But it had to be done. Head high, shoulders back, a scowl on my face, I entered the clubhouse a few days after the shit went down at Sin’s event. As luck would have it—not—Tail spotted me first. He skinned back his long black hair then thumped his pool cue to the table. “Coll-ege. Coll-ege. Coll-ege,” he started chanting. Others took up the call, interspersing it with Probie, Coletrane . . . As usual, the place was packed to the rafters. The catcalls yelled, wolf whistles trilled, the fists pounding on tables were enough to give me a migraine. The crowd only quieted when Tail hopped onto the edge of the pool table. He stood, balanced there with his cue held out to steady him. He was the jester in the middle of the court of road dudes and biker babes, and loving every minute of it. I, however, was not, especially when he asked, “Where’s your broad?”
