Daytona Bike Week. Biker’s paradise. The perfect place for Chad and Ariel Garrett to take a few days off and relax with Chad’s buddy Spike and Ariel’s little sister Stacy. But nothing ever goes as planned with that magical duo. Trouble just stalks them like a black cat. Oh, wait! Is that a black cat stalking them? By the name of Micah? A missing agent riding with an outlaw biker gang, a call from Chad’s past, and War-N-Wit, Inc.’s riding again. On Harleys!
A shriek sounded from the loud and raucous table next to us. A chair banged back and high-pitched feminine laughter exploded as a gyrating body danced in the floor space between tables.
“Okay, honey, you been waiting to do that all night! Get your eye-full!”
Stacy’s eyes widened as the long-haired blonde thrust out her considerable chest, now showcased by the white t-shirt dripping beer. I’d already noticed bras weren’t considered a necessary part of the wardrobe for Bikers Week. Certainly not by this blonde.
One of the guys at the blonde’s table clapped madly and shouted “Too many dry t-shirts in this place! Let’s fix that!”
A deluge of beer exploded over my chest. Stacy gasped with me and I knew she’d been baptized too.
“Aw man! No fair! These chicks wearin’ bras!”
“You gotta be kiddin’!”
“C’mon, lil’ darlin’s, you gotta get with the program here!”
“You want a program, buddy? How’s this for a program? How’s this feel?” Stacy surged out of her chair and drew the arm holding her beer mug back in a modified version of the underhand softball pitch that terrorized neighborhood soft ball games every summer of her childhood. She got two of the cat-callers with one shot. Full in the face. I wasn’t sure she’d gotten the one calling attention to our under-apparel wardrobe and besides, I didn’t want her having all the fun, so I stood up and tossed mine. I got two of them too, not as forcefully as Stacy’s toss, but I’d never been an athlete.
The tossed bikers sputtered. The blonde with the impressive chest screamed “Bitch!” She grabbed her mug and tossed the contents in our direction. She’d never played neighborhood softball. It went way wide and caught a biker sitting at a table next to ours.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Everybody at that table picked up their mugs. Beer exploded over Chad and Spike and quite a few innocent by-standers.
Within minutes, the whole place joined the action. Clouds of beer rained down over the whole room.
Chad grabbed my hand, Spike grabbed Stacy’s, and pulled us, non-too gently, toward the door, ducking under arms and weaving through bodies. As we passed the register, Chad tossed our bill and a hundred onto the counter.
“Keep the change!” We barreled out onto the street and stood. We all looked at each other.
Chad shook his head.