “I’m Mica, the accountant.”
“I heard that lawyer sent you down here. I don’t know what for.”
His words were quick, and his tone was meant to be antagonizing. He was shorter than Nash. Not by much but still, shorter. His shoulders weren’t as broad either. Actually, he had a slim frame and the cheap dress shirt and khaki pants he wore were somewhat baggy. He had graying hair, thick, but a very dusty kind of gray that, paired with the leathery texture of his pale skin, created a look that resembled the villain in a horror film.
“Mr. Finksburg thought it would be a good idea to get a complete picture of the financial status of this establishment. My job is to prepare a full valuation and financial forecast for him.” She spoke as calmly as she could even though this man and his tone had immediately irritated her.
He shook his head. “I know every cent that comes into this company and goes out. All he had to do was ask me and I could tell him that we’re in trouble.”
So, he knew as well. She folded her arms over her chest. “If you could retrieve all of the bank ledgers, sales receipts, invoices and payroll reports, I would appreciate it.”
“You can just ask me what you want to know and I’ll tell you,” he replied. “I know about every bike in this place.”
Mica nodded. “I’m sure you do, Mr. Banyon. But I must have those documents to properly do my job.”
“And just why do you have this job, if I may ask? Why would they send in a numbers woman to come in here and go through my shop? I’ve run this place for the last three years and nobody has ever questioned me.”
He was angry, his bushy brows almost meeting beneath his crinkled forehead. Mica was certain he was correct about one thing—he had never been questioned about anything. She had no idea why her father had given this seemingly agitated man complete authority over his business, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered was what she was here to do.
“I understand and that’s why I need your help in making sure this company is around for another three years,” she told him calmly.
“Well, I’m gonna call Finksburg,” he continued. “It’s about time that man told me what’s going on. Do you know anything about Bell’s estate? Who’s in charge now and all that?”
Mica blinked. She’d thought about her decision to come into this business as an outside employee instead of as the new owner. Only she and Jiles Finksburg knew of the charade. The older man with the happy blue eyes had thought it a wonderful idea. The best way for her to get to know the business from its bare bones on up. He hadn’t, however, warned her about the man that stood in front of her at this moment.
“Mr. Finksburg nor I are able to divulge any personal information about the estate of Bellamy Anderson.” Her father. It still felt weird to call him that. She hadn’t had one all her life and then suddenly, she did.
“I’m still calling him and I plan to tell him that I have no intention of giving the personal financial files of this company to a…a…number cruncher who doesn’t look old enough to wipe her own ass!”
Mica let her arms slip slowly down to her sides. She looked Mr. Rude-and-Ridiculous in the eye and said simply, “You will fully comply with my requests or I will let Mr. Finksburg know that you are uncooperative and he’ll decide whether Bellamy Motors is still the place for you to work.” She was halfway to making that decision herself and was certain Earl wouldn’t like it if she did.
He opened his mouth to say something—another snide remark, or maybe he’d bark some order at her and expect her to fall in line the way Mica suspected he did with everyone else around here. But Earl Banyon did neither. Instead, his thin lips spread into a slow smile. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes increased, his bulbous nose raised slightly in what might be construed as a comical way—if one were inclined to laugh at this asshole of a guy.
“I’ll get you the paperwork. You hurry up and do your little review and, in the meantime, I’ll have a chat with Mr. Finksburg myself,” he said.
He moved to walk out of the office, which she was extremely grateful for, but Mica couldn’t resist the urge to get the last word.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Banyon. I’m sure Mr. Anderson would have appreciated you working so cordially with me.”
“He certainly would have,” Nash added as he stepped into the doorway to stand face-to-face with Earl Banyon. “Bell always had respect for the ladies.”
Mica looked from one man to the other. They were such a contrast. One was muscled, rugged, and handsome. While the other was thin, somewhat polished and rude.
“What are you doing up here? Don’t you have a bike to repair? Those bikers from the south aren’t gonna happy until they squeeze every dime out of that service plan Bell insisted on offering with their purchase. But they’re not making us any money so the sooner we get them out of here, the better.”
This was, of course, Banyon speaking in his raspy and annoyed voice. Did he take that same gruff tone with everyone he encountered? It shouldn’t matter to her one way or the other, but it did and Mica caught herself frowning at him.
“The service plan is a good idea. It gets us repeat business. And the MC clubs are repeat business,” Nash replied.
His eyes narrowed just a bit. And the only reason she knew that was because she’d been staring at him so intently. He was a shade or two darker than her, so that his skin was a deep walnut hue. His eyes weren’t a terribly descriptive brown, but they were perceptive and knowing. And why the hell did she care either way? She shifted her weight from one foot to the other as a dull ache began between her legs.
“The MC clubs? Are they customers?” she asked. His eyes, that ache, none of it mattered. This business had to come first.
“They’re thugs at best,” Banyon shot back at Nash. “Criminals at worst.”
“They’re riders,” Nash replied evenly. “That buy their bikes from Bell because he used to ride with a club when he was younger. There’s loyalty there so Bell developed a special service plan to offer each one of them whenever they purchased a bike from us. They buy often and they refer other bikers they know in and out of town.”
At least they used to, seemed to be Nash’s unspoken words. She surmised that from the tight way in which he’d clamped his mouth shut and the sales numbers she’d seen on a slow decline in the past years.
Nash looked over Banyon’s shoulder as he answered her. Mica held his gaze, totally interested in what he was saying and not just because of the intense physical reaction his now pensive gaze was provoking in her.
“Sounds like a good customer service idea. How does it pan out financially?” she asked.
“It doesn’t,” Banyon snapped. “And he doesn’t know anything about the finances here. All he does is fix stuff and he shouldn’t even be allowed to do that.”
“I’ve been working here since before you started,” Nash replied tightly.
“And I’ve been waiting for the moment when I could get you out of here,” Banyon answered.
The two men stood toe-to-toe in a stance that was reminiscent of two boxers in a ring. Mica cleared her throat. “Mr. Finksburg indicated that there are to be no staff changes at this moment. The company will continue to operate as it has been until we get a good idea of what, if any, problems we’re facing and how to fix it.”
She couldn’t help but feel triumphant when Banyon looked back at her with clear disgust. If there were any staff adjustments to be made, as she’d already decided, Banyon would be the one to go. But she and Jiles had discussed this late last night. It was best to keep everything as is for the moment, even if she’d just threatened Banyon a few moments ago.
Banyon either didn’t pick up on that or was too pissed off to care because he didn’t say another word. Instead, he pushed past Nash on his way out of the office. Nash looked as if he wanted to punch the guy. His fingers actually fisted at his sides before he turned back to face her.
“We typically close the shop at six. The showroom stays open for sales until nine. I came to see if you wanted me to walk you to your car,” he said.
He looked angry. No, it seemed to be more than that as his chest—the wide muscled span of his chest—moved up and down with his quick, but controlled breaths.
“I think I’ll be fine to walk out by myself,” Mica replied.
“It’s the end of February in Virginia so it’s dark at six o’clock at night. The back lot where you parked isn’t well lit. Tomorrow you should park out front where the streetlights are.”
He hadn’t moved from where he stood but spoke to her in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Oh. I hadn’t realized how late it was.” Mica had been so into the spreadsheets and calculations that she hadn’t chanced a look at her watch. And since there was no window in her wonderful office…she let out a small sigh. “Thank you. I would like that.”
He waited while she packed up her stuff and then took the lead once more, walking her through the building and out the back doors. He had keys to those doors and he punched a security code into the black box on the back wall.
“You have the security code and keys?” she inquired when he’d turned back to her.
His gaze quickly locked on her.
“I’m the shop manager. I’ve worked here for ten years. I know everything there is to know about this place, even where the bodies are buried. So, yes, I have keys to the doors and security codes to get in and out of the building.”
“I didn’t mean to sound offensive,” she stated in return to his irritated tone.
He sighed. “Which way is your car?”
“Over here. The black one.”
He walked in silence until she was standing at the driver’s side door.
“Do you need a ride?” she asked because he’d put the keys he’d used on the door into his front pant pocket.
“No,” he told her with what could have been construed as a smile. Mica was more inclined to call it a smirk. “My bike is right over here. Have a good night.”
With that, he walked away. Mica unlocked her door and sat behind the wheel. She’d put on her seatbelt, had the keys in the ignition, but did not move after that. Her gaze was focused across the lot to where she could see a man, slipping on a black and royal blue helmet. He’d parked beneath one of only two lights on this back lot, so she had a good view of him. After the helmet, he dug into his back pocket and pulled out another set of keys. Lifting a leg, he sat on the bike and kicked up the stand before inserting his key into the ignition. He looked mean and ominous…and dangerous as hell as he sat astride the large bike.
Mica gasped as his head came up and she thought he stared back at her. She couldn’t tell because the front of his helmet was dark. For endless moments they both sat that way, staring but not acting, until finally he pulled off. She let out a breath that she was well aware she’d held the entire time she watched him like some wanton hussy, and with a shake of her head drove out of the parking lot.
The hunky shop manager had nothing to do with her job. He wasn’t the numbers person. That was Banyon, she thought as she drove through the streets of the town, being careful to listen to her GPS’s explicit directions. Banyon was the guy she needed to keep close because she was certain there was something in those additional financial documents that he did not want her to see.
So, thinking about the sexy Nash with his piercing gaze, full lips and cocky ass demeanor, was not only out of character for her, but it was a waste of time. Time, she didn’t have to lose if she were going to save her father’s company.
Nash downed his second beer of the night, swallowing the bitter, yet flavorful liquid with a smack of his lips. He sat in his recliner with his feet propped up while the television across the room played snippets of the evening’s national news. Beyond that the black blinds he’d installed at the window were partially open so he could see across the tiny courtyard to the next set of apartments in this building. They were watching television over there too.
He emptied the bottle and set it inside the holder conveniently located at the end of the chair’s arm. Nash loved this recliner from the first moment he’d seen it in the furniture store. It was a deep tree bark brown color and the softest leather he’d ever felt. The reclining mechanism was electric so that he never had to expend more effort than pushing a button for his back to be relaxed and his feet uplifted. That’s what he did each night he came in from work. The first hour or so was spent sitting right here, having a beer, listening to the news and letting the events of the day run through his mind. Normally those events consisted of a troublesome area for a bike they were fixing, approval of a unique but possibly too edgy design Webby may have come up with for one of their more conservative customers, Rock’s daily words of inspiration that inspired absolutely no one, or whatever the hell dumbass rules Earl was trying to impose at the moment.
It was no secret that there was no love lost between Nash and Earl Banyon. The man was a conniving manipulator who hated Nash since the moment he found out that Nash had served time in jail. There were lots of people with those feelings. Nash had become accustomed to it.
He closed his eyes and tried—unsuccessfully—to dismiss the thoughts of his past, preferring to focus on Earl and what Nash suspected the man was up to now. Three years ago, when Bell hired Earl to take over as the general manager, Nash tried to object. In fact, he recalled that conversation with his mentor and hated like hell that he hadn’t pushed the issue a little harder at the time.
“He’s a sleazy used car salesman,” Nash told Bell when they’d sat in the parking lot of the dealership late one Saturday night.
“He managed one of the largest lots in the city, dealt with staff and customers and his dealership saw over half a million dollars in sales in one year,” Bell replied.
He was talking around the cigar he liked to stick in the corner of his mouth, but never lit. His black hair had just begun to gray at the temples, his mustache and beard only sporting one or two sparkly hairs. But age was setting in, Nash thought, and so was the nasty cough that Bell insisted was just a touch of bronchitis.
“More than half the cars he sold were lemons, Bell. There are over fifty reports filed against him and that dealership with the Better Business Bureau, for some sort of fraud. He’s a liar and a cheat and I don’t like the look of him,” Nash continued vehemently.
Bell nodded. “I respect your opinion, son.”
Bell always called Nash ‘son’. He didn’t use that word on anyone else at the shop, a fact that made Nash feel special and wanted.
“But you’re hiring him anyway.” It was Nash’s turn to nod because he knew that tone Bell was using. It was the I’ve-made-up-my-mind-so-you-can-shut-your-mouth-now tone. The one Nash had grown up hearing from the adults in his life at the time.
Only Bellamy Anderson was different. Ten years ago, he’d stood outside that jail on the day Nash had been released in the pouring rain. Hearing his name called on that bleak, yet slightly joyous day, had Nash’s head coming up quickly. Just in time to see the tall, broad chested man standing in front of him wearing a leather bomber and an Orioles baseball cap. Bell had offered Nash an umbrella and a ride home. By the time they’d arrived at the duplex where Nash’s uncle lived, Bell had offered him a job as a shop clerk at his dealership. At that time all Nash knew about motorcycles was that he loved riding them, loved the purr and gust of the engine directly beneath him as he pushed full speed ahead. What Nash also knew for certain was that he didn’t have a job. He’d been having trouble finding one with just his high school diploma in the years before his arrest. Now that he had a record, he was sure the job search wouldn’t go much smoother.
“Why are you offering me a job when all you know about me is that I’m a convict?”
“You’re a man,” had been Bell’s response. “You did your time and now it’s time to get on with your life. Besides, I know you can ride because I saw you with the Platinum Ryders before. I remembered you.”
Bell had remembered him and he’d given him a second chance. Nash would never forget that. Never.
The knock at his door was effective in pulling Nash out of those memories. He adjusted the chair and stood up, heading to the door.
“Wat up, big bro?” Henley said before giving Nash’s shoulder a punch and making his way into the apartment.
“Hey, Henley,” Nash replied and shut the door. “What brings you by?”
Henley Lawrence Waters was a five foot, ten-inch-tall guy, russet brown complexion, with a mega-watt smile and wavy black hair. He was thin and funny as hell. He couldn’t play basketball worth shit and couldn’t hold a job much longer than it took for him to collect the first paycheck.
At thirty-two, Henley was three years younger than Nash. He’d already walked into the kitchen just across from the door and small walkway, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and was presently twisting the top off and tossing it over to the trash can as if it were a ball and hoop. He missed. Nash shook his head, not at all surprised.
Nash returned to his seat in the recliner, but pressed the button to bringing it back into an upright position.
When Henley picked up the top and put it into the trash can joking about how he was feeling a little off today, Nash didn’t say a word.
“So, you still down at Bell’s?” Henley asked when he’d made his way into the living room and sat down on the love seat across from Nash.
“That’s where I work,” Nash replied.
Even though he wasn’t sure how much longer that arrangement would last.
“I thought old scar faced Banyon would’ve tossed you out on your ass by now. You know he never approved of you working there,” Henley stated before taking a swallow of his beer.
Nash didn’t want to go over these facts again.
“You came over here to check on my employment status?” he asked his brother. “What about you? Where are you working?”
Henley was shaking his head before Nash could finish speaking. “You know I don’t like a nine to five. I don’t take kindly to nobody giving me orders and expecting me to shuffle around trying to follow them just for a measly minimum wage paycheck.”
“That’s how the world works, Hen. You work, you get paid, and you live peacefully. The end.”
“Nah, that’s your life. You and Bell subscribed to that theory and look where it got him. Dead as dirt with nobody worth a damn to run his company. Plus, he was all talk. Telling you how much he appreciated all that you’d done for his dealership, all the customers you brought in and made sure they kept coming back. Then, he doesn’t even leave the place to you. What kind of bullshit is that?”
“I wasn’t his family,” Nash said, the words rough and a bit painful in his throat.
“You were the closest he had to a family,” Henley countered. “Plus, he could trust you. That damn Banyon, you know you can’t trust him as far as you can throw his rusty old ass.”
Nash did not disagree with his brother, not on this.
He shrugged. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen with the dealership and neither does Earl.”
“That’s not true,” Henley told him with an arch of his brows.
“What do you mean it’s not true?” Nash asked as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What do you know?”
Because Henley always knew something. One of the first things Nash had taught his younger brother after their parents died and they’d been shipped off to live with their uncle, was to keep his head up and his ear to the streets. Henley took that advice very seriously.
Nash watched as his brother drank from his bottle once more.
Henley’s brows rose. “He’s trying to sell the place right from under all y’all. I heard he’s got two top bidders already.”
Nash gritted his teeth.
“He can’t sell something he doesn’t own,” he said.
“He can if there’s no will and nobody knows for sure who owns the place,” Henley added matter-of-factly.
“Bell had a will.”
“Oh really?” Henley asked as he tilted his head. “Then how come nobody’s heard about it? How come whoever he left all his stuff too ain’t here running his place?”
“I don’t know those answers,” Nash replied honestly. “But I do know that Earl can’t sell that place.”
“He can and he will big bro, so you better start trying to sell some of your designs or open up your own place, or whatever you want to do with yourself. Because Bellamy Motors is about to be history.”
Nash’s fingers clenched at those words; his chest heavy with the possibility that his brother might just be speaking the truth.