Page 10 of Nuts

“Bring it by when you get the pipes on it,” I said with a smile. “I’d like to see it.”

“I’ll do that.” He gave a nod, dragged his hand along the length of his beard, and then turned away.

As he walked toward the door, Blane looked at me and shook his head. “I hate you.”

I shot him a playful glare. “You bought a Harley, and you think that makes you a biker. I love Harleys, and most of the people that ride them.”

He rolled his eyes. “You make sales because you’re a girl.”

“I made that sale because I knew what he wanted. I knew what he wanted because after another guy wanted it a few weeks ago, I went home and researched the Panhead model. You can talk shit all you want, but you had no idea what he was after.”

He gave me a dismissive look. “You made the sale because you’ve got tits.”

“Yeah, that guy walked right up to me, looked at my tits, and then talked to you. Guys don’t want to deal with a girl when it comes to their Harley. You’ve got muscles, a tattoo, and a dick. You fit right in.”

“You don’t even ride,” he said. “I don’t know why you work here. You don’t fit in.”

“You ride a Sportster.” I forced a dry laugh “That’s a girl bike.”

“Bullshit. Sportsters are fast as fuck.”

“A 1200 can be. You’re on an old 883. It’s a turd,” I said. “They’re for girls and wannabes.”

“You calling me a wannabe?”

“Assuming you’ve got a dick, that was the only other option, right?”

“At least I ride,” he scoffed.

“I might not ride, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy riding on the back of one. Rode on the back of a 1%er’s bike the other day.”

“Bullshit.”

I shrugged. “Baddest club in SoCal.”

“Hells Angels?”

I shook my head.

“Mongols?”

“Nunya.”

His brow wrinkled. “Nunyas? Never heard of ‘em.”

“No,” I said with a laugh. “Nunya. Nun ya business.”

He rolled his eyes, extended his forearm, and admired his six-week-old Budweiser tattoo. It was well-made, but I found it ridiculous that he’d have it tattooed on his forearm.

“What are you going to do when you discover you like PBR more than Budweiser?” I asked. “Get the PBR logo on your other arm?”

“Budweiser is the only beer as far as I’m concerned.”

“Tried them all, have you?”

He rubbed his thumb along the center of the tattoo, stretching it out of proportion as he looked at it. “Don’t need to. King. Of. Beers. Enough said.”

I glanced at the ridiculous bowtie-like banner, coughed a light laugh, and turned toward the sales floor.