Page 2 of Spike's Perdition
“What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?”
Before I can glance over my shoulder, large hands grip the back of my jacket and lift me enough to shove me back down to the pavement. I scramble to my feet so I can defend myself but freeze when I see a biker and several of his pals.
“I was trying to work a nail outta the tire,” I say, raising my hands to show them I mean no harm.
One of the guys steps around me and squats near the front tire. When he glances over his shoulder, his face is hard as he communicates in sign language.
What the hell is he saying?
“How do I know you didn’t put the nail there?”
I dart my eyes from one guy to the next, fear settling in my gut. I’m no slouch and can hold my own, but against these four, I wouldn’t stand a chance.
Squaring my shoulder, feigning a confidence I don’t feel, I level my gaze on the man who pushed me to the ground. “Because I’d never disrespect a bike like that.”
“What do you know about bikes like this?” one of his friends asks.
Finally comfortable with where this interaction is headed, I relax slightly. “Everything.”
“Everything?”
I nod.
“What year was the Harley Fat Boy introduced?”
“Nineteen ninety,” I reply easily. He opens his mouth to speak, but I continue. “It was designed by Netz and Davidson and originally featured a Softail frame, shotgun exhaust, solid disc wheels, a 1340cc V twin engine, and a hand-laced leather seat.” I take a deep breath. “Oh, and it was gunmetal gray with yellow trim.”
“What year did Harley introduce the Chief?”
“They didn’t. The Chief is an Indian motorcycle.” I grin. “And it was introduced in 1922.”
He glances to his friend on his left, a guy a bit older than him. “He’s right, Soul,” the guy says. “Dude knows his info.”
Soul stares at me for a moment before relaxing his stance. “What’s your name?”
“Hunter.”
“Soul,” he says, thrusting his hand out for me to shake. “These are my brothers, Grim, Frenzy, and Malice.”
Before I can reply, movement catches my attention, and I look to see Lonnie walking toward us.
“Friend of yours?” Frenzy, the older guy, asks.
“Yeah,” I confirm. “Lonnie Jacks. He owns?—”
“Jack’s Restoration and Repair,” Frenzy says, with admiration. “Does some great work.”
“Yes, sir, he does. Taught me everything I know.”
“Everything okay here, Hunter?” Lonnie asks when he reaches us, a set of pliers gripped tightly in his hand.
I nod. “All good.”
“I was just about to invite Hunter to have a beer with us,” Soul says. “Care to join?”
Lonnie grins. “Sure.”
“Lemme just get this nail out for ya real quick,” I say, reaching for the pliers. “Then we can take the bike to the shop, and I’ll patch up the hole before you head home.”
