Page 46 of The Boyfriend Experience

But I had no fear either. Nothing to lose back then. That was before Elias Bricman found me and changed my life.

I was glad to leave that part of me behind. In fact, just walking towards the building gives me a weird feeling in my stomach. Reminds me of all those days I did nothing but stupid things.

And not stupid things like Oaklee does. Really stupid things.

“Jesus,” I say, once we walk through the door. “How big is this place?”

There’s like fifty bikes on the showroom floor, a bar off to the left, and the buzzing coming from the back—not to mention the pink neon sign that says Sick Girlz Ink—tells me there’s a tattoo shop in here too. There’s even a shooting gallery—fake, like the kind you see at a carnival, taking up one whole wall to my right. The whole place smells like summer. Popcorn, and cotton candy, and leather. There’s also a clothing store in the front, and that’s where we’re standing now.

I study the wall of boots, then look at the racks filled with customized, hand-painted leather jackets.

“Big,” Oaklee says. “I forgot that coming here is an experience. You need boots and a jacket for sure. But get whatever you want. I’m buying.”

“You’re not buying,” I say. “That’s ridiculous.”

But she’s already over in the women’s section, browsing through the skirts.

A guy comes over wearing a red and black bowling shirt with an embroidered patch over the left side of his chest that says ‘Chuck’ in fancy retro cursive writing. “Looking for something in particular?” he asks me.

“Boots,” I say.

“For going out? For riding the bike?”

“Bike,” I guess, figuring Oaklee wants me to look like a biker, even if I don’t actually own one.

“Engineer? Or harness?”

“Show me both,” I say. Because I remember wanting a pair of these back in the day. Back when I was poor as dirt. So wild, homeless would not be an inaccurate way to describe my living status. God, how bad I wanted a pair of these boots. And why I never got myself a pair after the money started rolling in… I don’t know.

“Brown or black?” he asks.

“Black,” I say. Even though I like brown better. I can’t wear black biker boots to the office… but brown ones, I could maybe pull that off with jeans. “Black,” I say again. Because this isn’t about me. It’s about what Oaklee needs me to be. “Size eleven.”

“You got it, bro,” Chuck says. “Be right back.”

I browse the jackets while I wait, wondering if Chuck is his real name or that’s just the name that comes with the shirt.

Now these jackets are serious pieces of art. They start at four hundred dollars and go up from there because I hear that the Shrike family paints them custom somewhere up in Fort Collins. And… I lift up the sleeve, peek inside, and feel a sense of satisfaction that I knew where to find it. Each one is individually signed by whoever painted it. This one says Spencer. The guy who owns this whole company. It’s got three zeros on the price tag.

But the art is magnificent. Not gaudy, either. Not some lame eagle posing in front of an American flag.

No, this is two ravens sitting in front of the iconic Shrike skull. And it’s subtle. Like, most of it is painted in metallic blue-black and you can’t really see it until the light hits it just the right way.

I slip it on, just to see if it fits. It does. And I’m just about to take it off when Chuck returns with two wooden boot crates branded with the Shrike logo burned into the wood. Whoever does the marketing for this place really has an eye for detail.

He sets the boxes down near an overstuffed leather chair and says, “Take your time, bro. I gotta go take care of some folks over there real quick.”

“Sure,” I say, glancing over in the direction he was nodding. There’s like half a dozen people holding cameras. The kind you use for news broadcasts or filming.

Huh. Wonder what that’s all about.

But I turn back to the boots because all those people disappear into a back room and there’s nothing more to see.

“That jacket is great,” Oaklee says, coming up behind me. “I love it. You’re getting it, right?”

“Sure,” I say, then jerk my arm away when she goes to reach for the price tag. “You’re not buying this.” I laugh. “So just buck off, Oaks.”

She smiles and shakes her head. “These your boot choices?”