Page 20 of Jingle Belle's Biker

“Tequila?” An eyebrow rises.

“My friend, Hannah, brought it over for Cinco de Mayo. We had nachos and watched movies. Not terribly exciting.” I hand him the glass and turn, going to the door.

Upstairs, I pull the tequila bottle from the cupboard and rub some of the dust off it. Then, I grab the tortilla chips that are on my bench before flying down the stairs again. Before I can change my mind.

The door’s shut, but I knock, then try the knob, and it opens.

To my right, something black darts out and into his apartment.

“Fucking cat!”

His crotchety words make me smile because he claims he doesn’t want the cat, that it isn’t his. However, he’s not throwing it out, and it’s meowing, complaining loudly, and it’s a cry I know from my students. Cat or kid, it’s stating, ‘Gimme!’

“Fine. One piece. But that’s it. Go find another sucker to mooch off.”

Saint’s in the kitchen, handing the cat a piece of cheese. He glares at me.

“I told you he’s your cat.”

“Not mine,” he says, getting up. “He’s a nomad. And a moocher. An opportunist.”

“What’s his name?”

“Woman—”

“Nope,” I say, crouching down to stroke the soft, silky fur of the cat. “He’s so adorable. But I’m sure he’s a he. You can’t call him woman.”

“I’m not calling the little fucker anything at all.”

The cat’s head turns to Saint, and it makes a low meow. One that manages to sound disapproving but smug.

“You are so cute,” I say, rubbing the cat’s ears. “You’re sweet, aren’t you?”

“I’m sure he’s the devil.”

Saint moves from the fridge to the counter, banging things down, and the cat looks up as he moves the meat.

“No, he’s hungry.” I stroke the cat’s back, and he rubs against me, purring. “Aren’t you? A poor, starving kitty?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Saint puts a plate on the floor, and the cat abandons me for it, chowing down on the ground beef.

“Hungry,” I say.

“He’s an opportunist.”

“You need to set up an area for him.” I look around, and spot where he can set up a food station. The place has a spare room, and he has exactly almost nothing, so the cat could have its own room. My point is, there are plenty of places for a litter station and a bed.

“I don’t have to do anything.”

He waves a jalapeño. “Spicy?”

“Nomad?”

“That isn’t an answer.” He waves it again, then sets it down and goes back to the fridge to pull out some cilantro. “It’s a non sequitur.”

I stroke the cat as he eats. “Nomad, that’s his name.”

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