Leif Rhodes

I walk into the bar. Road dust clings to my biker boots and black leather gear. Unshaved face for at least a week. A dark expression on my face that seems more disgruntled than dangerous. I head straight for the bar. My gait slows the heartbeat of every person watching. It's a model’s stride—a rhythmic, low-slung sway of the hips that radiated a lethal level of self-assurance

Scotch. Neat. Booth.

I stride toward an empty booth.

I haven’t been sitting there long when you suddenly appear and ask if the seat opposite me is taken.

Nope.

I mumble the word rather than saying it clearly.