With her dyed jet-black hair and turquoise eyes, Angela looked otherworldly. The Hells Angels clubhouse in Oakland. Jack walked out from behind the gas bay. I began to crave the balance this new place brought to my life. Are you ready for a ride? But he also smoked so much pot that he often wanted to sleep instead of going somewhere as we had planned. I loved working with writers, and the quiet adventures of editing and writing on the page.
It was in the low-buzz frequency I always thought I could hear when I was among them back in California. As much of a thrill as it was, it felt like I was on overload. After one weak cocktail and a bunch of sugar from the largely uneaten table of cookies and cake, I was crashed out, pining for a hot bath in my clawfoot tub. We unloaded her bike. Outside the Hells Angels clubhouse in Oakland. I met your girlfriend Angela at the party in Frisco a few weeks ago. He got my attention, as he was the type — described by a longtime girlfriend as blue-eyed and seafaring — that I often was drawn to. He showed up in a big pickup truck. Let me get you some ice in a towel. I never quite knew if he lived in northern Colorado, where his Hells Angels charter was, of if he was in Arizona, where he had told me he was living. I told him I was an editor and runner, here with Angela. He said his name was Scott. His arms and chest were tattooed all over, the Death Head over his heart. Jack walked out from behind the gas bay. It was surprisingly peaceful, even with all those engines and cars. You wanna talk to him? She had picked up tennis somewhere — not in the same formal way I had, with lessons and ball machines, but by hitting against the concrete houses of wherever life found her. I never felt the same sense of calm on the back of his bike that I had with others. We talked on the phone. We were arguing about something stupid: I saw a low brick building with words spelled out in red and white: It was a world far away from mine. I tried to go out with friends and have fun, but it felt like I was in some kind of aftershock. All I knew was that it was compelling, and that the undertone, the buzz of something about to blow, even in a friendly conversation, drew me in, as it did many women. I felt so alone.
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