Page 26 of Jingle Belle's Biker

I stand and polish the bike.

“When I heard there was an affiliated brotherhood here, I joined. We don’t get into trouble, and we keep shit tidy on the edges.”

“Tidy?” I ask. “As in law in your own hands?”

He starts laughing, great guffaws that light up the early afternoon. “We make sure the cops are off our backs and the shit they deal with the small fry stuff. At least . . . you know . . .”

“I know.”

“You could join us. There’s another club,” he says, taking a drag as he pets the cat, then gets up to stub out the remnants of his blunt. “Don’t think they’ll take you.’

“Not looking.”

“Though, they might. Could be just what they’ll be looking for.”

I toss the rag at him and wipe my hands on the seat of my jeans. “A sisterhood?”

“Coulda been gay.”

“I don’t think I’m pretty enough for that.” I pause. “And I’m not looking.”

He does, though. Making a show of glancing around, like he’s seeing the courtyard and the apartment complex for the first time. “This Hastings own this, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“This is a gold mine.”

I look up at the four-story building and can’t help but see all the things that need repairing or cleaning up. The places where a coat of paint is needed. “Yeah, maybe, but I don’t think he’s going to sink cash into the place to do it up.”

In my apartment, some fixtures need fixing. I’ve already dealt with the leaking faucet, and I know the window frames don’t just need a lick of paint in there, they need replacing.

Hastings isn’t about to put money into that.

He wants them all out.

At first, I figured to jack up the rent, but now I don’t know. And it’s not my fucking business.

“The guy,” I say, “is a fucking asshole.”

“Smart, though.”

“Educated and privileged.” I pat the saddle, then turn the key in the ignition, and the smooth purr is music to my ears. “Those things up the intelligence quota.”

“You think he’s an idiot?”

“I think he’s a fool with money.” I step out of the way for Gravel. “Give her a spin, let me know.”

He climbs on and roars out, earning a low growl from Nomad—I mean the cat.

From one of the front apartments, a man’s voice thunders, and something smashes. A female voice rises, and soon it’s a fucking verbal free-for-all, one I shut out.

That is until something small barrels out the door and through into the street, disappearing from view.

The kid must be about six or seven, and a black streak takes off after the kid.

I’m not getting involved.

Nope, not getting involved.

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