American Outlaw by James Jesse

Author:James, Jesse [James, Jesse]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Gallery
Published: 2011-04-27T16:00:00+00:00

We were married in a very small ceremony in Long Beach, and some six months later, our second child was born—a boy. We named him Jesse Jr.

“Look at this punk,” I said, holding him to my chest, marveling at his small fingers and tiny nose. “This one’s gonna be trouble, I can tell.”

“No, he will not,” Karla said. “I want my son to be a sweetheart.”

“He’s another Jesse James, hon,” I said to her. “You don’t have much chance, I’m afraid to tell you.”

It was thrilling for me to have another child around. I loved Chandler and Jesse Jr. so deeply, and so totally without effort. I received a deep kind of satisfaction from spending time with them, a glow that I couldn’t put into words. It was a bit like when I’d gone up to Seattle, and entered the shipyards for the first time; this sense that I had been born to do this. Experiencing fatherhood was like sinking neatly into a hole that had been bored out especially for me. I felt so incredibly thankful for the fact that by coming into this world, my kids had changed my life.

Yet at the same time, I remained totally driven. It’s a paradox that all successful men who have families must deal with: they love their kids completely, but at the same time, they are addicted to an idea of “making it” that forces them to go out into the world and do battle. In my bones, I knew that West Coast Choppers was on the cusp of becoming something huge. And that notion excited me greatly. It got me out of bed in the morning with a frenzied sort of nervousness that demanded I head over to the shop.

“We have someone on the line who would like to speak with you about purchasing a new custom, Jesse.”

Melissa was my new secretary, a tattooed chick in her thirties who sported a Bettie Page hairdo and fit the image of our upscale-yet-down-to-earth Long Beach bike shop.

In recent months, I’d hired on more than ten new employees, including a team of polishers, two master painters, more welders, and now a woman to work the phones. Karla took care of payroll. That left me captaining the ship, which recently seemed to be sailing at a faster speed every time I looked up.

“Okay,” I said, sipping my first cup of coffee of the day, scanning over an inventory sheet. “Who is it?”

“He says he’s Tyson Beckford,” Melissa whispered. She covered the phone. “Oh my God, do you think it’s the Tyson Beckford? That man is the most beautiful human being on the planet.”

Of course, it was him. Word of mouth was beginning to make our brand well known across the United States and Europe. The custom choppers we were producing were loud and brash-looking. They often inspired a kind of double take by random passersby. “Who the hell made that for you?” they asked. Through excited discussions in parking lots and at parties, West

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