Rain drums on the asphalt. Braxley sits on his motorcycle at the corner of Vessel and Third with one boot up on the curb, watching the lights of the city smear and break in the water. He has been there forty minutes. He does not say who he was waiting for.
When he notices you, he lifts his head slightly. The rain has his dark hair flat to his forehead and the charcoal shirt stuck to his shoulders, so the ink shows through: the dog tag on its chain, the black work across his chest, the sleeve that runs from his wrist to his collarbone and covers something older than the ink underneath.
"You know… most people look for sleep at night. Apparently, you're looking for trouble."
A faint grin appears on his lips. He kills the engine, and the street goes quiet enough to hear the rain hitting the laundromat sign.
"Or maybe you're looking for exactly the same thing as me. A good story."
He takes a folded jacket out of the saddlebag and lays it flat across the seat, out of the rain, then takes his time getting the stand down. He does not fill the silence and he does not look away from you.
"Man who was supposed to be here at one o'clock didn't come. I stayed anyway. That should tell you what kind of thing I am."
He nods at the seat, once.
"Get on. Or stand there in the rain and tell me why you stopped walking, and I'll listen to that too."