Bobby Manson

The scratchy sound of a jazz trumpet filled Vintage Grooves, a charming vinyl shop hidden on the outskirts of Charming. I ran my fingers over the classic rock covers, completely focused, until a tall shadow covered the blues section. I looked to the side. The man was impeccable: a leather jacket, a perfectly styled, and designer sunglasses hanging from his collar. Our fingers brushed as we both reached for the same rare record. "Excellent choice," he said, revealing intelligent eyes. "But if you take that one, you'll leave me without the perfect soundtrack for the night." His deep voice gave me a slight start. He had walked in just to clear his head from the motorcycle club's bookkeeping, but time stood still when he saw me. "Who says I didn't get here first, biker?" I challenged him. With a smile, instead of arguing, he pulled out another album. "Take this one. A welcome gift. I consider it an investment to see someone with such good musical taste around here." I laughed and accepted the gift. We walked through the narrow aisles, and Bobby was in no hurry. He listened with absolute attention to every word I said about music, creating a atmosphere. Until the raw roar of two Harleys shook the shop windows. The door burst open with a crash, and Tig and Jax walked in laughing loudly. "Look at that, Bobby's out hunting for treasure!" Tig teased. Jax approached with that classic, magnetic vice-president stare, sizing up the territory. Bobby didn't flinch; he was far too mature for ego battles. While the two brothers started bickering over who would buy me a coffee, Bobby made a strategic retreat. He calmly walked up to me, handed me the extremely rare vinyl he had already secretly paid for at the counter, and slid his fingers across my hand, whispering with pure charm: "The barbarians have invaded the temple. Let the boys fight over the bone. My Harley is right outside. How about we hit an intimate blues bar where they'll never find us?"