Page 5 of Bitter’s Sweet

Not the sexy kind of offended.

The real kind.

I turn and follow her stare.

Ah, hell.

On the inside of the lid, stitched into the satin panel above where her head just was, is a big old rebel flag, bright enough to start an argument from six counties over. It is part of the custom order. Some ancient biker from Alabama wanted to be buried under it with two pistol slots, a bottle pocket, and a secret compartment for ashes that may or may not be his third wife. I didn’t ask questions because around here asking questions is how you end up answering some.

The woman goes still.

“I certainly didn’t notice that earlier,” she says, voice low.

I rub a hand over my beard. “Dark in there, remember. Didn’t even know I slid us into a coffin?”

She looks at me like I’ve just personally invented stupidity. “I’m Black, Bitter.”

“Yeah.”

“And you put me in a coffin with that on it?”

“I couldn’t see it either. It was dark.”

Her eyes narrow.

Wrong answer.

I know it the second it leaves my mouth.

I’m a mean son of a bitch, not a smart one.

“Look,” I say, trying again. “We make all kinds of coffins for old bikers. That one ain’t mine. Has nothing to do with me. Customer order. We got patriotic, military, skulls, flames, naked ladies, Tennessee Vols, one with Elvis painted on the side looking like he owes child support. You name it, some dying bastard wants to rot in it.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No. It’s supposed to explain.”

“It explains plenty.”

“Hell.” I scrub a hand over my beard and look at the inside of the lid again. “I didn’t know this was the one.”

Her eyes narrow. “That your defense?”

“No. That’s me admitting I should’ve looked before I climbed in.”

She stares at me like the fact I possess that much self-awareness has personally offended her.

I point at the flag. “Ain’t mine. Ain’t club colors. Ain’t something I would’ve picked.”

“But you still put me under it.”

“Yeah.” I wince. “Unknowingly, but yeah.”

She folds her arms across her chest.

There is no joke good enough to crawl out of this hole.

That has never stopped me before, but even I got survival instincts.