The crowd thought the biker was about to lose his temper—but he did something else that stopped everyone cold.
The air smelled like barbecue smoke and birthday cake frosting—that heavy-sweet vanilla they pump into every grocery-store sheet cake. Music thumped from a tinny Bluetooth speaker someone had set on the fence. I killed the engine on my Softail and just sat there for a second, helmet still on, watching the pink balloons quiver against…
