“Perfect.”
I take a twenty from my pocket and hold it out to her. She puts up her hands.
“They’re on the house.”
“Do you treat all your customers like this?”
“It wasn’t me,” she says with a grin. “It was Jason.”
She points back to the barista. He waves, so I wave back.
“He’s got a thing for bad boys.”
“What makes you think I’m bad?”
She nods down at me.
“You’ve got a glove on one hand, so either it’s hurt or you’re hiding an identifying mark.”
“Maybe I’m just into Michael Jackson.”
“And your wrist. Are those handcuff marks?”
I look down and, yes, my damn wrist is still bruised.
“It is, but it was all a misunderstanding.”
“So, it wasn’t recreational handcuff play …?”
“Recreational for someone, but not for me.”
“Too bad,” Alyx says. “Handcuffs go great with Vicodin.”
I sip my espresso. It’s thick as molasses and the caffeine would revive a dozy rhino. I just wish I could taste the damn thing.
“An artist and a doctor. Is there anything you don’t do?”
“Not much,” she says, pulling a card from her pocket. She puts it on the table. “That’s my card. It has my site on it.”
Above the URL is a color drawing of a topless girl in leathers on a motorcycle. The banner underneath reads “Kiss and Kill.”
“Very nice,” I say.
Alyx cocks her h
ead.
“It’s a self-portrait.”
I can’t help smiling at that.
“You like bikes?” I say. “Too bad I didn’t ride mine.”
“What kind is it?”
Interesting question. I can’t really tell the truth—that it was made by Hellion craftsmen when I was the Devil and I drove it all the way back from Hell. But it would be fun to say.
“It’s custom. Modeled it on a ’65 Electra Glide.”