I grab my beer and move to the other side of the kitchen island to sit on the stool next to them.
“When I was about eighteen, I was officially prospecting with the club. I’d been decent at school, and Hammer had said I couldonly officially prospect when it looked like formal education had run its course for me.”
Wren shakes their head. “Wait. Why are all these bikers being so reasonable and sensible? What happened to gun running and drug dealing and killing each other at wild parties?”
I can’t help laughing. “We do plenty of that too. But Hammer felt I was…what did he call me…one of the quiet ones. He said any kid who appreciated his mom’s homemade granola bars should probably wait until he was legally old enough to join. And it pissed me off because Grudge was already elbows deep in club shit. Hammer had introduced us, and we’d become friends. We worked out together, and I hated that he had a leather cut, and I didn’t.”
Wren tilts their head and looks at me. “Was Hammer right to not let you?”
“Yeah. He was. I wanted to be in the club, but waiting until I was older and showed good aptitude for math meant that no sooner did I prospect and get patched in, than I was assigned to work with Gristle, who kept our books. A paid job from day one.”
I get up to stir the pot and begin the process of making the dumplings.
“The name,” Wren reminds me. “You never got to why you are called Catfish.”
“Right. Yeah. So, I’m behind the bar one day—it was one of the things I was expected to do as a prospect, serve the drinks and shit—and a guy on the gate calls up to the clubhouse and tells me my girlfriend is looking for me. Wild thing is, I didn’t have a girlfriend.”
Wren claps their hands. “Oh, plot twist.”
“I’d been working out at the gym with some of the bigger brothers. Hammer had taught me how to lift properly, and I’d grown. I was no longer scrawny and knew I was a good-lookingfucker. I’d gotten ink. So, I was making these social media videos of my body building gains and shit.”
“Please tell me you still have the account. I need to check out your demographic. Bet it was mostly women.”
I shake my head. “After what happened next, there was a nationwide mandate that no patched-in member or prospect could have any social media accounts.”
Wren sips the wine. “Jesus, what the hell happened?”
“So, my ‘girlfriend’ comes up to the clubhouse. Says we’ve been in a long-distance relationship for two years, and that she wants the money she sent me back. She threatened me with the cops, which was pretty damn ballsy of her after she’d walked into the clubhouse by herself. Told me she’d told the lady who ran the guesthouse she was staying at where she was going.”
Wren’s jaw drops open. “Oh my God. She’d been catfished.”
I nod. “It all unraveled. Someone had stolen my identity, was posting my pictures. They’d obviously done their homework to find out my location. So, this woman, Melissa, had started messaging with the person, and then they started this wild two-year online thing. Nothing to do with me at all. But I was the face she thought she was in love with.”
Wren places their glass down next to their laptop. “It’s utterly wild to think someone could fall for it. Like, had Melissa never asked for a video chat with this person?”
I put my hands up. “Honestly, I have no idea. The extent of my involvement was proving I had no involvement.” I don’t tell her that Melissa had wanted to start a relationship with me because, in her words, I had the face of the man she loved, and I could take her for a test drive.
She wasn’t my type. Mousey. Uninteresting. And a weird habit of picking the hairs in her nose.
“So, Catfish stuck?” Wren asks.
I nod. “Yeah. You don’t really get a say in what your road name is. I mean, I know guys called One Ball, ‘Tater, and Lipstick. So, it could be a lot worse.”
Wren laughs at that. “I’m sure their story isn’t as interesting as yours.”
I shrug. “Lipstick was so called after his wife divorced him because she found a ring of another woman’s lipstick around his cock.”
Wren’s face distorts into one of disgust. “That’s gross.”
I place my palms on the kitchen counter. “Being a biker isn’t pretty. It’s about carving out a life you want.”
“You want lipstick rings around your cock? Wait. Never mind. That was a wholly inappropriate question.”
Their cheeks turn pink, and in that moment, Wren looks utterly edible. I lean towards them. “Inappropriate? Maybe. But the truth is, if I want lipstick rings around my cock, or I want to ride a bike I’ve paid for while wearing club colors I’ve earned, I’ll do it. And if I want to avoid paying taxes to a fucked-up government that has no idea how to reach out to a young boy with a struggling mom with healthcare problems and make their lives right, or ignore rules set by the wealthy to enslave the poor, I’ll do that too.”
Wren’s mouth opens just a little as they listen to what I’m saying. Then, they smile. “You should run for office with that kind of passion. Not the lipstick rings, although most politicians these days have a lot worse skeletons in their closet.”
I offer Wren my hand. “We should formally meet. Hi. I’m River Haines. Treasurer and club secretary for the Iron Outlaws, Colorado chapter.”
