The Filthy Few (Iron Disciples MC) (2 page)

“I see…well I hope everything is fine. Thanks for popping
in.”

“Yeah, well I’ll check on you later.” She finishes.

“Bye for now then.”

I’m not usually this abrasive; especially to medical
professionals—I know they’re only trying to help me—so the only thing I can
figure is that it’s the pain that’s making my fairly short fuse almost non-existent.
I usually reserve my abuse to my clients when they don’t do what I tell them
to. I can’t believe I stepped out in front of a motorcycle. I’m usually
focused…manically so; if there is such a thing. You can’t find anyone more
fixated than I am. I would love to see the police report on this, and the
supposed video, because it’s just not like me.

I start to turn my head to look around the room and I’m
reminded again that I’m still strapped down head to toe; especially my head.
Another thought occurs to me. If I have a concussion does that mean my ability
to think is going to be impacted? More than anything I need my thoughts to
function on full capacity. I could be paralyzed from the neck down and still do
the job I love, but if my brains are in some way scrambled I’m going to suck as
a trader; and I live for trading.

I remember my first day on the job as a new hire at Capital
America. I was the firm’s newest stockbroker, and how naïve I was when I first
sat down at my new desk. I noticed a couple things. I only had one computer. As
I looked around the room at 6:10 in the morning, just about everybody had two
if not three computers on their desks. There was a phone with a wireless Plantronics
headset. Sitting on my keyboard was a three inch thick study manual for the
Series 52 test. I set it to the side and turned on my Compaq computer. In about
90 seconds my screen is full of red and green letters and numbers. I had no
idea what the different groupings of letters meant. I had never followed the
stock market, didn’t know what a bond or mutual fund was, and the Dow Jones
Industrial Average meant nothing to me. I was pathetic.

Tom, the branch manager who set up my work station gave me
brief instructions.

“Study your ass off Morgan, and answer the fucking phones!”

Answer the phones? What the hell was I supposed to say? I
was in no way prepared for the mayhem that followed when the clock struck 6:30
am. The market was open and suddenly the room was full of about a dozen
stockbrokers shouting back and forth as they placed orders and whooped it up as
they instantly calculated their commissions.

And suddenly my phone was ringing and everyone else was
already on at least one call. With great trepidation I picked up the phone.

“Capital America, this is Morgan.”

“My account number is 57-363-999. What do you think of
Microsoft? I have 10,000 shares and it’s down 3 points this morning.”

What do I think? Who the hell is Microsoft and what’s their
trading symbol? I hit the mute button on my phone and ask the room around me.

“What’s the ticker symbol for Microsoft?” I ask.

No one answers so I ask again. Still no answer so this time
I stand up and shout!

“What the hell is Microsoft’s trading symbol?”

And out of the ether comes the answer. “MSFT!”

I punch in the letters into my computer and like magic I see
MSFT in red and then a long string of different numbers. After a couple seconds
I manage to figure out that the stock is down three and an eighth. I relay the
information to the man on the phone and then I make my very first stock
recommendation.

“Hey, it’s tough to bet against Microsoft, they’re a stellar
company. If I liked them yesterday at twenty-eight and change, and I assume you
did, given you own so many shares, then why the hell would you not love them
when they go on sale. And that’s what we have here, a great company on sale!
What a fucking buy opportunity!”

He bought 2,000 more shares. Sadly I didn’t benefit from
that trade as I wasn’t licensed yet. I had to make up an excuse and hand him
off to a broker who was licensed. But I had done it and I bullshitted my way
through my first day on the job and I’ve been bullshitting ever since. The only
difference this time is I’m licensed and I don’t have to call and ask my
clients before I place a trade in their accounts. It’s called discretionary
trading and yes it is the best thing since sliced bread.

“Morgan, my name is Ed and I’m going to be taking you to get
your CT scan. Then hopefully we can remove that collar from your neck.”

“I certainly hope so.” I reply.

Ed seems like a nice guy. He’s an African American orderly
and has a cheery disposition and ready smile.

“I know from personal experience how much a pain those
things are.” Ed says. “After my car accident I had to wear one for a week. It
felt like months though. Hopefully you won’t have to wear yours nearly as
long.”

“Yeah I’m not so sure I’m that disciplined. I’d probably
ditch it in the first couple days.”

“Well you wouldn’t be the first.”

We continue to chit chat as we get in the elevator to the
second floor radiology department where the CT scan is located. I’m not sure if
it’s Ed, or just the medicine finally wearing me down but I can feel my eyelids
getting heavy. By the time they’re transferring me onto the table that will
whisk me away into the machine for the scan I’ve already started to nod off.

In fact, I lost a lot of time between that CT scan and the
day after my surgery. When I finally wake up the next day after surgery my
other assistant Jason is sitting in a chair in the corner of my room.

The first thing I notice is I can actually move my head
around. I reach up to my neck just to check. Sure enough, the C-collar is gone.

“Hey, get your lazy ass out of my chair!”

He actually jumps he’s so startled, and nearly winds up on
the floor. It’s strange to see him outside the office. If it weren’t for him
and Stacy I’d go nuts. I already work 80 hours a week even with their help.

“How do you feel?” He asks me as he stands up and stretches.

“Better now that I can move my neck.” I reply. “What’s in
that bag?”

I just noticed a bulky plastic hospital bag in the corner by
his chair.

“Yeah…you’re not gonna like it Morgan.”

Then it hits me like a ton of bricks. “Give it to me!” I
demand.

He clearly doesn’t want me looking into the bag, but he also
knows my tone of voice. He knows better than to refuse me when I get like this,
so he brings me the bag and sets in on the edge of the bed before retreating to
a safe distance. It must be really bad. I hold my breath as I slowly open it.

“Fuck!” I swear explosively as I see what’s left of my
Diane Von Furstenburg navy suit.

The paramedics,
in their infinite wisdom decided to cut off my clothes rather than remove them
in the ER like any normal person. That’s $2,000 in ribbons in the hospital bag.
Then it hits me again. I haven’t seen my shoes. Frantically I dig through the
shredded designer fabric until my index finger curls around a strap. I close my
eyes this time as I bring out a solitary pump. It feels okay so I open my eyes.
I’m holding in my hand half of my pair of Christian Louboutin pumps. There’s
not a scratch on it! Frantically I dig through the rest of the bag until I get
ahold of the other shoe and I bring it out triumphantly. It’s perfection. The
other shoe, as they say, did not drop. I hold them up for Jason to see. And the
heel falls off!

“Son of a
fucking bitch. If I ever catch that asshole who ran me over I’m going to shove
this shoe up his ass and then down his throat!”

“Wow, I guess
this is not a good time to be the asshole who hit you on his motorcycle then.”
Says a deep voice, just outside the door. Even before I set eyes on the man who
just interrupted my well-deserved tirade, his voice literally has me eating out
of his hands. I know subconsciously, even before looking, that I’m about to
meet my match.

As the words
slip out of his mouth I instantly picture the man. I imagine he has on a $4,000
suit, $2,000 shoes and a $10,000 Rolex watch. No one who speaks that smooth,
whose words have this kind of effect on me, could be anything less. He’s either
a CFO, or a CEO, or an investment banker of some stature, or a high priced
hedge fund manager, but he’s got to be something out of this world to have this
kind of influence on my body and mind. My brain is working a million miles an
hour and my body seems to be mired in molasses as I turn to look at the hulking
man in the doorway.

It’s a fucking
biker. It’s
my
fucking biker, and by that I mean it’s the fucking biker
who ran me over on the street two days ago.
And
he’s a grubby mess! How
can a man looking like…like that, send waves of longing straight to my core
just by uttering a few words? I should say something quick before he starts
talking again and grabs the upper hand. Instead I throw fifteen hundred dollars-worth
of my $3,000 pair of shoes at him. It’s a good throw. He obviously wasn’t
expecting it and it nails him square in the chest.

“I guess you
think I deserved that.” He says.

“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.