Page 4 of Jingle Belle's Biker

Ignoring the thunder, lightning, and pouring rain, I dash across the street the moment the lights change and then keep running.

Walking home’s a bit of a hike in normal weather, but there’s a bus, and if I remember rightly, it comes every hour at this time of night. I flash a glance at my watch, and, of course, it leaves in five minutes.

I’m about four minutes away. Three if I pound that pavement.

I pound. My lungs burn and my legs ache. A stitch twists hard in my side. But I can see it. The stop. And I’ve got minutes to spare, I’ve . . .

“No!”

The big green bus lights up the night two minutes early as it pulls up. The brakes and door hissing.

I wave my arms and push harder as one person bounces out and races off into the rain-filled night.

Oh, I reach the bus. I reach it just fine.

In fact, my timing’s so impeccable that I hit the bus stop just as it pulls away and into the night.

The rain hits harder. Taunting smacks against my already wet skin. Thank goodness my bag is waterproof and my leather one shoves inside that. I’d sit, hole up in the bus stop shelter until the storm passed, I really would.

But there isn’t one. Not even a bench. Just the bus number and times on a sign.

“Well, I’m not going to get wetter.” With that, I trudge off, heading toward home.

At some point, the rain stops, and the thunder recedes into a low growl. Not that it matters. I’m so wet that I’m not even sure why I’m wearing my coat.

I look down at the broken path as I pass a pool of yellow light and some of the warehouses, run-down stores, and buildings as I take the straightest path to the Gardens.

It’s a pretty name for a lovely building in an ugly part of town, a part that would flourish with the right investments. Sticking a mega supermarket out here only means more shops and probably the kind of facelift that’ll push the residents out into less desirable areas.

I’m one of the lucky ones. If I needed to, I could move somewhere nicer—as in a nicer neighborhood—and into a much smaller space, but that’s only me. There are people who can’t afford that.

Who like the fact the complex is the right zone for my school, is still classed as closer to all the other things the richer people have.

If Lance wanted, he could invest his family money into the town in other ways, like here, fixing this up, bringing people in instead of the half-abandoned, shadowy area.

I pause at the intersection, there isn’t much traffic here, and . . . a door opens, and music and smoke tumble out, along with a group of young men covered in tattoos and holding bottles.

“Looky here,” one says, coming up on me. “Bet she cleans up real fucking nice.”

Fear slices bright and white hot through me as I step back into someone else. I glance into the open door, but it’s not a bar, just some kind of converted warehouse by the looks. “Excuse me.”

Fingers grab my arm, and the heat turns to ice, making my heart thrum hard and painful as my stomach lurches and my ears roar.

“You’re not fucking excused,” says the one in front of me who’s got to be maybe a few years younger than me, making him borderline legal for drinking.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” my mouth says. Mouth, not brain, because that’s gone south suddenly for the winter. “And let me go.”

“She thinks she’s funny,” growls a voice in my ear. “It’s just us six, but we can get some other friends, Maybe turn you into our party favor?”

“Yo.”

The voice is deep and commanding. The guy holding me jerks as the others melt away, and it’s just me and the two guys. The one right in front, and the one holding me. He lets go, and I turn.

The man’s on a big motorcycle.

Slowly, he peels himself off, and the helmet shifts from one of the guys to the other.

This time, my stomach zings.

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