“I got this friend,” he says, snickering a little, “thinks it’s funny. I let him think that. It’s fun sometimes.” That perhaps gave her a bit of an insight into his life without him having to explain that he’s a former NSA special agent-sort-of now persona non grata with basically every US agency there is. It’s black denim, it’s kind of his thing now, white if he’s in a good mood. Xander knows he probably looks like some reject from a biker bar, and he can feel the people eyeing him every now and then. Biting his lip, he jerks his head towards the window. “That’s my bike, the red one. How about I take you for a ride? Bring you back here or wherever you wanna go when you’re done.” What he did between that, however, he still hadn’t fully decided.