Page 30 of Jingle Belle's Biker

“Mellie—Melissa—usually tries to take jobs so she’s home in time for Pepper, her daughter.”

“And this fucker, Andrew?”

“You can’t break his face.”

“I can’t? Are you the face-breaking police?”

The ease of humor in his voice is enough to gloss over the fact he means it about beating up Andrew. That’s in his eyes—a cold steel.

“He lives there occasionally.” I drop my voice as though the man in question is lurking at the edges. “When he wants money.”

A muscle flexes in his jaw. “He doesn’t even help with his fucking kid? Or his woman?”

“Saint—”

“One thing. Does he put his hands on Pepper?”

I swallow hard. I hate Andrew. He’s mean, even when he’s sober and being nice and having what Mellie would call one of his good days. He’s mean. It’s like something’s festering in him, and even I can tell Melissa knows this. But for her child, she pretends.

“Pepper? No, not that I’ve seen, and she doesn’t ever display any of the telltale signs the kids who get beatings have.”

“He saves it for his woman?”

The disgust is bubbling and biting.

“Saint, it’s not my place. I’m there for her, but?—”

“She’s a tiny fucking thing.”

“If you hurt him, he’ll take it out on her.”

“You think he’ll be walking after?”

It’s wrong, I know it, but there’s something sexy and appealing about a man who offers to take down another for hurting someone or something vulnerable. Jesus, there’s something wrong with me. “Don’t hurt anyone.”

“Fine.” Then he levels a look at me. “But if he touches the kid . . . all bets are off.”

“Did you?—”

“Fuck me, are you asking if I was abused?” But he smiles to take the sting. “Nah. Just seen it. That’s all. And no, I wasn’t ever the bully.”

“I never thought you were. A pole dancer and a murderous knitter, maybe, but never a bully.”

“Damn, woman, how do you know my secrets?”

“I can read faces.”

“Like a book?”

“You can read?”

“See, you look sweet, all buttery and sugary and buttoned up, but beneath all that second-grade teacher goodness, you’re a sharp-tongued thing, aren’t you?” he murmurs. “I can read.”

Heat radiates off me. The snappy comeback wasn’t meant to be anything more than that, and . . . what if I upset him? “It was a joke?—”

“I know that. And my skin isn’t paper thin, either.” He nods to Havana. “The job, from what I can tell, is in the office.”

“Gravel gave me her number, but I figure you’re her reference.”

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