Page 11 of The Girlfriend's Guide to Dating a Biker
Megan
Name one.
Me
Cybersecurity? Listen, I don’t need this kind of targeted attack from someone who once created a PowerPoint presentation analysing her favourite actor’s arms.
This is where this all ended up: I was at this dive bar next to the Dirty Pleasures restaurant (which I may or may not have chosen because one of my 2 a.m. research spirals revealed it’s owned by a certain motorcycle club, and no, I’m not proud of how many databases I had to navigate to find that information). And okay, fine, MAYBE I suggested this specific bar to my co-workers because it’s next door to said restaurant.
I was with the work crew, trying to explain to Karen from Accounting why my latest code review comment of “//TODO: Make this suck less” on Johnson’s disaster code was totally justified, while she attempted to calculate the statistical probability of me getting fired for “unprofessional feedback” (her latest spreadsheet includes a fascinating pie chart of “Ways Eden Might Lose Her Job” with “snarky code comments” taking up a concerning 36%).
Then, I heard it. That Harley rumble that my body now recognises faster than my own name. (Mrs Primrose claims she’s started logging my “suspicious Pavlovian response to motorcycle sounds” in her dossier of building mysteries. Yes, I heard that through the air vent. No, I’m not proud of my eavesdropping habits.)
Then, he walked in. Not alone. There was six of them, all leather jackets and don’t-fuck-with-me energy. And look, I’ve seen Savage around our building enough times now to think I had a handle on his whole . . . everything. But this was different. This was Savage in his natural habitat.
Me
CODE RED
Megan
He’s there??
Me
WITH SOME OF HIS CLUB
Megan
On a scale of 1-10 how dangerous do they look?
Me
YES
Megan
That’s not a number.
Me
NUMBERS HAVE NO MEANING ANYMORE
The entire energy of the bar shifted. You know that scene in nature documentaries where all the smaller animals suddenly go quiet because something bigger just walked in? Yeah. That.
“Holy shit,” Karen whispered, completely abandoning her statistical analysis of my potential firing. “Why didn’t you include THIS in your ‘completely random venue suggestion’ presentation? I’m creating a new tab called ‘Real Motivations: A Case Study in Hot Bikers.’”
Before I could pretend that I had no idea what she was talking about or admit that was my hot neighbour (neither seemed like a great option), everything went sideways.
Some drunk guy at the bar had been hassling one of the bartenders. He was the type of guy who thinks “no” is the start of a negotiation.
Savage intervened with, “Problem here, mate?”
Three words. Just three words, but they hit the room like a thunderclap. Look, I’ve been writing code for years, and I’ve never seen anything execute that efficiently.
Karen already had her phone out, probably to create a new spreadsheet titled “Voice Analysis: From Darlin’ to Deadly,” but I couldn’t pay attention because I was too busy watching the transformation. Gone was my almond-milk-drinking neighbour who helps Mrs Primrose with her groceries. In his place stood someone else. Someone who made the entire bar hold its breath.
Drunk Guy (turning around): “Mind your own fu?—”
