Page 24 of Jingle Belle's Biker

A necessary evil.

Like I give a fuck.

“Nicholas.” Lance sits behind his desk, fingers steepled, leaning back in his black leather chair.

The desk gleams, and there are pieces of art everywhere. I really don’t know much about art, not my thing. I’m sure it all cost a fortune, but it’s fucking ugly.

He nods to an oil painting the color of money. Some kind of abstract shit. “Not Elvis on velvet, but it’s good, don’t you think?”

Lance is waiting for me to sit, but I don’t because I get the feeling that him not rising isn’t out of disrespect but because my height intimidates the life from him. Not that he respects me. Not that I care.

There’s a marble bust of . . . I think it’s him . . . sitting in an alcove on his shelves that has a light on it. I pick it up and examine it. “I prefer the 3-D Elvis in plexiglass. Though some of the moving picture ones are nice too.”

I’m fucking about, but I pretty much hold that kind of shit higher than the piece on the wall. At least the Elvis kitsch is honest. That’s a hamburger pretending to be Kobe beef.

“Please, put that down.”

The panic in his voice pleases me in ways it probably shouldn’t. I toss it up and catch it, then put it back in place.

“Nicholas—”

“Call me Mister Santiago or Saint,” I say pleasantly. “Mister Hastings.”

The man’s brows knit together. He insists I call him Mr. Hastings, so he can do the same fucking thing. I’m betting he won’t call me Saint.

“Mister Santiago.” He looks like he bit into something horrible, and I smile. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

“You called the meeting, Hastings.”

He sighs heavily as I sit on the edge of his table. I’m not usually so disrespectful. I’m in my fucking thirties. I don’t need to beat my chest to prove myself, but there’s something about this guy that rubs me the wrong way.

“I want to see if you’ve started?—”

“Haven’t been there very long.”

“It shouldn’t take long.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to point out what Belle told me last night, but something stops me. I’m not sure what.

I’m not looking to get involved and am interested even less in playing games. Something whispers to keep it to myself that I happen to know he can’t kick anyone out unless they fail to pay. And he also can’t raise rent.

Jesus, it must annoy the living fuck out of him.

“I know why you want me there?—”

“Do you?” He cuts me off. “Good.”

I ignore the sarcasm. “It seems like you want more than we agreed on.”

“Not all brawn,” he mutters, and I clamp down on the annoyance. Not at what he says, but the fact he’s trying to rile me. “I want you to bring a foot down, intimidate, break shit if you need to. Have wild parties.”

Straightening, I stand and hold a hand up to stop him talking.

Then I turn and plant both hands on the desk and lean in. He scoots his chair back. Just a smidge, but I see it.

“Let’s get one fucking thing straight, Hastings. I know what you want. The place emptied. We never agreed on that, just on making sure that I’m there to no doubt intimidate with my presence and collect rent and whatever other fees you have. To make sure things you have in place with your tenants happen.

“But I’m not fifteen, so I’m not about to have wild parties. And I’m not a brainless thug, so I’m not going to intimidate old ladies and single mothers. I’ll collect the fees and do what you want. Within the law. Within good fucking faith.

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