Page 35 of Jingle Belle's Biker

“Shit.”

The phone lights up a second time. Second time I’ve seen it, I amended. There are five texts and six missed calls. A record for her.

The thing is, the expression on Belle’s face when I dropped her and the fucking cat off still kills. Rips down into the meat. That’s in the way.

Just like how when she put her arms around me to hold on, she kept her body that half inch from mine. I shouldn’t ever have noticed. I did.

I zipped Nomad up in my jacket, his furry head poking out as we hit the road, and I swear to fucking whoever the cat god is, that he liked it. Not that Nomad showed it when we got back. He dug claws in, deep enough that I know he drew blood, to get down. Not out of fear, not because he needed to, but because he was taking her side.

Not that there are fucking sides.

I rub a hand over my face and breathe in the cold air.

Nomad leaped down after maiming me to sit at her feet.

Belle’s face had been a careful mask of nothing. His . . . judgment, blame.

“Fuck you, Nicholas,” I mutter. “You’re anthropomorphizing a damn cat. It just looked at you.”

Yeah, like I hurt her.

When the phone lights up again, I press answer.

“Jesus, Nick,” Sin snaps, “too busy with your librarian?”

I don’t bother hiding my sigh as I straighten up. “Spying isn’t a good look, Candi.”

The ire almost melts my phone. “Donotcall me that.”

“Don’t call me Nick.”

I don’t give a fuck if she calls me Nick, though I prefer Nicholas if we’re gonna go with birth names, and she’s been saddled with Candi or Candice, both of which she hates. What I do care about is Sin knowing about Belle.

She’s not vindictive—okay, Sin can give the Greek gods a run for their money in her ability to be jealous and vindictive—but Belle’s . . .

Mine.

No, Belle’s not part of this, and I like being me around Belle without baggage, without anything else other than me on thetable along with her. We click in that weird way people do. She gets my humor. I get hers. And she can play fast and loose with my shit.

Best? Belle doesn’t judge.

I swallow.

Yet.

Because she doesn’t know the real reason I’m there.

“I heard you were looking for me. I have a phone.”

“One you don’t answer,” she says. “How’s the city?”

“It’s a city, and I’m here for work.”

“Mechanic work or . . .”

“I’m breaking heads and kneecaps.”

She makes a sound that’s borderline huffy. “No need to fucking get all pissed off. I called around looking for you, and then you didn’t call me back.”

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