Page 3 of Roadrunner

The bottle in my hand was root beer. It was the only kind I was legally allowed to order. At my parents’ parties I used to hold something dark and let the ice do the lying.

I had three months before I started at the University of Arizona. Whatever this turned into, I didn’t want to start it on a lie. But the truth would send him running.

I decided to talk in circles instead and see how far that got me.

“Sometimes I drink, sometimes I don’t,” I said, reaching for my water. “Today’s a don’t day.”

He took a sip and looked off toward the bar, like small talk wasn’t a language he spoke fluently. He came back to me. “You go to U of A, or you just wear the hat?”

I was soon to be a freshman. Answering honestly would lead straight to my age. I kept it vague. “I’m a student. What do you do?”

“Electrician. Kind of. Work on Harleys, mostly.” He set his beer down and looked at me directly. “How old are you?”

He’d gone right for it. I held his gaze. “How old are you?”

He didn’t look angry. Just done letting me dodge.

I braced for him to drive me straight to the tire shop and leave. “Eighteen,” I said, answering before he did. “Almost nineteen.”

He was expressionless.

“But mature,” I added, before he could say anything. “Very mature.”

“Mature enough to drive a Jeep up a jagged boulder the size of the Tucson Mall?” He almost laughed. “Alone.”

“Climbing a rock doesn’t make someone immature,” I replied. “A person can be adventurous and mature.”

He set his empty bottle aside and gave me a sideways look. “Eighteen, huh?”

Relieved he hadn’t asked for the check, I pushed forward. “Age is just a number. How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

I gave the same look back. “Twenty-four, huh?”

He looked me up and down. “You scared?”

I laughed. “Of what?”

“A twenty-four-year-old biker.”

I wasn’t a typical eighteen-year-old. In the eyes of most, I was adventurous and fearless. My parents had never paid close enough attention to notice me, and disappointing them was still, somehow, the only real thing I was afraid of. Fearless is easy when nobody is watching.

“Of you? No. Curious, maybe.”

The bartender came by. “Happy hour. Second one’s half off. Another?”

“I’m good,” Riley said, not breaking eye contact with me. “Curious about what?”

“You’re wearing a vest with patches like you’re in a motorcycle club, but there’s nothing on the back. Why?”

“Surprised you noticed.” He seemed pleased that I had. “I’m prospecting. You know what that means?”

I’d watched enough Sons of Anarchy to have a guess. “Basically trying out for the club. Right?”

He nodded once. “Close enough.”

If he was going to let me keep asking, I intended to do just that.