The Filthy Few (Iron Disciples MC) Read online

“You did actually.”

  Of course he deserved that. He deserves even more if I can find where I put my other shoe.

  “If you’re looking for your other shoe miss, it’s right there by your left elbow.” He says.

  Without thinking I grab it and hurl it towards his head. To his credit he doesn’t even blink as it sails past his head and strikes the wall next to his right ear. The man has nerves of steel and a voice like raw sex.

  “You ruined my Christian Louboutin shoes and an Oscar De La Renta suit! How are you going to pay for that?”

  If I don’t stay on the offensive and stay mad who knows what could happen. Good thing Jason is here. I won’t do anything too stupid in front of him.

  “I think I’ll go raid the vending machines,” Jason says as he gets up and hurries out the room.

  Great.

  Mr. Grubby walks in and takes Jaime’s seat without even asking permission. I start to object but he beats me to the punch.

  “I’d be happy to pay for your things miss.” He says with a smile.

  “Y-you would?”

  “Of course. It’s only fair. After all, you’re going to pay for my $20,000 Harley Davidson Wide Glide that got demolished when I dropped it to save your life. You know, after you stepped out in front of me without even looking.”

  “W-w-what…”

  I am shocked speechless. How can he expect me to pay for his bike after what he did to me?

  “You seem to be made out of money,” he continues, further infuriating me. “I, on the other hand, am not. In fact missy, you destroyed my only form of transportation and I need that replaced immediately. Judging by that watch you’ve got on and those earrings I’m sure you can afford it. Why don’t you just sell one of those rocks hanging from your ears? That should cover it.”

  “My name is not Missy!” It’s the only response that comes to mind.

  I’m getting dumber by the second and he’s getting more and more charming and annoying at the same time if that’s even possible.

  “Well why don’t you enlighten me?” He asks.

  “It’s Morgan.” I offer.

  I didn’t intend to tell him my name but it just came out. I consider myself to be strong willed. I’m probably the most obstinate willful person I know but it all seems to vanish in front of this grubby stranger.

  “Well Morgan, I believe I can forgive the bike. But it’ll cost you something else.”

  “And what is that, exactly?”

  “I’d like for you to accompany me to dinner just as soon as you’re up and out of here.”

  “I don’t even know your name.” I shoot back.

  “Hi I’m Cade, nice to meet you.” He offers his hand. I simply raise my eyebrows at him.

  I pause and savor the sound of his name as it rolls of his tongue. My first impression of him may have been a little off base. He’s not dirty…per se, just rough around the edges. He’s got this big black motorcycle jacket on that has clearly seen a lot of road miles. He’s wearing what looks to be a white wife beater and faded black jeans that hug his muscular thighs. His boots are only slightly scuffed and are just about the baddest, most kick-ass pair of footwear I have ever set eyes on. I really believe he’s probably kicked some ass with them too.

  My eyes travel back to his chest and for a few seconds I can’t seem to drag them anywhere else. I just sit here watching his muscular pecs rise and fall with each breath. Finally, I drag my eyes back up to his face. He gets points for the goatee. Its close cropped so it’s not messy; another plus. He’s got long black hair that falls carelessly at his broad shoulders. I lose myself in his eyes. He’s got the deepest, darkest brown eyes I have ever fallen into. There’s intelligence there that I didn’t see before. I can feel him studying me intently. He’s taking the measure of me and I can’t help but wonder what his assessment is. He is one handsome man, I have to admit.

  I never before fantasized about a biker type, but I can kind of see what all the fuss is about. He is all man. He’s handsome in a rugged sort of way, but the way he talks is not rugged at all. I get the idea he is college educated; or maybe just well-read. It’s hard to tell at this point. I look down at his hands. I like a man with strong, capable hands. A little dirt under the nails isn’t a bad thing. I wouldn’t mind him getting a little of that dirt on me, if I’m honest. He has a ring on, but it’s not on his ring finger. Its surgical steel I think and square shaped. It’s pretty thick and something tells me it’s a ring meant for fighting with. It clearly would do some damage on the soft tissues of the face. A glint catches my eye. He’s wearing heavy silver chain around his neck as well, with a simple cross dangling from it.

  “I believe we were discussing dinner…” He prompts.

  “Like hell we were.”

  “You know you can catch more flies with honey.” The words drip out of his gorgeous mouth.

  “You can also catch rats.” I reply. I’m not sure I have anything else to say to him…but my body’s telling me to keep him talking. There’s something about his voice that rubs me just the right way and I don’t want it to stop.

  “Are you always this unpleasant to talk to or is it the medication talking?”

  “You’re lucky. The medicine has put a warm fluffy cushion over my normally razor sharp and acerbic repartee; otherwise you’d be in ribbons by now.” I motion to the bag containing the remnants of my suit.

  “So what were you doing that had you so engrossed that you couldn’t see the traffic right in front of you.”

  “Talking on the phone.” I reply.

  “I get it, those smart phones are really powerful, but not even the latest iPhone can part the red sea; or in your case, the traffic.”

  “That’s actually standard on the new iPhone 7.”

  “Guess somebody should have shared that with all those android users that were on the road in front of you; myself included.”

  Suddenly there’s a knock on the door and a man in a white lab coat walks in.

  “Hello Morgan, I’m Doctor Kendall, I’m the doctor who put your leg back together.”

  “Hi Dr. Kendall,” I smile and point to biker guy. “This is Cade; he’s the man who took my leg apart.”

  Then Dr. Kendall does something unexpected. He turns to Mister Grubby and thanks him.

  “Cade,” Dr. Kendall begins. “It’s so nice to meet a biker who values human life over his motorcycle.”

  “Doc, before you start handing out good Samaritan awards, it was just a reflex and not representative of any desire to spare Morgan’s life. Every rider knows it’s better to drop their bike and slide on the pavement rather than hit something head-on while still on your bike. Asphalt is often a better braking system than what most motorcycles come equipped with.”

  “So you’re no saint,” Dr. Kendall concludes. “But you still did the right thing.”

  “That’s right he’s no saint,” I retort. “Mr. Leather here expects me to pay for his motorcycle. It’s not my fault it slid into the path of an eighteen wheeler.”

  “Actually, one could argue it is your fault.” Dr. Kendall argues. “According to investigators who I spoke with before your surgery, you actually stepped out into traffic without so much as a sideways glance. You’re lucky it was just a bike that barely clipped you and not the Hummer that only just managed to avoid running over you.”

  “Wow, are you my surgeon or some kind of lawyer?”

  “Noted.” Dr. Kendall replies. “I’m your surgeon and surgery went fine. You should be out of that cast in six to eight weeks.”

  “Six to eight weeks? Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask.

  I can’t believe this is happening to me. I can barely keep up with two good legs and now I have to hobble around on one?

  “Don’t you sit at a desk all day?” Dr. Kendall asks.

  “I…get coffee and…fine, I sit at a desk all day. How the hell am I supposed to do that if I have to keep my leg elevated?”

  “You’re an enterprising
young woman, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Dr. Kendall replies.

  “You know what; I’ve already figured it out. Where’s my phone?”

  “Is this it?” Mr. Grubby says, extending me a pile of crushed electronics.

  “That is not my fucking phone! Do not tell me you crushed my leg and my phone?”

  “Is it the drugs doc?” Cade asks. “Or is—”

  “It’s not the drugs,” Jason says, walking back into the room. “She’s always been a potty mouth. But she’s tame here. You should here her at work.”

  “What he said,” Dr. Kendall says. “So how are you feeling Morgan?”

  “Restless as hell! I haven’t sat still this long since I was in diapers.”

  “What she said,” Jason says. “She never stops moving, she has three computers on her desk and wears Google Glass almost non-stop. She has one of those funky ergonomic chairs but spends most of her time pacing back and forth and talking on her three phones. How long do you plan to imprison her here anyway doc?”

  “You know what they say about hospitals,” Dr. Kendall begins. “They’re no place to get well in so…we need to keep her here a couple more days just to make sure everything is healing fine then we can probably release her.”

  “You’re kidding right?” I ask, swallowing a string of four letter words that are threatening to erupt. “I will be back at my desk Monday!”

  “Oh no you won’t,” argues Dr. Kendall. “There’s no way I’m releasing you that soon. Let’s shoot for Thursday morning.”

  “No fucking way!” I yell, trying to sit up in bed. Unfortunately my attempt to roll out of bed and onto my good foot is derailed by a sudden shooting mother of a pain that goes from my lower left leg straight to my head and the room begins to go dark. It’s not until I lie back down and take a few deep breaths that my vision begins to clear again. Dr. Kendall is staring into my face.

  “Yeah…I don’t think you’re going anywhere anytime soon.” He says.

  Stacy picks this moment to walk back in. “What’s going on?” She asks.

  “Doc here wants to keep me imprisoned here until I’m old and grey.” I complain.

  “You know, Dr. Kendall,” Stacy begins. “Last year when my father crashed his bike he was able to get out early as long as I signed a paper saying I would take care of him until he could care for himself.”

  “Yes…yes,” I shout. “That’s it. Could you do that doc? Otherwise I’m gonna have to take over this room. I’ll have to move in at least one computer, and my two assistants. You’ll have to get rid of some of this crap.” I say pointing to an IV pole and various contraptions connected to it. “Otherwise there just won’t be room.”

  Dr. Kendall gives me what can only be described as a longsuffering look then replies. “Fine. As long as Cade here is willing to sign the necessary papers I guess we could release you tomorrow morning…as long as you’re willing to go off your morphine drip that is.”

  “Done!”

  “You’re going to give her something right?” Stacy asks.

  “I’m not heartless,” Dr. Kendall replies. “Just a doctor. We’ll give you Vicodin to last your first ten days and that should do it. If you find you need it after that call the number on the bottle and I can give you one refill.”

  “I’m sure I won’t.” I reply with my usual confidence.

  Doctor Kendall does his check up and pronounces that I’m healing rapidly. No surprise there. I’ve never been one to be average in anything whether it is stock trading or healing from a broken leg or selling the most Girl Scout cookies. I have to be first! After his check- up Stacy and Mr. Grubby both leave, promising to be here at 9am tomorrow for checkout time. The second the door closes I push the button on my self- administered morphine drip. Just before I enter la la land I wonder if I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew. Oh well. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.

  THREE

  Mr. Grubby Plays Doctor

  It’s not often that I have been accused of not thinking things through, but this is one of those times. Why I agreed to go home with Stacy and her cousin, Mr. Grubby I don’t know. I should have just had my two assistants stay with me in my hospital room and just conducted business from there. By the time I got set up at Cade’s house the market was nearly closed for the day. I decide to have my assistant Stacy stay with me during the day at her and Cade’s house and have Jason, my other assistant work from my desk at Capital America. He can enter trades for me on my computer.

  It doesn’t take long for things between Cade and me to degrade. Clearly he has no idea what I do for a living and he knows even less about the stock market. He stares on in wonder as I do my thing until the closing bell of the market. As soon as I take off my Plantronics headset he is full of questions and comments.

  “You don’t actually do anything.” He says the second I come up for air. “You don’t actually buy or sell anything tangible either. At best you’re just a gambler, or worse because it’s not even your money you gamble with.”

  Having passed judgment he collapses on his couch and glares at me daring me to refute his statements.

  “How can you share a house with my assistant and not know anything about what she does for a living?” I don’t let him get a word in and I plow on. “I’m no gambler Einstein, that’s for people who don’t know what they’re doing. When you know the companies you trade, when you do the research, and when you have a plan; that’s called investing. You fail to do any of that and then yes, you’re gambling. And while I am spending other’s money I am sharing the risk. Every time I place a trade in a client’s account I risk it losing their money and having them take me to arbitration and making a permanent mark on my record. If get even one of those my career will go no further. I’d still have a job but there would no longer be any possibility of advancement. Every single day, hundreds of times a day I gamble with my career so don’t you sit there and tell me I’m not taking any of the risk! When’s the last time your career was in jeopardy?”

  That shuts him up. Suddenly I need a Vicodin. I hadn’t noticed it when the market was open but now that my adrenaline has worn off the pain is increasing. A few minutes ago it was easily managed. Now I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a difficult time concentrating on my work. Every trade I do in someone’s account creates a trail of paper that needs dealing with. That usually means my desk is a sea of paper from trade confirmations to prospectuses, from phone messages to my own scribbled notes, and from scribbled notes to mostly junk mail. But everything has to be looked over. Then there are the emails. I get about 150 internal emails a day and about another 75 from my clients. Jason is my email guy. He goes through every email and handles the ones he can and marks as urgent, the ones I have to deal with. Both he and Stacy have their own trade confirmations to deal with as well as their own internal emails to answer. Usually any time a client calls in to make a trade himself one of my assistant’s deals with it. I only do the discretionary trades as I’m the only one licensed to do that.

  When it comes to meetings it’s usually Stacy that attends them. On occasion when I have to attend one then they handle everything until I get back. The three of us have been working together for two and a half years and it’s worked beautifully. There’s a level of trust between the three of us that’s hard to beat. I really don’t know how I would manage if it weren’t for them and I pay them well to make them indispensable. The only problem is, in 6 months Stacy will be moving into a job similar to mine just like I did four years ago and if she plays her cards right she’ll be in my position managing hundreds of millions of dollars and have two assistants working for her. She will be tough, if not impossible to replace. Jason on the other hand will always be a great assistant. He really doesn’t have any other aspirations and that’s fine with me. If I lost them both at once I’d drown.

  “How come all your clients are rich?” Cade asks me.

  “Because…pikers don’t pay me enough for the risk I take.”

/>   “What do you mean? And what’s a piker?”

  “A piker is a guy who wants to place an order to buy 3 shares of a twenty dollar stock. No fucking way I’m going to risk my career on a trade that’s gonna net me fifty dollars. I don’t deal with anyone who doesn’t have at least three million in the market. It’s not the wealthy people who cause problems with brokers. It’s the idiots who don’t understand the market and how it works. They’re the ones always looking to blame others and never take responsibility for their actions. It’s not worth the risk for me. I’m in this business to make money. I spent way too much money and time getting my MBA and another eighteen months being my boss’s lap dog until he finally cut me loose. No way in hell am I going to take unnecessary, career ending risks.”

  “You remind me of Robin Hood. Except your robbing the rich to pay the rich; that means you honey.”

  “Nothing that I’m doing is either illegal or unethical. My clients have an investment plan and I follow that plan and I make their retirement dreams possible. How is that a bad thing?”

  “Because you’re helping people who are already rich get even richer. You’re the reason there’s such a disparity between the haves and the have not’s in our country.”

  “Oh really? You think that I have that much power? One twenty-eight year old woman who manages only $300 million is assets is the reason our world is in such shitty shape? I apologize,”

  “Did I just hear you taking responsibility?” Cade asks.

  “What? Oh, you mean the apology? I was apologizing to you. I mistook you for someone who has brains and I now realize you don’t; hence the fucking apology.”

  Stacy is in front of me biting on the end of her four hundred dollar Mont Blac ink pen. Whenever she’s stressed about something she does that. She’s gone through three this year already.

  “What is it Stacy?”

  “I need to get going. I’m sure your desk is piled high of paperwork so if I’m going to get out of there before eight I’d better leave now.”

  I glance at my watch; it’s three in the afternoon.