Shepherd nodded and took a step back, but Ginny stayed close, embracing him tight around his waist. “I mean it,” she said to his chest. “I’m going to make it up to you.”
“Listen.” He kissed the top of her head. “Just don’t let me blow up, OK? Literally or figuratively, and we’ll call it even.”
What Shepherd realized as he switched from Ginny’s car to Charlie’s borrowed motorcycle on the side of the road just around the corner from the clubhouse was that he had not watched enough videos about parking bikes the night before.
That was mainly Ginny’s fault.
Nevertheless, he kept going.
“You got this, Boss,” Chris shouted, holding up a hand for a high five. But Shepherd was too busy clutching the bike’s handlebars for dear life to high-five him back. Chris high-fived himself. “See you on the other side, man!”
Shepherd pulled out into the road without looking back. Someone honked. That was on him. He would’ve waved for forgiveness, but he wasn’t about to let go of his grip on the handles. He took another wide turn, earning yet another honk, and the clubhouse came into view. There were bikeseverywhere, spilling out from the parking lot and into the street, practically stopping traffic for anything bigger than a three-wheeler.
OK, throttle. Throttle was first in his mind and hopefully first on the list he wrote last night on his phone while Ginny slept: How to Park the Bike Without Dying. He let off the throttle and miraculously, grudgingly, the bike slowed.
Next up on the list was the clutch. Oh God, or was it the brake? Both? He reached for the handbrake and gave a tug, but that only insulted the bike. It lurched forward, trying to buck him off. He panicked and hit the rear break with his foot. The bike fishtailed slightly, tires squealing.
“Sorry!” Shepherd yelled, to the bike and to anyone who might’ve had to witness him in his moment of glory.
He coasted towards the edge of the parked motorcycles, allgleaming chrome and competence, and turned into the first spot he saw. Too fast. Too soon. The bike almost tipped over; Shepherd’s boot scraped the pavement as he caught both himself and the machine that hated him.
Chris’s voice echoed in his head from the night before in the alley, shouting at him, “Lean with the bike!” but Shepherd hadn’t understood what he meant then, and he certainly didn’t understand what he meant now.
He was pretty sure the barbecue smell assaulting his nose wasn’t from the clubhouse cookout, but from the leather of his shoe roasting on the pavement.
Kickstand was next. He knew that for sure. But where was the damn thing? Praying silently, and definitely not crying, he managed to fumble the kickstand down with the heel of his scraped-up boot. The bike tipped to the right. Shepherd winced, bracing himself. But the bike stopped moving.
It was up.
He’d done it. He’d parked the bike.
With a giant grin, he swung himself off, kicking the saddlebags in the process, and falling to the ground.
He popped up with an “I’m OK!” but no one was watching him. Thank God and the mother Mary both.
Step One—Park the Damn Bike—was done.
Now he needed Step Two: Get Inside the Damn Clubhouse Without Being Murdered for His Stupid Bandana and Even Stupider Leather Vest.
At least he’d been able to wear his own jeans. The fact that it was July in South Florida meant that wearing jeans at all was akin to snuggling Satan, but if nothing else, they were denim and not leather or embroidered with idiotic skulls like his Spirit Halloween vest.
There were hundreds of white people milling about, in the street, in the parking lot, in the entry of the building. It was weird to be in aforementioned South Florida and be in a sea of exclusively white people, but it did make him feel less bad about robbing them. There were grills set up in the parking lot—which explained why so much parking was happening inthe street—and teams of bikers gathered around with different meats, from hot dogs to entire pigs.
A food truck parked nearby that advertised simplyTACOShad its window down, but there were workers going in and out like they might open at any moment. One worker spotted Shepherd and gave a big wave.
Shepherd ignored him. That wave could’ve been for anyone.
The good news about it being an open party for the white supremacist biker group and him being an obvious white man meant no one questioned him walking into the clubhouse. In fact, someone handed him an ice-cold beer as he crossed the threshold.
With the door open and at least a hundred people inside, it didn’t matter that the bikers had their A/C running at full blast. Even with the arctic chill coming out of the vents, it was a sweltering and stinky eighty degrees. Charred pork, spilled beer, souring sweat, cigarette smoke. Shepherd drank his beer and tried to wash the taste of the place out of his mouth.
The clubhouse carried remnants of its previous life as a sports bar, with neon beer signs glowing on paneled wood walls, a scattering of pool tables whose green felt had turned a sad brown. There were a lot of women in the room, hanging out nearest the vents, talking to the men. Everyone was wearing various amounts of leather, which was clearly a requirement for attending the party. But one woman stood out. Red hair. Green tank top, faded blue jeans, no leather in sight. She was sitting on a large pink cooler and laughing at something one of the bikers said.
Ginny had found the leader. The president? Whatever, it had been years since he’d watchedSons ofAnarchy.
He popped open his beer and approached them in a manner that he hoped passed off his sweat as a natural result of the heat and not of the terror twisting in his belly.
“So, I really do think you’ll be able to get money from the city for this,” she was saying. “I deal with this kind of case all the time and—oh, hello.” She grinned at him. “Do you want a wine cooler?” Ginny stood up and opened her big pink cooler. It was filled, apparently, with ice and wine coolers. “I’m not a big beer drinker myself.”
