Throttling their bikes down, they rumble into the steakhouse parking lot. They park in what they hope is a line of sight from the bar so they can keep an eye on their bikes. Boots stepping off highway pegs and onto gravel. Unbuckling their half helmets. Hunter looks over at Nugget. “What the hell’s up with Itch?”

“He’s been strange of late.”

“I mean, it’s not like we don’t know he peddles weed. Got nothing against it. But try and hide it, calling it his ‘problems to reconcile,’ his ‘affairs’? Come on, man, kinda jive-ass turkeys he think we are?” Hunter chuckles.

“Right. We’re all friends here, like family. Think maybe it’s his lady?”

“Like? I believe we are family. And yeah, she’s a feisty gal.”

Carrying their helmets into the bar. The atmosphere meets them as the door opens: loud conversations; sets of eyes checking them out; men, women, and kids; smells of grilled meats and vegetables. They walk over the smoke-colored floor, past booths, to the bar, a long rectangle of clear-coated white oak. Pulling out three chairs, laying their helmets and then their leather coats in the third one, piling them up. Nugget’s and Hunter’s arms are a road map of ink. Hunter could feel the eyes from neighboring tables staring holes through them. Buzz-cut Nugget, with biceps like grapefruits, is the larger of the two large men, whereas Hunter is leaner and has hair. He rubs his chin stubble and looks around the room. On a stool to his left sits a stocky lump of a man, thick in the middle, with thick black-framed glasses like the old-school Clark Kent and a thick box-cut head of hair. He sips a sweating glass of bourbon with a single monstrous ice cube. Making eye contact with Hunter, he nods, gives a down-on-his-luck grin. Hunter feels the questions that will lead into an autobiography of woe, when the man asks, “Out for a ride, or just traveling through?”

“Traveling through. Making a stop for some food and maybe a beer or two.” Hunter offers his hand. “Hunter.”

The guy’s impressive gut hangs out over his blue jeans, balanced on a metal belt buckle that looks built for the job. He sticks out his hand. “Johnny.”

“You from around here?”

“Yeah. Used to work down at the Coca-Cola plant. Got shit-canned.” Lifting his drink, he says, “Why I’m here. Nursing my wounds.” Takes a sip.

Strong scent of bourbon. Gotta be on his third drink, Hunter thinks as he slides onto his stool. “Lost your job. That’s gotta hurt. Come to think of it, guess we’re in the same boat—I lost mine this morning.”

“Union?”

“Naw. Handed my boss his ass for taking his personal failings out on his dog.”

“Sounds like the fuckhead deserved a good ass-handing. Kinda dog?”