“I’d like a program. Please.”
“Oh, right. Sure. Here you go.” I hand the program over and notice a patch on the left side of his jacket that names him as a treasurer. Do biker gangs have treasurers, and if so, for what purpose?
His fingertips touch the program, but he doesn’t take it.
“Like what you see?”
His tone matches that knowing smile on his face as if he can hear every word I’m thinking.
Why this man makes me nervous, I can’t say, but I’m shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, and the wind isn’t even blowing. He’s older than me, but that’s not it. He seems handsome underneath the glasses, but I can’t tell for sure, only that he makes me nervous and excited. Dangerous, my mind supplies for me.
“I just noticed your patch says you’re a treasurer, and I didn’t realize organizations like yours had a treasurer.”
He let out a huff of laughter. “I imagine there’s a lot about my organization that would surprise you, sweetheart.”
He’s mocking me, and I take a step back. “Right, well, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” he says sincerely and finally accepts the program.
I watch the man walk off, more curious than I should be about the entire scene in front of me. The bikers, the women with them who seem as if they could have attended the same private schools I had over the years.
They are a strange, mismatched group, but today, in their grief, they are one.