Page 1 of Jingle Belle's Biker

Chapter One

Belle

It’s a damn murder scene.

I look down to where the blood-red juice spilled on my white blouse.

It’s one of those days. Definitely. Straight out of Mr. Murphy’s Law book. I grab my hankie and rub it, but the red stain spreads. Why did it have to be beet, apple, and carrot I chose at lunch? Why?

The door to my classroom creaks, and I make a mental note to bring in some oil or WD-40. It seems easier than bugging the janitor who’s got bigger upkeep concerns than a squeaky door, especially this close to Christmas.

I need to get my books and bags and get to my meeting. Well, okay, I need to get my things, get home, change, and then get to my meeting.

The rubbing made the stain worse. I elevate my blouse murder scene from Agatha Christie to Val McDermid. There’s soda water in the leather bag over the back of my chair. I pour some on the hankie and rub once more, but the stain refuses to budge.

Great.

Just great.

Unless I want to bathe in the soda, home it is, and considering my car went kaput this morning, I have to go now.

“Damn it.”

Behind me comes a shocked gasp. I whirl around.

Oliver Jenkins sits on the edge of a desk, eyes big and round, and as he turns, his blond corkscrew curls bouncing.

“Miss Rosso said a bad word!”

Noah Fitzpatrick is less than impressed. He draws his dark brows into a fierce frown.

“So, what, Ollie?” He leans back against the neighboring desk and scuffs at the floor with a shoe, the shoelace untied and trailing behind, like the world’s youngest world-worn cynic. “Your dad says way worse. My gran says the F word all the time.”

His tiny little gran. Somehow, I doubt the devout churchgoer knows the F word, let alone says it.

I paste on a smile and turn to Oliver. “Where are your parents?” Then to Noah, cock a brow and ask, “Gran?”

“Work.” Oliver rubs a hand over the edge of his desk.

Noah just shrugs.

I’m guessing he’s running through a list of things in his head. The two second graders should be in the school library with the rest of the after-school kids lost in limbo between the last bell and when their parents or guardians can pick them up. Not sitting in my classroom, bearing witness to accidents of the juice kind. I check my watch.

Double crap and raise the F word. Pick-up time from the school library after-hours is over. I was on my laptop too long in the teacher’s lounge, and now . . .

Outside, the day’s turned from overcast to gunmetal gray, and thunder rolls a deep drumroll that flips down into a boom.Oliver jumps as lightning flashes. Even Noah looks a little nervous at the edges.

“Did you lie to Miss Nguyen?” I stick my hands on my hips and glare. Kindly. “About being picked up?”

The reddening cheeks and shifting eyes give them away.

“She has a date, and we saw our classroom was open,” Noah says.

Oliver nods. “We’ll be picked up soon.”

I know Jeanie Nguyen. She would’ve stayed if these two hadn’t, no doubt, snuck off.

This time, the thunder cracks so loud that Noah jumps and Oliver screeches.

---