Read War-N-Wit, Inc. - The Coven (War-N-Wit, Inc. - Book 3) for Free Online Page B

Guys. You had to love ‘em.
    I laughed. “You two would guard each other’s backs to the death in a fight but you’re afraid you might accidently touch each other? Boys don’t have nearly as much fun at sleep-overs as girls, do they? Too worried about the macho thing.”
    “That’s why boys have twin beds or bunk beds in their rooms and girls have canopied double beds.”
    “Guess so. So—are we doin’ Daytona or what? ‘Cause I’m getting hungry.”
     
    * * *
     
    We roared off into the night, headed back to Daytona’s Main Street. It was already dark but the streets were full of light. And bikes. A steady parade of them, from the smallest and simplest to the biggest and most elaborate. Bikers of all shapes and sizes. Dress code ranged from “classic” biker solid black to “gothic” biker—solid black with lots of chains and tattoos, complete with white face paint and brilliant red lips, painted to drip blood. Dogs of all sizes rode with their biker humans. The smaller ones peeked out from saddle bags and carriers, or even their owner’s jackets. Bigger ones perched between the rider’s legs. Lots of women rode their own bikes and lots of others rode “bitch” like me and Stacy. The one constant among them all were the jackets with the identifying insignia. The “colors”. The club identity. Even I knew the respect rendered by the clubs to a biker’s colors.
    Parked bikes lined the streets. The names flashed by. Gilly’s Pub 44, Boot Hill Saloon, Main Street Station, a big Harley-Davidson dealer, Dog House Bar, Full Moon Saloon, Bank & Blues, Dirty Harry’s. We cruised slowly up the street, the guys’ heads turning side to side. Looking for a place to park I assumed. I figured I was right when Spike turned into a spot that looked barely large enough to hold the Dark Angel. There was another spot a few bikes up for the Intimidator.
    We all unstrapped our helmets and I waited for Chad to get off so I could swing my leg over.
    “Wait,” he said. “Now listen. With bikes, it’s look, don’t touch. Don’t touch anybody’s bike.”
    Stacy and I looked at each other and back at Chad. “Oddly enough, darlin’, that’s not a problem. Believe it or not, neither of us feel any compelling need to caress a Harley-Davidson.”
    “And besides, we were raised to be polite and it’s not polite to touch other folks’ things,” Stacy added.
    Spike laughed. “Told you, didn’t they? You forget Chad, they’re ladies. They’re not club mamas.”
    “Sorry. It’s just—you get in trouble touching bikes down here. Because of that.” He pointed to a slow-moving trailer-truck driving by.
    “And that is?”
    “An outlaw gang cruising for bikes. They grab ‘em to strip for parts. Toss ‘em in those, they’re called crash vans. Big business for ‘em, very profitable. Bikers like us, individuals, we never leave the bikes out of our sight. Pick a restaurant. And that one,” he pointed, “has some damn good barbecue. With a great bar and live entertainment, so we won’t have to try and find another parking spot.”
    “Sounds good to me,” I said.
    Hungry as I was, I pulled Chad back as Stacy and Spike went on in.
    “Wanta show me the picture?”
    “What picture?”
    “The picture you got last night or this morning from those folks who want you to keep an eye open for the missing person. You can’t look for somebody if you don’t know what they look like. So I know they emailed you his file. Last night or this morning. And I’m pretty sure Spike’s on the lookout, too. I’m another pair of eyes.”
    Chad rolled his own eyes but didn’t argue. He pulled out his phone, maneuvered to the right spot and turned the screen toward me. I studied it closely. Typical biker. Not anyone who’d stand out in this crowd. Naturally not. Wouldn’t be much of an undercover man if he did. I concentrated on the mouth and eyes. A voice clip would’ve been better, I’m good with voices, but we take what we