“Hey, it’s me,” I stated and paused.
“Allegra. How are you?” Shotgun inquired, and I smiled.
“Nosy. I’ve a lot of questions.”
“More than the other day?” Shotgun teased, and I laughed. I’d grilled him over dinner.
“Yes, if you can believe it.”
“Somehow I can,” Shotgun said with a laugh. “Where are you now?”
“In a park. Just watching the ducks and thinking about stuff.”
“Text me the address; I’ll bring lunch,” Shotgun offered.
“That would be great.”
“Anything you don’t eat?”
“Tomato and salmon,” I replied, and Shotgun chuckled.
“See you soon,” he promised and cut the call.
It was probably exceedingly wrong, but I was really looking forward to seeing Shotgun again. Usually, bikers were portrayed as slobs with huge beer bellies, long, unkempt beards, and jeans hanging down their asses. Shotgun was the antithesis of this. Tall, well-built, handsome, and with a closely cropped goatee. The man should also be a butt model because he filled them out perfectly.
I was laughing at a momma duck telling some chicks off when I heard a bike. The exhaust was so loud that no one could miss it. A smile crossed my lips because that had to be Shotgun. The noise ended, and minutes later, a tall figure appeared in the sunlight, casting a shadow. Shotgun sat beside me and placed a bag between us. He smiled as he took me in.
“Volunteering again today?”
“Yes. But, hey, no food!” I exclaimed, pointing down at my clothes. I was wearing jeans and an old tee.
Shotgun opened the bag. “What’s your paying job?”
“I’m a photographer,” I replied, and Shotgun paused.
“Really?”
“Yup. I’ve had photos in the National Geographic, National Wildlife, and the Smithsonian. I’m quite recognised for my nature pictures. I also release some prints every year, not often and in a series, and that drives demand for my work up.”
“Ah, very clever.”
“Yes. I’m due to go to Zimbabwe for six weeks soon. I’m shooting the African Wild Dog, or Painted Dog, as they’re better known. A team’s going out; they’re microchipping them so they can be tracked and, hopefully, the litters saved. There’s only about six thousand left now, and their numbers are dwindling quickly.”
“Wow. Beauty and brains. Do you travel a lot?” Shotgun asked.
“A few times a year, and usually for over four weeks per trip, not the same places obviously. I’m heading to Zimbabwe to takedetailed pictures of those that are chipped. That way, in addition to the chip, we can have photo identification. Everything helps.”
“Colour me impressed,” Shotgun said. It was a balm to my confidence.
“And you make belts and things?”
“My pops taught me. Pops was a genius with designs and working with leather. I handle suede and other skins. And all mine come from natural deaths, or from farming meat, not a single poached skin amongst them,” he quipped, and I laughed.
Shotgun joked, but that meant a lot that he wanted to reassure me. “Also do taxidermy, although it’s not my favourite thing. But seeing people happy they have their pet for life, yeah, that counts.”
“Those things are freaking creepy.”
“What questions did you have?” Shotgun asked as he passed me a sandwich.
