CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
We were drunk.
We had moved our party outside of the bar. I didn’t know what we were waiting for, but we were waiting for something. Then Corrigan laughed and tripped over his own feet. He stumbled down, and would’ve face-planted if his newfound friend hadn’t grabbed him and pulled him back to his feet. “Whoa man, Rick.” Corrigan squinted up at his friend. “You look like Rick Schroder. Has anyone ever told you that? Are you related at all?”
The guy had a long black beard with a mustache covering half of his face. What hair he had on top of his head was covered by a dark stocking hat, and his eyes were brown. The biker was over six feet and probably around three hundred pounds.
I would’ve burst out laughing, but my stomach had been doing somersaults for the last hour.
