Ronin is a very good-looking bull in our dilapidated china shop. His head almost touches the kitchen's ceiling. And he's massive. Wide. His chest goes on forever, and the sleeves of his leather jacket are bursting from the pressure of his muscled arms.
He's bigger in the house than he was outside or in the truck stop. Either that, or I'm just now really noticing him. It's so odd to see him in my kitchen that I'm paralyzed with surprise. Totally forgotten is the fact that he's a hired killer and a failed one.
He's completely out of place. Our house is decorated in "eclectic worn". Thirty year old couches next to homemade, wood end tables, Tiffany lamps, and ceramic crafted ashtrays. Not that anybody smokes. They're usually used for pistachio shells or gum wrappers.
"You invited a motorcy
