Page 5 of Misadventures of a Biker

“You were in a motorcycle club?” she asked excitedly.

She was all but drooling. She seemed rather disinterested in the fact that I’d pummeled a man half to death.

I gave an affirmative nod. “Yeah.”

“Like Sons of Anarchy?”

We made the Sons of Anarchy look like nuns. At my earliest convenience, I intended to return to them and to the life I left behind. They were the only family I had, and being without them was a reminder of it.

I shrugged. “More or less.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, wow.”

I gave her a moment to digest everything. Staring blankly at the tattoo on my neck, she seemed to be taking it rather well.

“So, what should I do about that question?” I asked. “Is it going to be a problem?”

“That’s it? You beat up a guy because he was hitting a girl?”

“In summary, that’s all that happened.”

She wrinkled her nose. “How bad did you beat him up?”

If I was mad enough to beat someone, they didn’t get a mild ass whipping. I beat the guy within an inch of his life. I didn’t think expanding on the subject was necessary. She’d undoubtedly Google me and read about it anyway.

“It was a suitable punishment for what he’d done,” I said.

“Eight years.” She shook her head in disbelief. “How long ago was that?”

“The fight?”

“Umm. Yeah.”

“About eight years ago,” I responded. “Roughly.”

Her eyes widened a little more. “You just got out of prison?”

I nodded. “Sixteen days ago.”

She looked me over. Thoroughly. Not as if she were sexually interested. It seemed to be more of an inspection, of sorts.

“I’ve got a few questions for you. Are you ready?”

“Sure.”

“Have you ever been violent toward a woman?”

It seemed like an odd question for a job interview. I shook my head. “No.”

“Arrested for domestic violence?”

“No.”

“Had a PFS filed against you?”

“A what?”

“Protection from Stalking order.”