CHAPTER 36Jessie
Mike the Motorcycle Man, as Jessie had first called him to herself, was not her type. But neither, it turned out, was he the type she would have expected from his motorcycle and black leather. His hands, when he took off his gloves, were soft, almost pudgy. He was not the rugged, back-to-the-earth type she usually fell for, but neither was he the badass motorcycle man she had first taken him for. It seemed, in fact, that he wore his bike gear as little more than a costume, a convincing enough disguise for a twenty-something-year-old man who still lived in his parents’ suburban basement, had a meaningless job in a warehouse, and spent most of his free time playing what, as far as she could tell, was basically the computerized equivalent of Dungeons and Dragons. Although it
