“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a cliché?” seventeen-year-old Reggie Lang asked. She was scrunched in an antique, high-backed chair. Her chestnut hair spilled over her shoulders, her splattering of freckles barely visible in the firelight.
“Am I?” he said.
The man on the other side of the hearth stretched his long legs out toward the fire. A scar puckered his right cheekbone slanting down to the sharp blade of his nose.
Reggie took in his tough leather boots and duster. “The Hell’s Angels called. They want their motorcycle back.”
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