Mia’s eyes narrow. “Bullshit. I can tell you’re lying. What did she say?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“She said you have a thing for me.”

“She—did not.” Mia blushes deeply again.

“She implied it.”

An angry sigh escapes her mouth. “Well, she’s definitely not a genius. That’s a relief.” Mia walks to the kitchen door, then looks back at me. “By the way, I’m not buying that whole ‘paper bag test’ suffering shtick. Any woman as hot as she is didn’t suffer too much exclusion in high school or college.”

I think about this. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?”

“I’m just making an observation.”

“Would you have guessed a woman as pretty as she is would have joined the army? As a private?”

“No. That stumps me, I’ll admit. That’s why I’m going to read her book.”

“I’ll be interested to hear your conclusion.” I raise my hand in farewell.

Mia gives me a fake smile, then disappears into the hall.

Chapter 13

In the dark sprawl between Vidalia and Ferriday, Louisiana, two men wearing black leather chaps and jackets staggered out of the Steel Tiger bar and headed into the oyster-shell parking lot. Stump Seyfarth had been drinking enough that he listed to starboard as he scanned the lot for his hog.

“Where’s our bikes?” he bellowed indignantly. “Didn’t we park right there by the sign?”

“Goddamn, son,” said a laughing Jimmy Gunn, still reasonably sober. “You must have your beer goggles on.” Jimmy shielded his eyes against the lone streetlight, then bent his knees and peered into the mostly empty lot. “Motherfucker!” he shouted. “I’m gonna kill somebody.”

“What is it?” Stump cried. “Whassa matter?”

“Somebody tipped our bikes over!”

Jimmy ran clumsily to where the Harleys lay in the gravel and dirt, looking like chromed black rhinos felled by a game hunter’s rifle.

“They scratched my Road King to hell and gone!” he shouted, his ears pounding with rage. “Looks like they beat in the tank with a wrench or something. I’m gonna waste the fuckers that done this, I swear.”

Stump finally caught up. He stood panting over the wrecked bikes, his hands on his big hips. “How you gonna find ’em?”

“Had to be local thugs,” Jimmy reasoned. “Unless Cage and his friends did it. Nobody else would have the balls.”

“Could have been some Bandidos or Vinlanders passin’ through, huh? Saw we were inside, so they kicked over our rides and split?”

“I seriously doubt it.”

“FBI, maybe?”

Jimmy considered the possibility, then dismissed it. “Naaah. This ain’t their style.” He bent over and took hold of his handlebars. “Help me pick this bastard up. Jesus Christ.”