I wait.
“Ah, nothing. He’s retiring. I’m selling the building.” He shrugs and, despite his easy smile, there’s something behind the words that feels strained. “Meeting with a real estate agent tomorrow. End of an era, I guess.”
“You have to sell?”
“Don’t need the money, but with nobody to run the place…”
“Nobody wants the business?”
His head shake is quick “Not much money in it. More of a community service than anything.”
I look up at him, curious at how level, almost monotone, his voice has gotten. “How so?”
His stance is relaxed, but there’s a muscle ticking in his jaw, a strain to his neck. “Ricky’s the guy who saved me. Before prison and after.”
I watch him, waiting for him to go on, hungry for any morsel of insight he’s willing to share.
“Think I told you I was a brawler as a kid.” I nod. “Well, Ricky’s gym’s where I learned to fight. To take that energy and focus it.” He lets out a bitter, humorless sound. “When I got out, Mom had…” He sniffs, looks away. I fight the urge to reach out and put an arm around him. “Ricky gave me a place to stay. Helped me figure out a job.”
“He sounds like a good guy.”
“The best.” His smile’s more of a grimace. “He’s still saving kids down at the gym.”
“Yeah? Kids like you?”
“Some things don’t change.”
“Except he’s retiring?”
“Got himself a lady friend.” Now he’s grinning. “She wants to go on cruises, not hang out in a smelly gym filled with people beating the crap out of each other for fun.”
“You don’t know anyone who could take over?”
He swallows, seems to consider, and then says an abrupt, “No,” and turns to a door behind us. “Come on in.” He unlocks it, letting us into an industrial-looking lobby area, complete with one of those open freight elevators and everything.
“You’re kidding me.”
He grins, shuts the door behind me, and turns to a last set of double doors. “I kid you not.” Another lock opened, doors thrown wide and…
“Oh. This isnice.”
“Whole building belonged to an outlaw biker gang. This was the president’s digs before the feds got him—all of ’em, actually—on racketeering charges.” He turns on a light and puts out a hand for my jacket, which he hangs on a set of antler coat hooks by the door.
“You hunt?”
“Nah. That was here when I bought it.” His head shake is dismissive. “I’m only recently allowed to own a firearm.”
“Oh. Oh, I hadn’t thought about that.”
“Not much interested in shooting guns. I could use a bow and arrow, I guess. If I got a sudden hankering for fresh meat.”
I ignore the innuendo—intentional or not. “So, a motorcycle club. That’s pretty wild.”
“Yep.” He leads the way to a wide-open kitchen and the massive, rough-brick-walled space beyond. “Had it deep cleaned before staying here the first time. Twice.” From a big,professional grade fridge, he pulls out a wine bottle and a beer. “Get you a drink?”
I pause, look at him, and then down at the selection. “I…” A puff of air escapes me. “Is this a date?” My light laugh is so clearly forced, he’s got to hear it.
“You want it to be?
