Page 4 of Misadventures of a Biker

“Have you ever tried oysters on the half shell?”

“Oysters.” She wrinkled her nose. “No.”

“Are you married?”

She seemed offended at the question.

“This isn’t a proposition or an inventory of your worth. Just play along. I’ve got a point to make, I promise.”

“Married?” She sighed. “No.”

“If you were dating someone and they really wanted you to try an oyster while you were out on a date, would you?”

“I mean. If he really wanted me to, sure.”

“If you liked it, would you admit it?”

“If I did? Sure. I’m kind of a foodie, so I like it when I find new foods.”

I lifted my extended index finger. “One more question.”

Her brows raised. “Who’s being interviewed for the job? You or me?”

“I wanted to find out who I was dealing with before I answered one of these questions.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Who are you dealing with?”

“An open-minded woman who wouldn’t condemn someone for a mistake he made.”

She smirked. “You’ve been convicted of a felony, haven’t you?”

I hadn’t reached a point where I was comfortable talking about it with her. Not yet, at least. But there was no avoiding the issue.

Instead of slumping my shoulders in defeat, I puffed my chest proudly. “I have.”

“That’s okay,” she said dismissively. “I mean, as long as it wasn’t for something bad.”

Bad wasn’t clearly defined. I mulled over my response.

Not receiving an immediate answer, her face contorted. “It wasn’t bad, was it?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “I’ll give you the abbreviated version.”

She leaned back in her chair. “Okay.”

“I was walking out of a bar, and a guy was arguing with a girl just outside the door. They were surrounded by a large group of people, so I figured it was just some drunken argument about who was going to drive home. Before I got to my motorcycle, I heard her scream. When I turned around, he had her by her coat and his hand was cocked, like he was going to hit her. I told him to let her go. He said, ‘Go home, asshole. This doesn’t concern you.’ I guess he thought with all the people surrounding him that he was safe. Just to let him know he wasn’t, I said, ‘Fuck you.’ Five minutes later, he was in a pile beside his car, and I was being handcuffed.”

“That’s it?” she asked.

“More or less.”

“So, what? You spent a weekend in jail or something?”

It was time to let the cat out of the bag. I twisted my mouth to the side and arched a brow. “Eight years and a month.”

“Holy crap!” Her eyes bulged. “Eight years? For a bar fight? Why?”

“When I said, ‘fuck you,’ one of his friends thought I said, ‘fuck Jews.’ He testified under oath that those were the words he heard. Because I was in a motorcycle club, and because he was Jewish, they made it a gang-related hate crime. The judge gave me eight years.”