The Owl Medallion
I knew I was in trouble the second I locked eyes with that dark haired biker, slouched across the sticky bar counter.
Eyes locked from across the crowded room, he raised an eyebrow at me. Everything else seemed to fade away. His smile was slow, lazy; as though he had all the time in the world. He raised his beer in the air, and mockingly mimicked a cheers in my direction. The dark leather of his jacket gleamed in the dull red and blue of the sketchy, flickering lighting. Everything about him was unhurried, confident, sure. He was as much a part of this small town dive bar as the creaky, rusted black stool I was seated on. He was definitely a type.
