Page 19 of Barristers & Bones

“Mediation, federal income tax, legal writing, and corporations.”

Ivan nodded. “That’s a challenging schedule. What’s your favorite class?”

“Mediation.”

Drakos laughed outright, and Ivan snorted and patted my arm.

“Get your hand off her, Knox. Mediation is overrated,” Roman stated as he walked out of his office. “Why mediate and compromise when you can dominate and win?”

I turned to Roman and wondered why he’d told Ivan to get his hand off me. The man confused me. “I’m not surprised that’s your stance. Not everyone enjoys litigation and confrontation, though.”

He shrugged. “Mediation is a good way to glean information, I’ll give you that. But you should never purposefully put yourself into a weaker position.”

The men at this law firm–if one could call it that–were enigmas, and these three had sharp edges. I wondered how their experiences in Arizona had altered them because I knew firsthand a person couldn’t go through something like that and not be changed in deep and significant ways.

That afternoon, Roman took me to Sin City Motorheads. From the outside, the business looked more like a motorcycle club that was maybe two shades away from being a motorcycle gang. It was located in a gritty industrial area in North Las Vegas, but the interior was a surprise. The showroom had a sleek, industrial edge to it with neon signage, a full bar on one side, and a few vintage motorcycles on display. There were also glossy, artistic photos of women straddling bikes wearing nothing but thongs.

As we walked in, I looked around with my mouth open. “Wow, this place is amazing.”

A younger man with long, stringy hair and an easy smile sat behind the raised chrome counter, and he stood when we walked in. “Hey Roman, I’ll tell Diego you’re here. He’s on a phone call.”

“Thanks, Brodie.”

“Who’s Diego?” I asked.

“Diego Rodriguez–the president and part-owner of the Area Fifty-Three motorcycle club and biker bar where they meet. He also owns a stake in this shop. He’s a likable, crass, mouthy asshole.”

I smiled brightly. “It sounds like you’re describing yourself–except the likable part.”

Roman shook his head as his phone rang. Looking down at the screen, he stepped outside to take the call, and I wandered over to the Harley Strap Tank model on display and walked around it with my hands behind my back.

“Do you like it?” Brodie asked. The bike looked like a cross between an old moped and a vintage motorcycle.

“I’ve read about this motorcycle. It’s one of the oldest and most rare models available. Isn’t it named after those straps holding the gas tank on?”

“You know about motorcycles?” a gruff voice behind me asked. I turned and saw a tall, striking man with sarcastic eyes and a strong jaw standing behind me wearing a black leather vest with patches on it. He wore motorcycle boots similar to Ivan’s, and his white smile stood out against his tan complexion.

I looked back at the vintage bike. “Not really, I’ve just read a few books about them. I ran across an interesting biography about some of the last vintage motorcycles and the history of Harley-Davidson in high school, though.”

He stuck a toothpick in his mouth. “Yeah? What’d you learn?”

“That Harley-Davidson is named after four men, three of whom were Davidsons, and the business started in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in…” I closed one eye and tried to remember. “1905? Maybe a little earlier. Anyway, their continued success seems to be a testament to America’s love affair with motorcycles and transportation.”

“Huh.” The man looked surprised.

I turned to him in earnest. “What’s the oldest motorcycle you’ve worked on, and where do you find the parts? Are you working on any right now?” I looked down at his vest and pointed. “Hey, I read an article about the motorcycle gangs around here last year after the latest shooting in Laughlin. I have a few questions. What do the patches mean on your vest?”

The man tilted his head and removed the toothpick. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Luna Cross.” I held out my hand. “Roman Fowler is my attorney mentor. Unfortunately, they didn’t allow me to pick my own.”

The man blinked, then grinned wide as he shook my hand. “He’s your mentor, huh? What’s he teaching you?”

I tilted my head, wondering if there was a double meaning in there somewhere. “Mostly how pigheaded and annoying he can be.”

The man laughed as Roman walked back inside. “Diego, I see you’ve met Luna.”

Diego eyed me again, then turned to Roman. “You have a claim on her? She’s not your usual type, and–”

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