What the hell was happening?
I couldn't just go home. I needed to come down from this ledge and unwind about this situation with someone—with a friend.
I opened the folder on my Maserati's media center labeled Contacts and started scrolling through it. I soon saw a name that jumped out at me—someone I thought would be able to help, to give it to me straight without pulling any punches and offer some decent advice: Bryce, my personal trainer.
I tapped on his name and waited as the dial tone rang through the car speakers.
“Sinclair! What can I do ya for? I hope you're not going to tell me that tomorrow morning's training session is off!”
His raspy bark was as harsh as it always was.
“No, not at all, Bryce. I was just wondering if you'd like to grab a beer with me?”
“Beer, huh? You know you'll have to work extra hard tomorrow to scrub them extra calories off, right?”
“I realize this, yes.”
“Fine. As long as you're willing to pay your dues, we can bend the rules a bit. But we have a beer where I like to have beers, got it?”
I couldn't help but chuckle; he’s ever the drill sergeant.
“Sure, Bryce. Where would that be, the usual spot?”
“Billy's. See you there in 20 minutes, soldier. Don't waste my time!”
“Twenty minutes it is, Bryce.”
“Over and out.”
I cut the call off, turned the car around, and headed in the direction of the western outskirts of the city. Nineteen minutes later, I pulled up to the parking lot of Billy's, a biker bar. It certainly wasn't the kind of place I'd usually frequent but when Bryce and I did things together they were always on his terms, so there I was.
I parked the car in an empty spot near the door and stepped out, still wearing the semi-formal attire I'd had on at the office earlier. I always believed in dressing impeccably (I got that from my grandfather), so even though I hadn't gone the full business suit route today, as it was a Saturday, I'd still worn a smart button up shirt and a sports coat. I shed the coat and toss
ed it on the passenger seat. I was going to get enough odd looks as it was. In an effort to look as casual as possible, I rolled up the sleeves of my dress shirt. Not that it made much difference; I still prompted a few stares and chuckles from the leather-and-denim-clad bikers gathered around their Harleys in the parking lot.
I strolled in and was hit with an aural assault of heavy rock blasting from the bar's speakers. I weaved my way through a couple of pool tables and saw Bryce sitting near the back in a corner at a small table, two mugs of beer already situated on it.
“Evening, Bryce,” I said as I pulled up a seat.
“Sinclair, you're two minutes late,” he said, his expression cold and severe.
“Traffic man, traffic.”
He stared at me in silence for a few seconds, and then his frown abruptly broke into a warm smile.
“I'm just messing with ya. Lighten up, it's Saturday night! But, ya are two minutes late,” he added with a grin.
We picked up our beers and clinked our glasses together.
“So, what's happening in the world of Asher Sinclair?” he asked. “When you called, you gave me the impression that you’ve got a lot on your mind. What’ve you been up to today, dressed like that?”
“Yeah, you’re right. I guess I do.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, there's this girl—” I began.
“Ah!” he exclaimed after raising a knowing eyebrow. “That shouldn’t surprise me. You can have all the discipline, ferocity, and strength in the world and all it takes is one of them, and you're a man down.”