Page 8 of Remy (Golden Glades Henchmen MC 4)

“He paid for it pretty good.”

“Okay, maybe some people aren’t terrible. Is it awesome?”

“Is what awesome?”

“Being big and strong and capable of opening a can of whoop-ass on people who deserve it?”

“Whoop-ass? Your vocabulary is stuck in the nineties. The cheesy part of the nineties,” he added.

“Hey, I refuse to accept there was anything cheesy about the nineties.”

“Were you even alive in the nineties?”

“Yes. Well, I mean, I didn’t know my basic alphabet for most of it, but I was there. Eating applesauce and watching colorful children’s shows. I mean, you can’t be that much older than me. What do you remember about the nineties that I don’t?”

“Crystal Pepsi,” he suggested.

“I wasn’t allowed to have soda when I was growing up.”

“My ma was less than attentive,” he said, shrugging.

“That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“That sleeveless jacket of yours,” I told him, nodding at it. “Bikers wear those, right?”

“It’s called a cut. And yeah. But what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, I mean, have you ever seen a well-adjusted biker? What sane, rational, going-to-therapy person hops on a death trap with two wheels for, like, a living?”

“You think riding a bike pays anything?” he asked, smirking.

“Listen, I’ve watched an episode or two of that biker show that everyone loves. So, yeah, I know what that little, you know, emblem means,” I said, nodding toward it.

“It’s a patch. A one-percent patch.”

“Right. Yeah, and it means you do, you know, criminal stuff.”

“Criminal stuff,” he repeated.

“Yes, criminal stuff. Which kind of just occurred to me now, so I am going to, you know, back away from you, get in my car, and drive away.”

“So you don’t have to open up a can of whoop-ass and kick me in the balls?” he asked.

“Yes, exactly that. So, yeah, um, nice meeting you, Remy.”

“Lark,” he called as I got to the other side of my car.

“Yeah?”

“You might want to get her to the vet soon. Her stomach looks kind of round to me.”

“Like she’s bloated?” I asked, trying to shift her body so I could see her belly.

“Like she’s pregnant,” he said, turning and walking away.

No, not walking.