Page 23 of Jingle Belle's Biker

I hand him a knife. “I liked Esther, and though she’s gone, that all stands until everyone’s gone. And Lance can’t do a thing about it, like outprice the residents.”

“Lance?” he asks as he takes the cutting board.

I nod and let the water out. “Her grandson. And my ex-fiancé.”

Chapter Six

Saint

Well, fuck.

Those two words haunt my fucking dreams and my day.

The waiting room at LC Hastings, adjacent to Hastings Corp, is as natural a fit for me as a pink tutu would be. He’s making me wait because that’s the type of rich, entitled fuck he is.

But those words don’t have a thing to do about the soft, seafoam green leather chairs and sofa and the neutral-toned walls or the classical music of the washed-out and inoffensive kind. They don’t even have to do with the receptionist with perfect blonde hair and a high end labeled dress who’s looking at me like I murder with axes for a living.

No.

They’ve got everything to do with a buttoned-up women with red curls, baby bangs, and a smile that could both melt ice and make a dick hard.

And the fact she used to be engaged to Lance.

Mostly.

The rest of the well fuck’s reserved for the fact I went and not only ate off her plate, but I ate from her fingers. I sucked those fucking fingers like candy.

That shit isn’t what I fucking do.

If I want to stake a claim, I stake a fucking claim by feeling the woman up, bending her over, and fucking her hard.

That’s my world.

It’s what the women who hang around bikers want. They fucking pant for it.

If I want to fuck someone, claim someone, I’m betting there are more than enough biker babes in Sweetwood panting to fit that bill.

So why the fuck did I do that, and to her?

Belle fits the rich fuck with her sweet and conservative dress. The bangs and her ease in banter are little tells that there’s a whole world more to her. Talking to her, seeing the beat of her heart and the shine in her eyes for her crumbling, run-down damn apartment complex to the fucking cat tells me she’s out of this boring ass fuck’s realm.

Christ, I’m betting he’d wet himself in the face of the thuglings who attacked her. She was scared, yeah, but I think she would have handled herself. Or at least tried to.

But this man? I don’t think he’d appreciate her.

At all.

“Mister uh . . . Mister Saint? Mister Hastings will see you now.”

I rise and through the disappointment and disdain that rolls off the blonde, there’s also a reluctant lust that runs low in the room. Yeah, I’d never touch her type in a million years.

I follow her down the hall to the frosted glass doors, and we step into another waiting room. This one done up like a rich man’s living room, in rich woods with red and gold rugs, red wine leather fat sofas and chairs, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelfthat looks to house the kind of books there for admiring as a concept piece, rather than to be taken down and read.

There’s a big wooden door at the other end, with a brass handle, and she knocks, then opens it and gestures me in.

She might want a ride on the biker to get a taste of sordid downtown fun, but I don’t think her escorted walk came from that or from manners.

More, it came from the fucking fact I’m a rough and tumble biker who, in the eyes of all here, I’m either a step up or step below a criminal.

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